Before I was a mom,
I cleaned my house each day.
I never tripped over toys.
I never forgot words to lullabies.
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Before I was a mom,
I had never been . . .
puked on
pooped on
spit on
chewed on
peed on
spit on
or pinched by tiny fingers.
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Jenn
and Jessup feeding Westyn |
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Before I was a mom,
I had complete control of my mind, thoughts and body.
I slept all night.
Before I was a mom,
I never held down a screaming child so that doctors could do tests or give
shots.
I never looked into teary eyes and cried.
I never got gloriously happy over a simple grin.
I never sat up late hours at night watching a baby sleep.
Before I was a mom,
I never held a sleeping baby just because I didn't want to put it down.
I never felt my heart break into a million pieces when I couldn't stop the
hurt.
I never knew that something so small could affect my life so much.
I never knew that I could love someone so much.
I never knew that I would love being a mom.
Before I was a mom,
I didn't know the feeling of having my heart outside my body.
I didn't know how special it could feel to feed a hungry baby.
I didn't know that bond between a mother and her child.
I didn't know that something so small could make me feel so important.
I had never gotten up in the middle of the night every ten minutes to make
sure all was OK.
Before I was a mom,
I had never known . . .
the warmth,
the joy,
the love,
the heartache,
the wonderment,
or the satisfaction of being a mom. |
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I didn't know I was capable of feeling so much . . . before I was a mom.
| "She watches over the ways
of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed." Proverbs
31:27-28. |
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Anne's
mother, Jane
with great grandson |
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This is for all the mothers of Kosovo
who fled in the night and can't find their children.
This is for all the mothers who gave birth to babies they'll never see.
And the mothers who took those babies and made them homes.
For all the mothers of the victims of the Colorado shooting, and the mothers
of the murderers.
For the mothers of the survivors, and the mothers who sat in front of their
TVs in horror, hugging their child who just came home from school safely.
For all the mothers who
run carpools and make cookies and sew Halloween costumes,
and for all the mothers who DON'T. |
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What makes a good mother anyway?
Is it patience?
Compassion?
Broad hips?
The ability to nurse a baby, cook a dinner, and sew a button on a shirt, all
at the same time?
Or is it heart?
Is it the ache you feel when you watch your son or daughter disappear down
the street, walking to school alone for the very first time?
The jolt that takes you from sleep to dread, from bed to crib at two am, to
put your hand on the back of a sleeping baby.
The need to flee from where ever you are and hug your child when you hear
news of a school shooting, a fire, a car accident, a baby crying.
I think so.
So this is for all the mothers who sat
down with their children and explained all about making babies, and for all
the mothers who just couldn't.
| This is for reading
"Goodnight, Moon" twice a night for a year, and then reading it
again, "Just one more time". |
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Anne's
sister Martha
with her daughter |
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This is for all the mothers who mess
up.
Who yell at their kids in the grocery store and swat them in despair and
stomp their feet like a tired two year old who wants ice cream before
dinner.
This is for all the mothers who taught
their daughters to tie their shoelaces before they started school,
and for all the mothers who opted for Velcro instead.
For all the mothers who
bite their lips . . . sometimes until they bleed when their
fourteen year olds dye their hair green.
Who lock themselves in the bathroom when babies keep crying and
won't stop. |
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This is for the mothers who show up at
word with spit-up in their hair and milk stains on their blouses and diapers
in their purse.
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This is for all the mothers who teach
their sons to cook and their daughters to sink a jump shot.
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This is for all the mothers whose
heads turn automatically when a little voice calls "Mom?" in a crowd, even
though they know their own offspring are at homes.
This is for mothers who put pinwheels
and teddy bears on their children's graves.
This is for mothers whose children
have gone astray, who can't find the words to reach them.
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This is for all the mothers who sent
their sons to school with stomach aches, assuring them they'd be just FINE
once they got there, only to get calls from the school nurse an hour later
asking them to please pick them up right away.
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This is for young mothers stumbling
through diaper changes and sleep deprivation.
And mature mothers learning to let go.
For working mothers
and stay-at-home mothers.
Single mothers,
and married mothers.
Mothers with money,
mothers without.
This is for ALL of YOU.
