I collapsed full force into our beige sectional a cushion down from my mom at about 12 AM this morning. She and my dad had come to keep our son so that my husband and I could have a night pretending that we had no cares or responsibilities to speak of. Garth Brooks is one of our favorite entertainers, and true to form, he did not disappoint as we sang the night away in Nashville with thousands of strangers.

Attending big shows, I realized last night, is not quite what it used to be prior to parenthood. I stood up for only a fraction of the songs, too tired from a full week of mothering and pastoring and Christmas preparing...you get the idea. Nonetheless, I enjoyed myself but was grateful to be home playing 20 (more like 50) questions with my mom about how their night had gone.

I’d sent a list of instructions that took me roughly twenty minutes to text on our way to the concert in the hopes that my folks would not want for any knowledge when it came to our son’s nightly routine and so that he (as much as a four month old can) knew what to expect.

They’d had a grand time. Laughing through feeding him sweet potatoes, the eating of which is still a skill in the making for him. Playing on the floor with an assortment of toys warranting endless smiles from my mom and funny faces from my dad. Splashing in the tub with squishy dino bath toys. And reading a familiar bedtime story from my childhood. Like I said, they had a wonderful time together.

After chatting a few minutes more, my husband excused himself to bed and my mom and I stayed put, catching each other up on details about work and extended family and holiday plans.

I finally reached a point where I knew that I could no longer keep my eyes peeled open as 12 AM had quickly turned into 2. It had been a long time since we stayed up talking for hours on end, but it was once a fairly regular occurrence.

Over the years, I’ve felt myself put distance between us—physically and emotionally—almost as if I felt like I had to in order to become a “real adult” as stupid as I now realize that sounds and is. It’s been going on for so long that it didn’t even occur to me that’s what I’d been doing until I went to give her a hug goodnight.

Part of that physical distance has manifested in fewer hugs. Not the quick ones we offer people without thinking about them, but the real and meaningful ones. What was intended to be a quick but heartfelt hug to thank her for keeping our son turned into another collapse, similar to the one into the couch I had experienced upon first arriving home from the concert.

I literally couldn’t move as a warmth and a sadness and a regretfulness and an aching of my heart so deep washed over me in what felt like a torrential flood. Knowing of my struggle with postpartum depression, I heard the concern in her voice when she gently asked if I was okay. I nodded, unable to speak.

I held it together at first, moving to an assumption that it would just be a longer-than-normal hug. Until her hand began moving in soft, comforting, and familiar circles on my back. These were the same soft and comforting circles I received from her when I was upset as a child. They are the same circles with which I now soothe my own child when he is fretting. And then, all at once, I noticed the placement of my head—on her chest, near to her heart—and I openly weeped as I realized that is where my son’s head so often resides on me. 

All I could think about was how I hadn’t taken the time to show her just how much I love her and still need her in these recent years. All I could visualize was a time in his life when my son would treat me in a similar fashion. “One day he won’t show me affection,” I thought in devastation. “One day he, too, will think he doesn’t need his mom anymore.”

“Oh my God,” I thought as the black of my eye makeup traveled across my eyes and down my face in currents, “what a horrible day that will be.”

I finally lifted what felt like all 637 pounds of me off of my mother. My collapse into her was not a minor one. Every ounce of my body, my heart, and my spirit—along with plenty of tears and some snot—had fallen on top of her and she couldn’t even pretend to mind despite me being bigger than her.

By the light of only our Christmas tree, I looked thru blurry eyes into hers and gave the most earnest apology of my life, telling her I was so sorry I had pushed her away for so long, that I hadn’t shown her how much I truly love, appreciate, and need her still. 

To which she replied, “Oh honey, I never doubted how much you love me.”

We continued talking...about everything. Our love for each other, stories from when I was little, the amazement we share that I’m a mom to a child of my own, and on and on into the night.

It will forever be one of my most memorable moments with her—one so chock full of love and grace that it’s hard to deny that those gifts we extend to one another originate from a Source infinitely greater than any of us could ever imagine.

I am so thankful for all that my mother is to me and to our family. And I am thankful for a tiredness that broke down my often too-tough, too-stubborn exterior to vulnerably admit that I am indeed a mom who needs (and will forever need) her Mom.

I love you, Mom.