I pulled a honey bee stinger out of a little girl’s palm at a birthday party. She was already crying from missing her mom, but this infraction really took the cake. 

Five of us mothers huddled around, reassuring and loving on her — someone grabbed a bag of frozen corn. 

Her mom was called and I heard, “I’ll be right there”, on the other side of the line. She sailed in gracefully, scooped her daughter onto her lap and swayed back and forth, speaking their native language of love. 

There was no one else in the world better than the comfort of her mother’s arms, the scent of her body, the warmth of her words penetrating sad tears. 

I mother everyday. I comfort my daughters. I heal them with my love. But seeing who I am to them, through the near distance of another mother-daughter, was strikingly beautiful, almost unbelievable. 

Our love is an archetype.

Our tongue is a language of endless variety, but in the end, we are all mother.

We are everything — wrapped in ordinary.