Hero

For the record, I'm not a hero. Certainly not the rescue-someone-from-a-burning-house hero. Or one of the many heroes who are shipped out across the world to fight in a war. Or even those individuals who put their life on the line every day wearing badges, fighting crime, performing surgery, or rescuing earthquake victims.

My life is much more simple. Much more myopic. I take care of a family of seven. And I often feel like I don't do very well. There are days when the beds don't even get made (sorry mom, it's true). I also teach part time at a community college. And I serve in my church.

My days are filled with repetitive, mundane tasks. Laundry. Dishes. The occasional mopping and the even more occasional dusting. I play. I exercise. I read. I run errands. I make meals. I try to write. And I am here. Present for my children.

Now don't get me wrong, I do believe in what I'm doing. I believe, that for me and my family, my decision to be a fulltime mom was the most important decision I could make. I decided early on that there was nothing more significant I could do than raise my children. And I hope (and pray) that all my hours upon hours that turn into days upon days and eventually become years upon years will add up to something of great worth in the end.

Still, it was was with some surprise, when my oldest daughter came home from school and told me about an essay assignment. Her class was writing essays about heroes. My mind quickly turned to some of the greats: "George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Harriet Tubman, Rosa Parks, the 9/11 firefighters..." But before I could offer a suggestion, she said. "Mom, I'm writing about you."

I stopped. I stared. I hugged her. Tight.

I still don't think I'm a hero. But I guess all that matters, is that someone, who means the world to me, thinks I am.

And I'll do my darndest to meet those wonderfully high and generous expectations.