Yesterday I had the privilege of sitting up on a stage of accomplished working mothers in a ballroom of 900 people, and being honored as one of AWNY’s Working Mothers of the Year.
Which…zomg.
When they mentioned my name and asked me to stand–the kind of moment that is generally a blur, as you stand there smiling like an idiot and hoping you won’t pass out in front of 900 people–for once I remember it clear as anything. Because not 25 yards in front of me were family, my amazing coworkers, and then Thalia and Sage, jumping up and down in the center aisle, arms raised and fists pumping like someone had just announced we were moving into Cinderella’s castle.
May every working mother have a moment like that in her life–not an award per se (although that part was nice), but an image that I can conjure up whenever I miss them. Whenever I skip a pediatrician appointment for a business trip. Whenever I race home to squeak in a quick 30 minutes before they toddle off to bed. Whenever I feel a twinge of that stupid mom guilt that I’m increasingly learning is useless and nonproductive.
It was an image that said that my daughters were proud of me.
It was a perfect.
And yet, motherhood is not filled with perfect moments like those all the time.
But you wouldn’t have known it from yesterday’s speeches.
