Trophy Mom

Kids, listen up! This is for you.

(If you are reading this and you are not one of my children, please feel free to read on. If your children are still young, you will face this dilemma in the future. If you are a parent of adult children, perhaps this will serve as an inspiration to you as well...or it may make you smile!)

You left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do.

I carried each of you inside my body for nine months. I spent a total of over two years and three months of my life being pregnant. I nursed you. I fed you. I rocked you. I sat up nights with you—many times, all night long with no sleep at all. I proudly wore your spit-up on the shoulder of my little black dress. I kissed your skinned knees and made them well. I wiped your snotty noses and cleaned your messy boo-hineys. I kissed away your tears and mended your broken hearts. I took you to sports practice. I cheered you to victory. I washed your clothes. I bought your clothes. I cut your hair. I made your beds. I cleaned your rooms. I occasionally even cooked for you. And yet, you left home a long time ago. It was the right thing to do. It was your decision. It was a good one.

During all those years, I never complained. Ok, I complained sometimes.

Throughout those years, you brought home trophies. Lots and lots of trophies. All three of you brought home trophies. Remember how proud we were of those trophies? Do you remember how meaningful it was when you were champions, MVPs, or team captains? Or just participants? It didn’t matter. You completed the season. You got a trophy….and another…and another. Our house was filled with trophies. Big trophies. Little trophies. Everywhere. And plaques.

I doubt you even notice now, but those trophies are not in our house anymore. Not one of them. I take that back. One serves as a doorstop in the bathroom upstairs. The little tree-shaded cottage on the back of our estate is filled with trophies. And license plates. Your first license plates are there: ENGR2B, JAIREMY, SAUCY. They are all there. The cottage is a museum of memorabilia of you—my children. Memories of times gone by. Memories of my little children and your achievements and accomplishments. Memories of happy times. Memories of times that will never be again.

Kids, you’ve got 30 days. Come and get that junk or pick it up on the curb.