To begin

Why do I call myself "Raggedy Mom"?  Good question.  The name initially came to me while sitting on my couch one night, alone.  My house was quiet - my husband and 4 boys had all gone to bed, but I was still up - as I am many nights these days - waiting for exhaustion to make it impossible for me to stay up any longer. Across from me, atop my grandmother's hope chest  (built by my father when he was in high school), the painted-on, familiar smiles of Raggedy Ann and Andy peered back at me.  For my birthday this year, my Mom had purchased these dolls from a vendor at our local holiday bazaar.  Handmade and truly authentic, they stole my heart as soon as I saw them.  I can remember loving Raggedy Ann as a child, and now, as an adult woman who has come through more than the usual trials and tribulations, I find myself somewhat relative to the well-loved doll. I, too, have spent my life as a recipient of human affections - held and dropped, lost and found, cuddled and abused, and after the birth of my son, I became all of those things all over again but without the benefit of youth.  Most of all, though, I have been well-loved by my son, however tattered and torn, loved and hated.  That is how I have learned to refer to myself: well-loved;  Raggedy;  Raggedy Mom. And I would not have it any other way.  As hard as life has been to me, my job as Raggedy Mom is to be there, unconditionally, waiting, anticipating whatever my son has to offer next, and taking it because it is love that makes any doll (or Mom)  irreplaceable. Age takes its toll, slowly but truly, and the stresses of life just seek to explain those unidentifiable stains and the tiny tears in my dress.