I’ve been thinking a lot about motherhood this week. It will still be a few more months before we start seeing the motherhood rituals of the prairie on display: Robins piecing together their intricate nests of twigs and mud. Fawns hide in the grass while their mothers graze nearby. Cottontail dens teeming with tiny newborns, their eyes still sealed shut. And of course, the cows, sheep and horses fanned across the greening grass, their babies running and bucking and playing nearby.
My thoughts on motherhood are simultaneously too big and too small to fit in one column, which is rather like motherhood itself. Motherhood is full of an overwhelming amount of minute tasks, such as finding your kids’ matching socks (or ANY socks) and clipping their toenails and then gigantic responsibilities like shaping a human being (with his or her own unique thoughts, needs, and proclivities) into a healthy, productive member of the bigger human family. It’s easy to get bogged down trying to attend to the former, but too much time considering the latter can lead to complete paralysis.
Our animal neighbors are no strangers to the intensity of parenting either. For example, lambs and calves nurse A LOT, and they often headbutt their moms when they do it. Both my kids went through a stage where they reminded me of baby wolverines while nursing. Tempted to feel sorry for myself, I would think of one of my favorite little ewes in the meadow, her half-grown twins running full speed across the grass towards her, and nearly lifting her off the ground as they dove into get their hundredth drink of the day. The ewe, for her part, kept calmly chewing, unflappable in the aftermath of the onslaught.
Much like in humans, there is considerable variability in livestock in parenting skills and styles. First-time sheep and cow mothers can often be seen nervously following their offspring around the pasture, calling to them in anxious tones.
An experienced mother, on the other hand, will let her baby wander farther, but when she calls, you better believe that baby comes running. Some mothers keep tabs on the babies, lifting their heads often as they graze; others seem to forget their babies even exist until they hear the young ones calling out from across the pasture. Then the flighty, absent-minded mothers begin running around in a panic, shouting: “Where are you? What’s wrong? AHHHHH!!!”
These observations allow me to grant myself a little more grace when it comes to parenting foibles. I truly believe most of us are doing the best we can most of the time — at parenting and at life in general. Sometimes our best looks like a sloppy mess, but we keep trying.
The reason I am thinking of motherhood this week, though, is because every night as I’ve lain down to read bedtime stories, or give bedtime snuggles, I’ve been thinking about how much I love my kids, how desperately I longed for them before they were born and how thankful I am that I got to become a mother.
This week, lying in the dark, feeling their soft breath slow as they slide towards sleep, I’ve also been thinking about what a mess we are in right now and how daunting it is to navigate. But as I hold my babies, who aren’t babies anymore, I’ve also been thinking of you — all of you, and everyone you know and everyone they know.
No one, no matter where or how or to whom they were born, is any less deserving of the kind of love a mother feels as she cradles her child in the quiet of a long night.
So, I am sending this out to all who read these words with the hope that the next time you lie down to rest, you feel that love. You are as cherished by creation as the most longed-for child. You are sacred. You are beloved. We all are.
