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| My Mom, Leah, happy with her first baby, Richard. |
Before my first child, Anna, was born, I would have
nightmares. In these terrifying dreams, I would be trying to diaper the baby or swaddle her in a blanket and have no idea how to do it. The tiny infant would gaze up at me impatiently, and cry out, “Mom, don’t you know
how to do anything!”
I would wake up, horrified. How could I possibly be a
mother; I didn’t know the first thing about how to do it.
When Anna was born, I still didn’t know anything about taking
care of babies. But I instantly knew I loved every bit of her perfect little
pink body, from the tiny long toes to her fuzzy miniature round head. I didn’t
know how to care for a baby, but I knew how to love, and that is the main
thing, I learned.
With each new baby, I worried and wondered how I would
manage with another child. As we walked into the hospital, fully in labor, I
would tell Paul I changed my mind. Our family is just right as it is, and
anyway, I could barely care for the ones I had.
But then, when that wonderful little being lay in my arms, I
was filled again with that great love and I knew this was right. I was blessed
to have this child in my life and all the other children too.
There’s joy in being a mom. When the children were little,
early morning began with all the children piled around Paul and me on the queen
size bed. Here’s an excerpt from my journal when there were just four little
children.
First three-year-old Mark clambered
over Paul, snuggling between us, announcing in his surprisingly deep voice, “I
sleep, OK? I have good nap.” Then five-year-old Emily came padding in, eyes
scarcely open. She climbed right in beside me, curling into a ball beneath my
arm as if she belonged there. Soon baby David started to complain from his crib
and Paul brought him in, the baby looking so like a fat sausage stuffed in blue
blanket sleepers, we all laughed. In bed with everyone, David commenced
climbing over our quilt-covered bodies like mountains, until all of us were
wide awake and giggling. Seven-year-old Ann then appeared in the doorway,
elegant though rumpled, appraising us all from beneath half-closed eyes before
dropping into a ball at the foot of the bed. Before long Mark started begging
for pancakes, and we all tumbled out of bed and raced for the kitchen.
The joy of motherhood is full and real. I could go on with stories
of Saturday trips –“high adventure” we called them--traveling “wherever the
hood ornament took us”; of working together in the yard and then going out for a
“workers’ treat” of ice cream; of sitting at the dinner table talking and
talking and talking, until David slid from his chair to lie on the carpet and
continue the conversation from there.
But motherhood is also hard. There is the work, of course,
which is not to be minimized. Though Paul is good to help, and most fathers
are, there are always things that only a mother can do, or thinks to do. Henry
Ward Beecher said once, “There is no slave out of heaven like a loving woman;
and of all loving women, there is no such slave as a mother.” Mothers are up
early making lunches, fixing breakfast, finding books, signing notes. They’re
up late, tidying the house, helping with school projects, listening to
teenagers. And in between, mothers are driving children to soccer games and
piano lessons, and shopping for groceries to fill the magically emptying
fridge.
And perhaps hardest of all, mothers worry. Mothers are some
of the best worriers around. I myself am a world class worrier. I have been
known to worry through most of the night because a child hadn’t completed the
fourth-grade county report. Before the night was out, I was sure this act
foreshadowed juvenile delinquency, drug addiction, lawlessness, and imprisonment.
And of course, if these events came to pass, I had no doubt who would be
ultimately to blame. Me, the mother, of course. My favorite cartoon shows a pro
football player dejectedly heading for the lockers, having just lost a game.
From the stand his mother leans over his head calling, “Don’t worry son. You
couldn’t help it. It’s all my fault!”
We take a lot of responsibility on ourselves, and that is difficult
even when things are going well. When they’re not, that responsibility becomes
almost unbearable. One mother told me, despairing over children who had made
poor choices, “If I had known it would end here I never would have become a mother.”
Another sorrowing mother once asked, “Where did I go wrong? I tried so hard,
and yet, look.”
So what do we do to be good moms, to raise our children in
righteousness and joy? We can look at Heavenly Father’s example. (Remember that
he also has trouble with his children from time to time.) We can never stop loving.
In Jeremiah we read, “Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love” (Jeremiah
31:3).
If the mission of the church is to bring souls to Christ,
mothers (and fathers too, but more about that in June) are the main
missionaries. We are on the front lines as we strive every day to teach these
spirits how to live, how to love, how to have faith. Certainly, we mess up.
(Don’t ask me to tell you about the time I left David at a bathroom in Wells, Nevada.) And kids mess up too, and make their own choices, as they have every right to do.
But most of the time we do just fine. We do fine because we love our
children, we love them more than we love ourselves, and we show that by the way
we act.
So this is our day. Let’s celebrate mothering. Be thankful
for your mother, and your mother’s mother, all the way back. Be thankful for
the mothers of all the good people that have brought light to the world. Be
thankful for all the mothers alive now, trying so hard to do right by their children.
Be thankful for the young women who will be the mothers of the
future.
And if you happen to be a mother yourself, count your
blessings. Be happy now, remember happy times, and think of happy times to
come. Tell yourself you’re doing fine. You are. Remember your Heavenly Father
and Mother are by your side, supporting your every effort. They are pleased
with you, for all your love and caring and trying. With God’s help and your own
great love, you are doing great.
Have a happy Mother’s Day.
