I have been putting this off all day today. I know exactly what I want to write about, and who, and why. I know this topic is important. It is important to me. It is just that I don't know that I am qualified to write it.
I have a child. What could I possibly understand about empty arms, offices that stay offices instead of becoming nurseries, or watching friend after friend get married until I am the only one left, with only nieces and nephews to cuddle instead of being able to pick out names and cribs for my own babies?
I can't.
I know that.
I can't understand it.
I haven't been there.
I don't pretend to try to know how you feel.
But I do have something to say today about this subject.
My parents struggled to have a baby for years before my older brother came along. Then my sister and I came with no issues (okay, we definitely came with issues, but getting us here wasn't an issue). It took four more years of waiting after my little sister came for my little brother to round out our family at six members.
And although her oldest child will graduate from law school next week and her youngest is only three weeks away from high school graduation, my mother still vividly remembers the heartbreaking days of sitting in their married student congregation at church, surrounded by wailing babies and walking pregnancy announcements. She remembers the feelings of hurt and anger when an ignorant loved one asked my grandma, "Does BJ even like kids?" This person had no way of knowing that my parents were begging and pleading with Heavenly Father to let a little one come into their home and family. The question itself, however, was quite absurd. My mother taught first grade. It's not like she was a Ms. Trunchbull flinging hated children around by their illegal pigtails. Since she was a child, my mom had only ever wanted to be two things: a teacher and a mom.
She was both from a very young age, but she didn't know it.
First, there was my mother's childhood. Growing up in smalltown Montana, she was no stranger to hard work. While her parents struggled to keep the family business running, my mom was in charge of keeping her younger brother and sister alive (and if anyone knows my Aunt Ronda, who once almost drowned in manure, they know this was no easy feat!). When she was in high school, her parents had two more children. Once again, she helped brush hair and change diapers and make cookies and cut bangs and she spent hours stretching my uncle's hands so his fingers wouldn't grow bent and crooked like they were predisposed to do. This is the life of the oldest daughter; helping out is second nature. It's just what we do.
And then my mom went off to college, to become a teacher. She met my father. She fell in love for a second time, but learned what true love was for herself for the first time. They got married. He went to work. She finished school. Then she went to work and he finished school. They decided to start a family. Nothing happened.
But my parents were parents long before my brother ever came into the picture.
You see, they had Annie.
Annie was one of my mom's students. To say she didn't come from a loving home would be a complete understatement. Annie's home life was hell. My mom did everything she could, but quickly found she was powerless to change much about Annie's situation. So, instead, she made the most of the time she had with Annie at school. She taught her how to wash her hands, brush her hair and teeth, and to read. Once in a while, on the weekends, as a reward for good behavior, my parents would take Annie to the park. Those pictures of that little curly-haired girl, smiling on the teeter-totter back in the early 1980s are mixed in with our baby pictures and family vacation snapshots.
My parents were kind to her. They genuinely loved her. They still do. I remember Annie visiting our family when we were small children. I remember going with my mom to the dollar store to help pick out makeup for Annie for her birthday. Even now, sometimes when I am visiting my parents I will pick up the phone and hear Annie's voice on the other end, asking if Belinda is there. Last December I followed my mom around a Scholastic Book Fair, searching for a Christmas present for Annie. It had to be a book about dolphins. Annie loves dolphins.
To Annie, my mother will always be a little bit hers.
And I understand it, because there are women in my life, both those with children and those without, that are a little bit mine.
Like my third grade teacher, retiring this year, who took the time to write me letters long after I graduated from her classroom and my family moved away. I still have those letters.
Like my Achievement Day (our church's program for 8-11 year old girls) leader, who showered me with love when all the most of the other girls in our group did was show me cruelty. I don't even remember her name, but I remember her love.
Like my aunt, who taught me how to rollerblade and coached our basketball and t-ball teams and was the one who told my mom I probably needed glasses because she noticed my shot was off and didn't just attribute it to the the fact that I have absolutely no athletic ability (although she and I both knew it!).
Like all those Sisters in Texas, who sat me down in their kitchens as they prepared dinner for my companion and I and asked how we were doing while searching our faces and body language for the things we weren't telling them. Sister Green, with her whole wheat rolls and emails to my mom right after I'd been diagnosed with diabetes, because she knew my mother felt powerless not knowing how I was doing. Sister Lucas, who brought me special chocolates. Sister Lake, who encouraged us to keep going even when the work seemed so hopeless. Sister Jones, my German grandma, who gave me the love and home base I needed at the beginning and end of my mission and sent me off with a few tears and a hug. Sister Burton, who was every Graham missionary's mom--and all of the other Graham and Jacksboro women, both members and non-members alike, who gave me water and received me like the representative of Jesus Christ that I was and still am.
Over the years there have been church leaders, piano teachers, coaches, my mother's friends and mothers of my friends who took the time to encourage me, love me, appreciate me, and teach me how to become a good woman. Now there is my mother-in-law, who is breaking into the land of American Girl dolls with her granddaughters and daughters-in-law because she never got to go there with her five boys, who spoils us with gifts of homemade bread and visits and an occasional game of Phase 10 on a Sunday and who tells me that I am doing a good job even when I don't feel like it.
And perhaps I appreciate the sacrifices of these women and their love a little more now for the same reason that I appreciate my mother's love more: because I am a mother, and I see these women in other women, dear to my heart, who claim a little piece of my daughter as their own. Like my little sister, who taught Kevin how to clap on time while she sings "If You're Happy and You Know It" and buys Kevin the zebra print stuff my husband hates but is so necessary for a little girl's childhood. Like my aunt, who continues to mother another generation with frozen fruit for breakfast and ice cream treats and whispers of off-limit adventures just loud enough to make my mom and I nervously exclaim, "She's not going for a ride on the motorcycle!" Like my sister-in-law, who from across the country gives us love and support and completes our family more than she will ever really know. Like our neighbor across the street, who willingly watches Kevin when Kevin's parents need a night out and goes walking with me and keeps me moving forward when I sometimes feel like I am retreating--she makes me a better mother and takes her turn mothering my child, who simply adores her.
Sheri Dew, a prominent business woman and member of our faith, who is unmarried and childless yet an example to mothers everywhere,
says this:
"When we understand the magnitude of motherhood, it becomes clear why prophets have been so protective of woman’s most sacred role.
While we tend to equate motherhood solely with maternity, in the Lord’s language, the word mother has layers of meaning. Of all the words they could have chosen to define her role and her essence, both God the Father and Adam called Eve “the mother of all living”
—and they did so
before she ever bore a child. Like Eve, our motherhood began before we were born....
Motherhood is more than bearing children, though it is certainly that.
It is the essence of who we are as women. It defines our very identity, our divine stature and nature, and the unique traits our Father gave us."
Maybe some of you are struggling with infertility. Maybe some of you have babies only a few days or weeks old and wonder what qualifies you to be a mother when you've only been one a few days and others have been doing the job for decades. Maybe some of you want desperately to hold a child in your arms but the timing isn't right and that blessing isn't yours right now. Maybe some of you have jobs as teachers, nurses, caregivers, dieticians, therapists, housekeepers, coaches, or any other occupation where you give love that goes unappreciated.
Maybe you are mothers and you just don't know it yet.
So to all the women who mother, whether they have borne children or not, I say thank you.
