Today I was called mamma. Just like every other day really, except for the sweet little voice calling out for mamma was not my forever little. He is a guest for a short time that I pour all I have and all I am in to, knowing full well my heart will shatter into a million pieces at the time of our farewell. His eyes look to me to heal wounds I cannot fathom and his arms cling ever so tight in hopes he will never have to let go. Let go is exactly what has to be done, not only in the end but now as well at the start of it 
all.

Letting go of the concern for "what will people say" and man can they say mean things. My least favorite is "what about you 'real kids'?" My 'real' kids (as opposed to my fake ones) are people of compassion and love. They are taught to love well even when those in need of love are difficult and cruel, even when the spirit of religion spews hate in the name of a loving King. My 'real' kids know what REAL is and do it well. 

Those eyes that look to me and call me mamma and call my home safe are every bit as real as any other child. 
Bedtime takes longer, shopping is a comedy show, showering is few and far between, the laundry pile is touching the ceiling, and my heart is over flowing. Nothing, absolutely nothing would I change. They are all worth it! They are the people that will grow up to love as they have been loved, persevere as they have seen, see challenges and face them head on, fight victoriously for a world with more love and less hate because we were willing to feel the hurt for them. 
When I think of how I want to be remembered, I find myself hoping that people will say that I fought for the weak, spoke for the voiceless, that I risked, that I ran from complacency, and more than anything loved and found value in all. 
As much as I would like to believe that I am still twenty-nine the reality is that my story has been ongoing for forty-two years. As those years add up and that number grows I become more aware of the need to cherish the details with never missing the big picture. I look on back on all the hills I died on fighting petty battles, the hearts I unintentionally trampled by shoving the gospel at, the times I spoke when I needed to listen, and so much more. Those memories, that part of me, is an integral part of my story. Having learned from who I was and transforming into who I need to be today continues to be a path filled with hills and valleys that I face head on.                                
My hills and valleys today are chock full of the pitter-patter of little feet and magnificent moments of silliness and joy-filled tears when I hear the word "mamma".