Years ago, back in the elementary school days — the era of Velcro shoes, Pokémon cards, and Goldfish crackers ground permanently into the backseat of the mini van— one of my kids was running late for the bus. In a half-asleep act of maternal chaos, I found myself sprinting two blocks down our street — barefoot, in my pajamas, waving a waffle like a flag and shouting:
“YOU FORGOT YOUR BREAKFAST!”
Oh my goodness. I had officially become that mom. Sorry, neighbors. Sorry, kids.
But you know what? That moment was motherhood. Not the polished version — the real one. The kind that shows up messy, frantic, and full of love. The kind that will chase you down the sidewalk, carbs in hand, if it means you don’t leave hungry.
Around that same era, one of my kids looked up at me, sniffed the air, and said: “Mmmmm… you smell like breakfast, Mom.” I remember blinking and thinking — uh, thank you? Is that good? Should I be concerned? Do I need another shower?
But now, years later, I realize that might be one of the greatest compliments I’ve ever received.
Because breakfast is comfort. It’s the toast before the test. The pancakes before picture day. It’s the presence that says, “I’m here. I’ve got you,” in the form of a warm waffle or a bowl of cold cereal. It’s the quiet kind of love that doesn’t make headlines — just sandwiches.
(Also, real talk: Anybody else think Cocoa Pebbles look like scabs? I know — that really makes you want to run and pour a bowl right now, doesn’t it?)
In that one weirdly lovely observation from my kid, I felt seen. Not for my to-do list or my job title or how well I packed the lunchboxes — but for the feel I bring to the room. The flavor I add to their day.
“You smell like breakfast” might just be code for: “You make me feel safe.”
And now, with college-aged kids and no lunchboxes to pack, I still carry that moment with me. It reminds me that mothering is less about the specific tasks, and more about the feeling you bring to the people you love. It’s the presence. The steadiness. The care — even when no one sees it.
Because the truth is: being a mom doesn’t stop. It just shifts.
These days, I may not be flipping pancakes at 7:00 AM, but I’m sending “Good luck today” texts and answering calls that start with, “Hey, quick question…” And I still want to be that same presence. The one who feels like home — even from a distance.
That same week I smelled like breakfast — no joke — I remember seeing a commercial for a “Marathon of Mommies with Issues” airing on a local TV station as a Mother’s Day special.
At first, I laughed.
Then I paused.
Wow… is this the bar we’ve set? Dysfunction, breakdowns, and drama as the default narrative for motherhood?
The lineup practically wrote itself:
Terms of Endearment. Mommie Dearest. Mother Gothel crooning “Mother Knows Best” while gaslighting Rapunzel in a tower. And of course, back to back episodes of the eternally elegant Emily Gilmore — proof that a mother can wound you with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a crystal martini glass.
Sure, we all have our moments. (Hi, barefoot waffle sprint.) But what about the million quiet things moms do — the holding, calming, listening, steadying — that don’t get a movie deal?
Most of the moms I knew — including the one I was becoming — were doing the work. Faithfully. Grittily. Sometimes hilariously. Not flawlessly — but with full hearts and unmatched effort. Mothering without a script. Without applause. Without a commercial break.
I wasn’t starring in a dramatic movie-of-the-week. But I was starring in something real. Something ordinary and sacred and sticky and loud and absolutely worth remembering.
As Mother’s Day approaches, I find myself thinking not just about my own journey, but about all the ways that love shows up in a mothering kind of way.
To the moms, grandmas, aunties, sisters, friends, mentors, and chosen family — whether you’re packing lunches, sending care packages, or offering a safe place to land — this day is for you.
Not every experience of motherhood fits neatly into a card aisle or a TV special. And while the “Mommies with Issues” marathon might play it for drama, real-life mothering — and real-life grief, hope, distance, and healing — deserve more than a trope. They deserve tenderness, truth, and space.
Because love like this isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about how we care for one another — loudly, quietly, awkwardly, creatively. It’s about doing the best we can with whatever we’ve got — even if that sometimes means running barefoot down the street with a waffle.
You’re showing up. That’s the magic. That’s what they remember. They may not always say thank you. But sometimes, they’ll say something weird and sweet and oddly poetic that tells you — you’re making a difference.
So whether you’re being celebrated today or just quietly keeping everyone fed and found — may someone wave a waffle for you, too. And if you find yourself smelling like breakfast some day, take it as a win. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what legacy really is — not the grand gestures, but the little things that linger, like warmth and waffles.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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