Years ago when all my daughters were still at home we had two sets of girls. In conversations and discussions we referred to the oldest girls as The Big Girls and we referred to the youngest two girls (4 ½ years after them) as The Little Girls.
The oldest two are very close in age and then there’s a gap and the two youngest girls are very close in age.
These monikers have fallen out of use. I haven’t thought of them in this way in a very long time. They have all grown up. They aren’t girls anymore. Even the youngest two are now young women, but my big girls are now women grown.
I have thought a lot about The Big Girls. These big girls are now mamas themselves. They both sat in church this morning with their sons in their laps—great big boys already. And as I looked sideways at them I watched them do things that mothers do—things good mothers do, and I smiled. And for a few minutes I was transported back.
Back to when they were babies. Back to when, as a young mother I panicked because an elder’s wife passed my first born six week old daughter across the pews to anyone who wanted to hold her. My young mother heart was frantic as I looked across what seemed like a sea of people trying to find my daughter—my beautiful daughter. I was so mad. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have been. But I was. She was being held by someone I didn’t even know; I hadn’t even met the woman and she was cradling Anna in her arms five pews away. I learned my lesson: from then on I carried Anna’s car seat into church and she stayed in it—I was the only who got her out after that. And when Katherine was born I followed suit.
Elijah got his finger hurt during the service and I thought about his mama. She was barely walking, but independent and curious. She reached into the trash and pulled out a ravioli can. She stuck her hand into the can which was fine, but the cut tin lid remained attached. When she attempted to pull her hand back out she caught her pinkie finger on the edge and almost sliced off the pad of her finger. Moving at what I considered warp speed I ran to try and stop her, but I failed. I packed Anna and Katherine into the car and went to see Dr. Becknell, our family doctor. He was in his eighties and still practicing medicine. He had seen much and he did a great deal to calm my mothering fears. He knew I was feeling inadequate and like an awful mom because I allowed my child to get hurt. He assured me her finger would be fine, but that this wouldn’t be the last time. He was right.
These Big Girls taught me more about mothering than any book or any other person. They exploded all my theories about motherhood and they found all the holes and gaps I had in my knowledge of children and development. They taught me that mothering wasn’t for the weak, or the timid or the impatient. They taught me that theories were just that—good ideas that sometimes worked and often didn’t. I thought I knew so much when Anna was born—I had taken care of my much younger brother and my step-nephew. I had baby sat and been a summer nanny. I really thought I was well educated, but what I learned is that I didn’t know much.
When they cried I couldn’t hand them back to my mom or my step-sister. When they cried I had to decide what was hurting them, what was lacking or what was wrong. And I learned I was inadequate. I was not an expert. I learned that the scant amount of knowledge was not enough.
This Mother’s Day I want to thank my oldest daughters—my big girls. They helped me grow up. And now they have children of their own. Because of these two older girls I was a better mother to their younger sisters. And because of them I am a better grandmother.
Occasionally I wish I could go back and repair and fix my regrets—all the things I did wrong. All the things I should have done differently. There’s a sore spot in my mother’s heart for what I didn’t know when I had them because I was ignorant, because I was clueless. But I do pray and hope that when I erred I did on the side of love. I wanted to do what was good and right for my girls. I wanted to do what would benefit them. I know I didn’t always get it right.
Now, on this Mother’s Day one of the very best unsolicited pieces of advice I can tell my big girls is that you won’t always get it all right with these sons of yours. You won’t always know what to do or how to help them. You won’t always be able to keep their hands out of ravioli cans or from being in awkward situations. And there will be times that you hold them and just simply cry because you seem to be at a loss.
But…
I have watched you mother these boys in the past eight months. I have watched the tenderness in you toward them. I have watched you hurt when they do, cry when they have. I have seen you love them, hold them, comfort them, soothe them.
I have watched you challenge and push these boys—putting things just beyond their reach so that they will move forward to gain what they need and want. I have listened to you talk to them in a grown-up way. There has been no diluting of language for them with you. I have watched you play and laugh with them.
I have listened to you hush them to stillness. I have watched these sweet boys go limp in your arms—feeling safe, secure and loved—their little bodies sinking into you. I have watched them look at you with ecstatic recognition. I have seen you gently correct these boys already teaching them that it is good for a man to be gentle. And I know you have held these boys and whispered prayers over them.
And my own mother’s heart has been enlarged. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of the mothers you are. Elijah and Judah will be richer because of you. They will have a perspective of the world that will be different because of you. They will engage life diffently because they have you in their lives. And I am so glad.
I hope you hear me: I am very proud of you.
My big girls are women grown now, and they have become beautiful, beautiful mamas.
Happy Mother’s Day my daughters.
May these boys teach you as you taught me.
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| Katherine and Elijah |
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| Anna and Judah |
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