I saw the sweetest post on Facebook today, I assume by an older mom who's kids are all grown, and it really resonated with me. It read;
My children each year ask me the same question. After thinking about it, I decided I'd give them my real answer:
What do I want for Christmas? I want you. I want you to keep coming around, I want you to bring your kids around when you have them, I want you to ask me questions, ask my advice, tell me your problems, ask for my opinion, ask for my help. I want you to come over and rant about your problems, rant about life, whatever. Tell me about your job, your worries, your significant other. I want you to continue sharing your life with me. Come over and laugh with me, or laugh at me, I don't care. Hearing you laugh is music to me.
I spent the better part of my life raising you the best way I knew how, and I'm not bragging, but i did a pretty darn good job. Now, give me time to sit back and admire my work, I'm pretty proud of it.
Raid my refrigerator, help yourself, I really don't mind. In fact, I wouldn't want it any other way.
I want you to spend your money making a better life for yourself, I have the things I need. I want to see you happy and healthy. When you ask me what I want for Christmas, I say "nothing" because you've already been giving me my gift all year. I want you.
It's funny how mom's are like this, my mom was, she would always tell us that for Christmas she just wanted a day for us all to be together and get along. My grandma now only asks us for our time. I get that now.
When we bought this house I definitely had the future in mind, we wanted a place that was tons of fun, a place that my kids would want to bring their friends and eventually dates around, and a place that would someday be where my grandkids want to play. I look forward to a full house for the holidays and Sunday dinners, so I'll echo this mom's sentiment. For every birthday, Christmas, Mothers Day or whatever, I want them, My husband, my kids, my sons & daughters-in-law and my grandkids. That's it.
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