I love you, Mom.
My mother wanted to be an archaeologist.
As a girl, she spent afternoons in the library, turning crisp pages full of fuzzy black and white photographs, detailed drawings of famous mummies, and lists of strange artifacts. She intended to dig in Egypt one day, hot sand stinging her eyes, treasures from the gods of long ago unearthed delicately by a soft brush and her fingers.
She ended up a stay-at-home mom, raising six children. The treasures she so delicately picked out of the sand were bright plastic trucks and bottle caps and sticks punched through leaves to make flags for castles. Her tools were not brushes and picks but soft words and pancakes and singing and love.