Motherhood—Where Joy and Pain Collide

I’d wanted to be a mother since I fell madly in love with Frank in the second grade. My friend said cute little babies show up after you get married, not before. I never wondered how.

I’d swing in our backyard for the longest time and belt out made-up songs about my dreamy future.

Poor Frank. We were such bold second grade girls. We outnumbered and overpowered him everyday as we chased him at recess. When my birthday party rolled around, I invited Frank and a passel of girls. I smile to think my parents allowed me to invite just one boy and he actually came.

The mothers I knew stayed home when their kids were little. My mom worked several jobs before I was born and eventually worked for many years after my sister and I were grown. She was the hardest working woman I knew.

I wanted to be a mother like neighbors who were my role models. God made me to be a mother.

My dream came true when I married and had children, but with the fulfilled dream also came indescribable heartache.

Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them, stated Tolstoy.

Motherhood for me has meant a broken heart and ridiculous joy share the same space.

The excruciating pains of labor and the reward of a fresh baby is an apt analogy.

Do labor pains ever really end?

I was terrified when my firstborn needed “extra time in the hospital”. He was a brand new baby and I actually cried as I imagined him going off to college one day. New mother hormones, fraught with emotional zingers.

The dog bites, golf club gashes, the burns, the ripped flesh that required stitches, to name a few traumas. Night terrors, anxieties, the tears over mean friends. The bottle of tasty cherry-flavored Tylenol consumed by an inquisitive little girl, followed by the requisite stomach pump.

Many sleepless nights; comforting new babies, trying to reason with our special child who didn’t understand how to rest her body, but rocked and flailed into the wee hours. The all night prayers when a child had gone missing. The angst when I was unsure God would answer my prayers.

The time I found our first daughter with her face and hands fully covered in blood as she stood calmly in front of a full-length mirror, holding a disposable razor. She’d grazed it over her face, in a way that resembled movements she’d often make with her hands. I quickly got her into the tub and washed her, grateful to find she had only minor cuts. My first glance had punched the breath out of my stomach for the horror that could have been.

As an adolescent, that same special daughter screamed and wailed, lashing out at us when she couldn’t speak her emotions. Instinctively, I protected my baby girl from her big sister. I hoped she wouldn’t be affected by the trauma. Worries about the future: will she ever go to the bathroom independently? What will happen when her period comes?

God made mothers in a special way; no one loves like a mother.

Our special daughter, at forty years old, delighted me while I spoke to her on FaceTime. She independently poured an entire can of Dr. Pepper into a glass. Not the kind of achievement you’d celebrate with typical kids. But, if you’re a mom of a special needs child, you know. For a mama, it could be a big job promotion, a major civic award or it might be an adult child successfully completing a wooden toddler’s puzzle. However small the feat, it’s a win for a mother whose heart carries expansive love for her child.

There were wonderful things. The long slow bonding of four hungry babies through breastfeeding. The birth of our second daughter after two sad miscarriages. The bedtime prayers and songs. The dancing when Daddy came home.

The obnoxious elementary boy humor, the bodily noises and smells; the eating us out of house and home; those were fun. Kids’ friends that became like our own. They joined us on vacations and we fed them huge breakfasts at home after sleep-overs. The Holy Spirit reminded me of the grownups they’d become, and that our investments in their lives would make a difference.

Countless soccer trips with piles of big kids in our minivan. Basketball games, volleyball games and foot races. Birthday celebrations at home were highlights with Grandmom’s homemade cakes.

The engagements and the weddings! Our first son married with an Atlantic Ocean backdrop on the coldest November day in history. I thought I’d never get over the surreal feeling of watching his wedding, with his siblings as attendants, while gaining a lovely daughter-in-law. I also thought I’d never get warm again.

We hid and watched two proposals; first John’s to Mary, and a couple of years later Matt asked for Katherine’s hand. There’s really nothing like watching dreams come true after a lifetime of prayers.

The weddings, what joy. I only wish I’d been more relaxed and not so out of my element. Every detail was special and the moments were over so fast.

I cannot end before talking about the cherry on top of all this mothering. It’s the grandchildren. It’s impossible to describe the thrill of little ones’ births, each with unique personalities while knowing we’re inextricably connected.

The other times I’ve tried to write these thoughts I stopped short because of the uncomfortable tears that come. I’ll switch gears and write about spring flowers and beautiful innocuous things. My emotions alone are surely evidence of the depth of love. Nothing compares to being a mom. My children take up such a huge part of my heart, I sometimes wonder how space remains for other loves.

Empty nesting is good, but I miss my children. I’m left with a deep craving that feels a little bit like my desire for heaven. I want my kids around the table, laughing and telling all the stories. I want to hug them and stare at them. They can’t know how precious they are.

I simply cannot imagine who I would’ve been if I hadn’t been a mother. I’m sure other mothers agree. Like gold refined by fire, motherhood is refined by pain and difficulties. What’s left is just love.

Someone has written: I gave you life, but really, you gave me mine. I agree.