The incredible beauty of my children still awes me.

The only thing about their faces that is reminiscent of those newborn faces, is their eyebrows. I remember lying there in the hospital room, tracing their eyebrows with my thumbs, and trying to comprehend that these babies were mine, to take home and care for, until they were able to care for themselves.

That time has come, of course; but every good mommy knows that even precious babies in their twenties still need to be cared for. Whether they want you to or not.

I remember wondering how a person went about caring for a baby.

I remember being terrified that I would drop a squirmy soapy baby and injure it.

I remember being afraid to take my baby to a store, because I might set down the carrier and walk away without it, and not remember till I saw my picture on the nightly news.

I remember being afraid to dress and undress them because those little arms and legs might snap like matchsticks.

I remember being deathly afraid that I might hurt my baby through total ignorance, and in my nightmares I would see headlines that read “Mother arrested because she has proven far too stupid to care for a baby.”

I remember boiling my daughter’s toys till she was two years old.

I remember giving my son an unsterilized bottle when he was five months old and thinking that lightning would surely strike me.

I remember putting tiny Levi’s on my son, watching him toddle across the room, and immediately taking them off and replacing them with corderoy overalls because in the Levi’s, he looked like a child, not a baby. And crying.

I haven’t lost my touch as far as public embarassment goes, either. When it comes to publically embarassing my children, I am the Queen. Step aside, all you pretenders to the Embarassment Throne, for I am she whom you all seek to emulate.

Or not. Suit yourselves. But I sure have fun, even when I do it accidentally. Which is most of the time. The expressions on their little faces are just so memorable.

Oh, my babies. . . . don’t think for a MINUTE that just because you are now the age I was when I had you, that you can ever be anything except my precious children.

You are my babies. Babies who became children. Children who became teens. Teens who because adults. Adults who are leading productive useful interesting lives, in spite of being raised by a mother who didn’t have a clue what she was doing.

I do now, but you’re already raised! Hurry up with the grandchildren, would ya, before I forget all this good stuff.

I hope you don’t do some of the things I did. But how could I know until I did them?

What kind of mother takes a little girl with walking pneumonia, and a little boy with chickenpox, to the big city to ride in glass elevators and walk ten blocks to magic stores to buy invisible dogs and fart spray?

What kind of mother wraps a toddler in a blanket and takes him outside at four a.m. to show him crocuses pushing up through the snow?

What kind of mother wakes her small children up at midnight because “the time is right for a movie and some popcorn?”

What kind of mother lets her tiny children play outside in the nude, and sits on the steps sprinkling them with the hose? (We live way out in the country.)

What kind of mother lets a little girl wear her cowgirl dress on her first trip to the dentist? Complete with boots and hat?

What kind of mother lets a little boy wear an Alf sweatsuit to school three days in a row because “it feels good on my back, mommy.”

What kind of mother would say things like “Let’s have Hostess cupcakes for lunch today!”

What kind of mother dips the daddy’s big boot in flour to make Santa’s snowy footprints in the living room by the Christmas tree?

What kind of mother said ‘no’ when ALL the other mothers said ‘yes?’

What kind of mother said ‘yes’ when ALL the other mothers said ‘no?’

What kind of mother would be horrified on the outside and laughing on the inside when a little girl announced at Grandma’s house, “Oh mommy, I wish I could say SHIT!”

What kind of mother cuts up her favorite dress so a little girl would have something new on third grade picture day?

What kind of mother would sit up all night making a ninja outfit for a little boy on Halloween? Especially when it was special-ordered by the little boy after dark on October 30? And when the little boy already had a perfectly good costume.

What kind of mother lets a sleepover of little boys jump on the sofa beds till the springs break off? And laughs?

What kind of mother would buy a set of bagpipes because a little boy said he wanted to learn to play them? BAGPIPES!!!!!!

A crazy mother, that’s what kind.

Hello. I am a crazy mother.

And so are you, if you’re worth a toot.

(Crazy fathers included in honor.)

And honor it is.

I am many things, some good, some bad, but very few are boring.

My children will say that many things about me are boring, but what do they know? They’re babies!

I love you, you big babies. And what are you going to do about it?