Little Girls

A little girl climbed up into the seat across from me on the Ubahn today.  Her mom lugging a backpack and stuffed animals sat beside her.  Both mom and daughter took turns straightening the blanket on her lovies.  She squirmed in her seat, trying to see out the window, finally getting her feet tucked under her bottom as a booster.  She squealed when she saw the Danube River.  She stretched her neck to see the tops of the curved UN buildings.  She pointed out the football field to her mom with excitement.

Her mom gently held out her arm as a brace every time the Ubahn came to a stop.  She brushed the hair out of her daughter's eyes.  They held hands and the mom rubbed her thumb over the pudgy back side of her little hand.  It was a tender moment.

I used to have little girls.

I held out my arm for them in the car if we came to a sudden stop.  We affectionately called it "the mom arm."

I brushed their hair back, and even pulled it back in a hair tie to prevent syrup tangles on pancake mornings.

I held their hands.

I loved my girls.

My little girls are teenagers now.  It's not as simple as it was then.  I can get distracted by their activities and relationships and regret for my weaknesses.  Today I was reminded that motherhood isn't just schedules and cooking and cleaning.  It's tenderness and listening and care.  I am still learning how to be a mom.  And I thought I was almost finished.