Black and White

Today was black and white day at preschool. All of the children were to wear black and white clothing of some kind, then they would have a black and white snack, do black and white activities and apparently have a fantastically fun black and white day. The school sends the parents a calendar at the beginning of each month detailing all of these important events in the lives of our four year old children. I dutifully hang mine on the side of my refrigerator each month and hope I remember to glance at it in time to be adequately apprised of each upcoming occasion.

I had three extra children in my home for three days and nights prior to this morning. After an exhausting weekend of doubled everything, I was pretty proud of myself that I had managed to get my children up, dressed, fed, out the door with lunches made, orderly backpacks, clean clothes, and combed hair. So when we walked into the preschool this morning, I was anticipating a feeling of accomplishment and looking forward to a well deserved quiet morning to myself. As my son skipped in wearing his forest green henley shirt with khaki brown corduroy pants and his new Batman shoes, I noticed all the other children dressed in their black and white and suddenly remembered the black and white day square so carefully posted on the preschool calendar at home. I started quickly into the world of 'mother guilt' that plagues even the most stalwartly self-confident mothers at times. How could I have forgotten black and white day?

As I was hanging up his coat, I began apologizing to the teachers. I kept feeling like I should have remembered somehow. I felt so bad for him and quite embarrassed for myself. Then I noticed how little my son seemed to care or even notice. He was busily placing his butterfly nametag on the attendance rainbow. He was giving me high fives, noticing that it was his turn to be the light helper today. He was thrilled to be back amongst his friends after a week of snow days. He didn't care that he looked different. He knew he would still get the snack and be able to do all the activities. He was simply happy to be at school, dressed just as he was.

As I drove away, I took my cues from my son and realized how little that 'mistake' in my mothering mattered in the grand scheme of things. My son was happy. He had crawled on my lap earlier that morning to read together. He had grabbed me around the legs as I was making sandwiches and said, "I love you, Mom." He kissed me before he went to get dressed. After the older children had left for school, during the half hour before it was time to leave, he asked me to play a game with him. I usually shower during that time, but not today. I played with him. We were having so much fun, laughing and being together that we lost track of time and were a little late getting away. And in we walked together to school, hand in hand, smiling and laughing and happy, dressed in green and brown.

I came home, circled the date on the preschool calendar and put a happy face on it to remind me. Motherhood isn't measured by perfectly dressed children. Success isn't determined by calendars or agendas or checklists. Lasting influence is largely determined over time. Character is nurtured by cherishing even the smallest moments of happiness. Fulfillment is found by sharing the short, fleeting footsteps of our children, before they grow so large and independent that they walk successfully away from our immediate circle of significance. Happiness is hard to quantify, impossible to counterfeit or conceal. Marks of masterful motherhood are multi-hued, vibrant and variant - anything but black and white.