You delivered every single one of my siblings. You had them.
But once they were born, you gave them to me.
You were training them.
I was kissing them.
You were spanking them.
I comforted them.
You were their home school teacher.
I answered the questions they didn’t dare to ask you.
You cooked dinner.
I spoon-fed them.
You were busy with the new babies.
I played with the older ones.
You had to sleep a lot because it was so exhausting.
I took care of them the many hours of the day you couldn’t.
You were changing the diapers of the babies, breastfeeding them, while talking to Dad.
Meanwhile, I read the bedtime stories, kissed them goodnight and tucked them in.
You were busy with other things, taking care of other families, baking for church meetings.
I made sure they were washed and dressed, made sure nobody got into a fight.
You sent them outside to play because it was too much for you.
I kissed their bloody knees better when they fell.
Dear Mom, you are many things. Trainer, teacher, chef, servant of the community, wife and many others. But there is one thing you are not: Their mother. Who is?