Mother's Day

Twelve hours at the hospital. Twelve hours of holding other people’s hands, checking vitals, making sure everyone else was okay. I came home expecting to collapse on the couch and maybe order takeout.

Instead I found handmade cards with crayon drawings of our family (Biscuit is purple in Sophie’s version, which honestly feels accurate). And Marcus in the kitchen, flour in his hair, attempting my mother’s tamale recipe with the confidence of someone who has never successfully made rice.

Mother’s Day

The tamales were… well, they were an attempt. The masa was too thick, the filling too salty, and I’m pretty sure he used the wrong kind of peppers. But Sophie wrote “Best Mom Ever” in glitter pen and Theo drew a dinosaur wearing scrubs, and I sat at that kitchen island crying happy tears over terrible food.

I held sick people’s hands today. Then I came home and my kids held mine. This is all of it. The whole thing.