It was an ordinary day. Reading my weekly "The Fishwrapper" publication which is a free publication that I pick up every week while visiting my local Stauffer's of Kissel Hill grocery store. The publication is printed by Little Mountain Printing. The story on the front of the publication was titled "My Busy Day". The front page story read... "Mommy, look!" cried my daughter Darla, pointing to a chicken hawk soaring through the air. "Uh huh," I murmured while driving, lost in thought about the tight schedule of my day. Disappointment filled her face. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" I asked, entirely dense. "Nothing," my seven-year-old said. The moment was gone. Near home, we slowed to search for the albino deer that comes out from behind the thick mass of trees in the early evening. She was nowhere to be seen. "Tonight she has to many things to do," I said. Dinner, baths, and phone calls filled the hours until bedtime. "Come on, Darla, time for bed!" She raced past me up the stairs. Tired, I kissed her on the cheek, said prayers, and tucked her in. "Mom, I forgot to give you something!" she said. My patience was gone. "Give it to me in the morning," I said, but she shook her head. "You won't have time in the morning!" she retorted. "I'll take time," I answered defensively. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, time flowed through my fingers like sand in an hourglass - never enough. Not enough for her, for my husband, and definitely not enough for me. She wasn't ready to give up yet. She wrinkled her freckled, little nose in anger and swiped away her chestnut-brown hair. "No, you won't! It will be just like today when I took you to look at the hawk. You didn't even listen to what I said." I was too weary to argue; she hit too close to the truth. "Good night!" I shut her door with a resounding thud. Later though, her gray-blue gaze filled my vision as I thought about how little time we really had until she was grown and gone. My husband asked, "Why so glum?" I told him. "Maybe she's not asleep yet. Why don't you check?" he said with all the authority of a parent in the right. I followed his advice, wishing it was my own idea. I cracked open her door, and the light from the window spilled over her sleeping form. In her hand, I could see the remains of a crumpled paper. Slowly I opened her palm to see what the item of our disagreement had been. Tears filled my eyes. She had torn into small pieces a big, red heart poem she had written, titled, "Why I Love My Mother." I carefully removed the tattered pieces. Once the pieces were put back into place, I read what she had written, Why I Love My Mother...Although you're busy, /and you work so hard, / you always take time to play. / I love you, Mommy / Because I am the biggest part of your busy day. The words were an arrow straight to the heart. At seven years old, she had the wisdom of Solomon. Ten minutes later I carried a tray to her room, with two cups of hot chocolate with marshmallow and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I softly touched her smooth cheek, I could feel my heart burst with love. Her thick, dark lashes lay like fans against her eyelids as they fluttered, awakened from a dreamless sleep, and she looked at the tray. "What is that for?" she asked, confused by this late-night intrusion. "This is for you because you are the most important part of my busy day." She smiled and sleepily drank half her cup of chocolate. Then she drifted back to sleep, not really understanding how strongly I meant what I said. A real tearjerker of a story, but one that makes you really think how you treat and address your children! I'm 80 years old and it actually made me think how I treated my children years ago, and even today. Hopefully I listened to what they were telling me years ago. How about you? It was another extraordinary day in the life of an ordinary guy.
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