On Being a Mom

When you were born, our bodies melded to yours.  Our minds knew your thoughts, our hands discovered and remembered every fold, every wrinkle, every curve of your newborn belly.  Our lives changed, for the better, became far more difficult and yet indescribably joyful.  When you were born, we became Mom.

Now, in this season of newborn, toddler, preschooler, and big kid, our hearts, minds, and hands are still yours.  We wake in the night to nourish you, we forgo sleep to comfort you, we trek about our city to entertain you.  We anguish over decisions, some big, some seemingly inconsequential, and yet we seem to know that each decision made will have a lasting impression on these children we call our own.  

We work outside the home if we need to, we stay home and work if we want to, we scour friends and relatives for the perfect caretaker to care for the precious lives entrusted to us.  We cry as we leave, we laugh when we return, we cherish every moment we have together.

We nap (sometimes) but only when you nap.  We clean (begrudgingly) so that our homes will be fit for play.  We scrub, we sweep, we dust, we vacuum, we wipe, we chase bugs and spiders and scrape Play-Doh off the rug.  We labor, for love is not only the ease of cuddles and kisses. We work for the soundness of us.

We give our souls to God and hope and pray that you will do the same.  We teach, for the most part by example, and sometimes with words.  We repeat Bible verses and get you to church on time.  We grow in His love and in our love for each other.

And at times, when sickness falls and lays a veil of stress and worry over our usually peaceful homes, we rise to the occasion.  We take you to bed with us, diligently administer every drop of medicine prescribed, and offer fizzy drinks usually reserved for special times.  And sometime, someday, if one of you is called to heaven before us, a little piece of our hearts will break off and fly up to heaven with you, for we will always be your mom, wherever we are.

Now, as time passes and the shadows of "pre-teen" and "adolescence" grow larger in the sunshine of this season, we must remember to stop and watch.  Watch your baby walk, watch her chunky little feet pad on the rug as she chases the ball.  Watch your big girl, as she changes her clothes and washes her hair for the first time.  Watch as they struggle, watch as they play, for these times are made for memories.  It is impossible to keep every phase cemented in the recesses of your mind, every feeling of these moments locked in your heart.  So watch, and pray, and give thanks.

We are strong, we are tired, we love and are loved.  We forget, we remember, we live for others before ourselves.  Our arms grow tired from rocking, our feet grow tired from chasing.

And yet, we continue on.

We are Mom.  

Genesis (2005)

Like a brilliant sea of white

God brought forth the light

He cast the dark and shadows off

fleeing from His sight

and like a potter at the wheel

God brought forth a man

shaped and formed an image He

blessed it with His hand

and like the luster of a pearl

a helper, woman, Eve

beauty gentle, curved and new

her love his heart received

and like a serpent's tongue did he

taste the sweetness of the tree

and watched the fall-humanity

sprawl upon the earth

but like a servant king divine

He lived and loved, a Savior mine

upon the cross, the sacrifice

death and then-rebirth

Excerpts from "How Prince Eldridge Got His Own"

Ms. Eloise Jackson

My boy stands with a proud, straight back against the foul smell of indignity.

He likes to play saint.

He sings the song of a free man, the song full of chariots and shouts of "Lawd, Lawd!"

He paints pictures in the sky for his momma, pictures dripping with the lush colors of sweet air, earth, and time.

He sings, like I said, but as no one else on this living earth can sing: deep, magnificent, belting tones that fly into the air like the rush of rain under clouds and over dust-just as loud, just as wet.

My boy carries with him half of me and half of his daddy.  His daddy, a black man, as black as the thoughts some men will carry, (if not on their sleeves than in their elusive hearts) loved me as his own, loved me as in the Song of Songs.

"Your eyes are doves," he'd said to me, "my doves in the clefts of the rock."

And I loved him, oh yes, my man! I loved him as my own.

And my baby boy came to me through an etch of stained glass, like the light that warms a room, like the light that gathers dust, forever changed because of the color it pushes between.  But it is beautiful.  I would stare at the color, the warm tinge of his skin, the deep deathless eyes, the straight black pins that are eyelashes, and remember a perfect love, such as I had.

No, my boy can do no wrong.

My boy sits on the rocking stone, staring, hearing the rancor mouths around him, patiently gathering and dropping every slur, every laugh, every sting into a grave dug fresh every day.

He does not know I know.  He does not know I share it with him.

For the day I allowed young Theodore Howe to love me my skin darkened, too.  It struggles, too, through glass stained red, yellow, and blue, and yes, black; stained and swirling into a menagerie too bold to imagine.  Too bold to see.

Do you know this boy?  Do you know how I struggle with you?

My boy sits now on a stilled stone, staring at bars that don't break under the emotion of those within.  My boy, my boy, He knows, don't you see?  Are you holding to Him, like you held to me?  He knows, he forgives, and He sees...my boy.

Sing it like the free man you are.

"When Paul and Silas were bound in jail,

do thy a-self no harm

one did pray and the other did sing,

do thy a-self no harm..."

I sit with you, Leroy.  I sit with you, and I am dark, like you.  I am proud, like you, I sing well, like you; I swim in hope that's a tepid-still pond, like you.

No, my boy can do no wrong.

If he can see his momma as she sees him now, ignore the salt water that streaks this face, ignore the wringing of the towel under trembling hands.  My body is of no consequence.  My body bore yours, and this body would lie down for you.  This body would wail for you.

Boy, stand straight to the eyes of those who are looking in.  Make no judgement of them, make no judgement of yourself.  Let the Lord judge, He who is the only one who may judge.   Wait and hope for me, my boy, your tired old momma, your sad old momma, straw purse in one hand, white gloves in the other, brown hat on her head.

Your momma is coming soon, boy, wait for me on your tired feet.

Wait for me on your tired feet, boy, your momma is coming soon.