We mothers, we are artists.
We draw perfect hearts for homemade valentines. We draw Disney characters in birthday cake icing or we draw to-do lists for little ones who need to help us out but can’t yet read.
We are photographers, memory keepers. We share them on Instagram or we print them out for family albums or we scrapbook them with stickers and special paper cutouts, or maybe we just scroll through them in our phones or computers, but look at our art. We capture moments. Smiles. Thick eyelashes. Mid-laugh eye crinkles. We capture tiny fingers and tiny toes, gaps where tiny teeth once lived, pride in the form of a small hand holding up a finger painted family.
We are culinary artists. We turn breakfast waffles into a face, blueberry eyes and a half-banana smile. We turn an empty plate into a rainbow of nutrients. We keep peas from touching mashed potatoes or we cut vegetables into stars and flowers using mini cookie cutters.
We lie on the carpet on our bellies and we color beside them or we design LEGO creations with them. We hang up words and art in their bedrooms.
We let the music flow through us as we improv-dance to Hot Dog! and the VeggieTales silly songs we have saved in special mama-baby dance party playlists. We rock sick babies and we sing and hum until our own sick throats are tender, our voices hoarse.
We sew costumes or knit hats or paint nurseries.
We write out precious prose in baby books. We spin elaborate tales of princesses, of baby bears who didn’t listen to their mama bears, of little boys whose faces stuck that way and little girls who should have eaten their broccoli. We craft stories that will dry up tears or inspire bravery or hammer in an important lesson or lull a little one to sleep.
Life is our craft and love is our medium. We create. We capture. We inspire. We are artists.