Call Me Mop Mom

My girls don't know which one of them this story is about. And they never will.

We were all at camp playing in the ocean, having the time of our lives. The banana boat, the rocking ball thing, and then there was a big floating slide. It looks like in iceberg coming out of the water. You scramble up the one side, trying not to break your leg, and then slide down the other side, making sure to hold your top on as you hit the water.

The girls slid down the slide ahead of me, making splashes at the bottom and coming up squealing with delight. I looked down and saw that one of them had left a rather obvious watery red mark behind her.

Ah the joys of being a girl.

I looked behind me and saw that there was a whole cabin of teenaged boys scrambling their way up the iceberg. In that moment I knew that I only had about 10 seconds before they reached the top and saw the accusing red streak, and my girls would die of mortification.

So moms, you know what I did.

Because you would all do the same.

I took my hair out of my ponytail. I spread my arms wide, I aimed, and I jumped.

You can call me mop mom.

This is motherhood.

We would do anything for our children. Even soak up their humiliation with our hair. We break our bodies, sacrifice our dreams, and reprioritize our lives in order to give them their best life.

And it is good.

It was months later while driving in the car when my love for them was questioned. (Pretty sure I denied them something they wanted.) I told them that I loved them so much that I would do anything for them. They didn't believe me. So I told them the mop mom story. Since then the story has gotten out and they gave me permission to tell it.

They will never know which one of them it was. But it doesn't mater. I would do it again in a heart beat for either of them.