They Pay Me In Pine Coins

It's a tiny miracle that he found the pine cone in our snow-laden yard, with nary a pine tree in sight.

"Mom, look, I found a pine coin!" he beamed. "It's for you."

They pay me in pine coins.

It's the currency of motherhood, untouched by inflationary pressures, immune to the chill of the frozen capital markets. So I take their investment; and in return, I give them interest, compounding with every book we read together, every game we play, every moment of loving admonition, every afternoon we whimsically waste on the Island of Sodor.

One day, I pray the pine coins my children have entrusted to me will return the greatest dividend--that they will grow to stand tall as a towering spruce, firmly rooted, steady in the strong color of their character from season to season.

In the meantime, I'm still looking for a way to fit the pine coins in the piggy bank.

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