It’s true. Your kids will never be able to love you the way that you love them.

I get it.

And that’s the cool part about this love I hold for them. I do not need it in return. They didn’t do a single thing to earn my love. Time doesn’t make it stronger. It’s just there. Instantly. And quite honestly, it shakes your whole foundation at first. It kinda freaked me out to love someone as much as I did my first born.

Like. How am I supposed to function with this paralyzing type of emotion for the rest of my life?

My son totally shook me to my flipping core.

It wasn’t until I became a Mother that I realized just how much my own Mom loved me. I mean yes, I love her dearly. But it pales in comparison to the love I have for my own babies.

Before children, my Mom she was this sweet little lady who I loved more than anything on this planet….and did weird and quirky things.


She was:

The Mom who never ordered french fries for herself yet ate half of mine. Oh how that would crawl under my skin.

The Mom who would talk to all the strangers at the grocery store, restroom lines, and ball parks. I would tug at her shirt tail hoping she would be able to translate that into, ‘please stop talking to those people. You are so weird.’

The Mom who would wear my year before’s cheerleading warm-ups to all my varsity football games waving cheap pom-poms (off beat with the band), beaming to death with pride. That didn’t embarrass me. Everyone thought she was the cutest little fritter ever.  Because she was.

The Mom who stepped over (and in) our throw up just to keep the hair out of our face. And never seemed bothered by it.

The Mom who never spoke a bad word about our father even though he was abusive, dangerous, and abandoned us. She had plenty she could say.  But always decided to ‘change the subject’ when it was brought up.

The Mom who did her very best at making the most out of what little she had at times. From Christmas presents to halloween costumes.

The Mom who made sure we always had a church family that loved and supported us.

The Mom who never complained about ANYTHING….like ever.

The Mom who would try to use cool words like ’the bomb’, and ‘rad. But always used them out of context.

I mean she did things that I swore I’d NEVER….EVER do.

Turns out. I do them all. And I’m quite possibly a little worse than she was.

Like this past weekend I had my legs on the dash as we were driving out of town. The sunlight smacked my legs just right. I realized that I had missed a rather large chunk of hair on my legs.

What’s worse was how long the chunk of hair was. Which was simply proof of how long it had been before I had last shaved.

That exact moment took me back in time. Back to when I would give my Mom such grief for how unkept her shaving priorities were. I would tell her how gross it looked. You know, like the bratty and well-shaved 16-year-old I was.

(Like. How hard is it to shave your legs every few days? GAH—insert eye rolls!)

It was that moment that I smiled and fell a little more in love with my Mom. It all finally clicked. She chose to sit down and rest a little longer instead of shave. She decided to get up early and get laundry started, breakfast made, lunches packed, and everyone out the door. She chose taxiing me to cheer practice, track practice, and everything in between. She would rush home to cook a healthy meal and make sure our homework was complete, and see to it that we were in bed at a reasonable hour.

I guess shaving her legs was just not a priority. Heck, maybe…just maybe…it never crossed her mind to do so.

I mean, it’s certainly something I don’t even think about these days. I’m not intentionally trying to grow leg hair. There is no contest. However, if there were, I would win the softest and/or most non-prickly if that were a category.

Truth? I guess I just want to climb in my bed because I’m so tired. And leg hair is the last thing on my mind at night.


And. The only time I ever think about it is when I’m no where near my house, my razor, or my shaving cream. It’s when I’m at a park and the sunlight hits my legs, and I pray that nobody else notices. And if she does, she will probably only be reminded that she too needs to shave her legs.

So. I make a mental note to shave that night.

But I never remember.


Laundry, rest, homework, and dinner around the table wins.


In HIM and health,

Christy Marshall

1 Comment

  • Beth Hargett

    I just love you! Nothing else to say! Keep bringing that truth!

Leave a Comment

All fields are required. Your email address will not be published.