It’s five twenty seven in the morning, and she’s up for the fifth time, feet aching as she stretches them down to the floor. She shuffles to the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, and pulls out the pans to begin making breakfast, clears and sets the table, organizes the kitchen, and with a yawn sends her husband off to work. The day begins in earnest when small feet thunder up the stairs around six thirty. By then she is dressed with combed hair, nothing in the latest styles, but clean, for the next few minutes. Things move faster when everyone needs dressing, combing, wiping, homework, chores, preparing for doctor and psych appointments, making breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Somehow the day flies by, with moments to hug the baby and read her a book, calm the PTSD tween, and make the bed. By the time seven thirty comes around, shooing little bodies back to bed, with the best possible attitude, then falling into her own bed, next to her husband, who is breathing quietly under the mask of his C-pap to recover from his headache. She snuggles into him and passes out.
This is what an everyday hero looks like. There is no glamour. No sexy lycra. No modelesque figure. There is only mom. The most heroic creature in the world. Women do more on less sleep than anyone else and have been since the beginning of time. So to those moms out there who are fighting the thankless good fight. I salute you. You are my hero. You deserve the penthouse in Gotham. Or the farm in Iowa, where Superman was raised. I know you are tired, and deserve more sleep. I know you don’t hear thank you enough. Me neither. But your work does not go unnoticed.
So back to work making life happen, organizing chaos into peace, and knowing today you were acknowledged. You are my hero.