While my mother is kneading the dough,
I am busy doing nothing.
I lounge and laze and lie on my bed,
forgetting that there’s work to be done.

Like the colorful trail in a Fruit Loops commercial,
the smell of chocolate finds me.
Tuning my ears to the sounds careening outside my door,
I hear the whir of the KitchenAid mixer
and the clank of two glass dishes ringing together.

I poke my head into the kitchen like a curious little toddler.
My mom is busy at the counter.
She sings while she works.
Her voice is pretty like a bird’s,
but not flighty.
She’s grounded and firm,
like a flower with its roots deep in the dark soil.

Flour coats her calloused hands,
her hands that work nonstop from 6AM to 1AM every single day
to make sure her family is fed,
her house is clean,
the bills are paid.

She bustles around in the warm yellow lighting.
A homemade apron makes a feeble attempt
to protect her worn-out clothes.
She hasn’t taken off her uniform,
which consists of a company T-shirt
and what I like to call her “astronaut” pants.

My mom has 5 children, of which I am the middle.
You can see it in her half-done hair,
her out-of-style shoes,
the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes,
and the less noticeable creases in her brow;

She is a mom for a living,
taking care of other parents’ children
when childcare is too hard for them,
often going out of her way to show love to everyone.
And she crams so much love into her work,
and work into her day,
that I wonder how she’s still awake,
still standing here when I ask,
“Whatcha makin’?”
and she’s “just making chocolate chip cookies.
Thought it’d be nice to have a snack after dinner tonight,
and I had the time.”

That’s a lie, but I smile and hug her anyway
because moms are made of love.
And they love to pour it out.
My heart melts with the heat of the love she’s given me.
It warms up the chilled chambers of my soul where I have forgotten
to tell her I love her.

So I say it to her now
in the small ways that I remember how to:
in a hug from behind,
in making my own bed,
in feeding the pets
or helping her clear the table,
in offering her a cup of tea,
and in trying in vain to use as little dishes as possible
while fixing a bowl of ice cream.

But even when I fall short,
and my love and patience run thin,
my momma tells me she loves me.
And when she says that,
she really means, “I love you
even when you aren’t at your best,
even when you don’t want to help,
even when you’re angry.
I love you when you forget to say ‘I love you,’
and I love you just because you’re you.”
Because that’s what moms do.