I once heard motherhood described as poetry — that bearing and raising a child is a sort of art. It can be difficult, tragic and lovely, but all the while beautiful. It requires a particularly graceful skill set — one that knows the pangs of both joy and of heartbreak.

My own mother is one of these poems. She is one of a billion poems that fill the world with love and care, and, by the grace of God, she is specifically my poem. Her stanzas are creative, funny and kind. Her rhythm is friendly and generous, and never asks for anything in return. She is a free verse poem; not one that stirs your mind but one that soothes it and makes it comfortable instead.

My mother sits at the kitchen table, in the spot by the window, every morning. She does crossword puzzles for hours and drinks her coffee black and bitter. She shuffles her feet in her worn-out slippers all throughout the house, and always has a million things to do.

My mother is dramatic, yet practical. She fills multiple notebooks with lists of things she needs to do or buy, and her handwriting is awful. She scribbles a thousand different things on a single page in illegible script, yet somehow manages to read it all. She doodles little flowers and circles in the corner of her pages while talking to someone on the phone, but she’ll swear to you that she’s not creative.

My mother would keep a gallery devoted solely to the red and orange trees of Fall if she could. She cares justly for beauty. She has equal appreciation for Beethoven and The Beatles and always seeks to appreciate whatever music is in her midst. She adores soft, beautiful fabrics and rich, green forests.

My mother reads six books at a time and almost never finishes any of them. She loves finding out new words that she can use in Scrabble and always wins because of it. She makes excellent snickerdoodles and always eats raw cookie dough (even though she’s allergic to it).

My mother loves Diet Coke and candy corn and the color maroon. She spends meaningful time with precious friends by going on walks around the neighborhood. She cares tenderly for the happiness of her children and deeply cherishes the times when our whole family is together. She respects others based on their character, not their age, and admires others when she is to be admired.

My mother is certainly a sort of poem. She is lovely and graceful and kind, and I am beyond blessed to call her mine. She is more selfless than I will ever be and has always put my well-being before her own. I don’t always deserve to be cherished the way she cherishes me but I sure am glad she does anyways.

Motherhood is mysteriously beautiful and sacred. I may be only a daughter as of now, but if true motherhood looks anything like the life of the mother I was blessed with, then I am sure it has to be an art form — a dance I would be honored to one day learn the choreography of.

Happy Mother’s day, Mumsies.

Love, NelseyBoo.

P.S. I know this will make you cry. Sorry! (Kinda)