Is it a day for rest after working so hard? Perhaps. I prefer to remember:

When my daughter toddled into the music room and ate dirt from the plants as if it were Ghiradelli chocolate ... and I took pictures instead of getting mad.

Or when she taught herself how to open the sliding door, leaving me alone more terrified than any movie I've seen only to find her picking "wishing flowers" and being covered in the snowy little dandelion puffs, thinking she was the most beautiful angel in the world.

I remember when my son crawled on top of my vanity and painted his chubby little body with every ounce of facial cleanser I had just purchased. He became a gooey snowball and I laughed until the tears came.

Or when we played hide and seek and he tucked away in the cupboard under the sink until I was racing through the house screaming with anxiety, frightened that he'd "taught himself how to unlock the slider"... He emerged the ecstatic victor with the bubbly words "I weeeeeen Mommy!"

The days of "You're a stinky mom!" and "That's not FAIR!" or lying awake rehashing and regretting my cross words or brandishing my own iron clad "law of the land".

The countless nights spent listening for them if they were sick or staying awake, next to them, talking softly through their nightmares until it was over and my alarm went off.

Hounding them to say please and thank you, sit up straight, get their elbows off the table until I couldn't end a sentence without one of those reminders: Did you have a good day?-elbows down. I was busy-don't talk with your mouth full. Please pass the potatoes-chew with your mouth closed.

I remember worrying that I was doing this parent thing all wrong until the day I furiously ripped up carpet from the flood in my basement and there they stood on the bottom step with garden gloves, trash bags and the words "Can we help?"

I remember hitting my knees begging God to help me out this ONCE because I just couldn't take another step...and feeling the tiny hands touch my shoulders, kissing my head and whispering "Don't cry Mommy, we'll get there."

I love to remember the laughter...at the dinner table until Daddy threatens to punish us all; or at night tickling feet with jammies on and the smell of soap hanging heavily in the air, especially after a hard day simply because it feels better than crying.

Most importantly, I remember what I love:

Being their mom.

I hope you enjoy your day.