Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

The Right Way to Parent

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It’s crazy hard all the way around, but I happen to believe that one of the most difficult things about parenting is that you cannot see how you’re doing as you go. I mean, sure, you get smiles, giggles, and some cuddles and big hugs along the way. Sometimes you’ll even get a “you’re the best mom ever” thrown your way, which is like parenting gold. But other times, not so much. You don’t get confirmation that the decisions you’re making right this minute are the best ones in the long run. You just don’t. 

 
When I was in elementary school I loved it when the teacher graded the test papers while we waited. That meant no going home wondering if you had aced it or even failed. You found out then, and you could sit down, review what you missed, and learn from your mistakes. Well, parenting is the exact opposite of that.

In parenthood, sometimes it feels like you’re clueless, flying by the seat of your pants, holding on for dear life while putting your foot down on the big issues, and just praying to God that you’re not scarring them forever. It’s not fair at all, and even if you’re on your second or third kid it’s no better because they insist on all being completely different. Sigh. 

I woke up this morning an hour before my alarm, and my mind was consumed with thoughts of the day. I knew she didn’t want to go back. She had told me so, and she had cried to her daddy after I went to bed. 

I thought back on the previous day, my four year old at her first swimming lesson. What I had hoped to be exciting and rewarding had instead been a disaster. A traumatizing disaster. On the first day when forced to sink or swim, she had sunk. Then she had cried. A lot. She screamed for me, and through her tears I could hear, “help me, I’m dying!” and “you let me drown!”

And in my bed this morning I didn’t know what to do anymore then than I had the day before when she had cried for me in the pool. Did I go rescue her, hold her, and soothe her fears? Or was it best to make her buck up and deal with it? I had pondered it for some time, and had come to the conclusion that we shouldn’t quit. 

She had always been a sensitive child, clingy, yet loving. Wasn’t it about time she faced her fears head on? Even though she was only four, wasn’t it high time she stretched herself for her own good? That’s what I was doing, right?

It was settled then. We’d go, even though she didn’t want to, and if she still hated it I wouldn’t make her go back. Problem solved. 

Later that morning as we got ready to go, I walked into the living room and found her silent on the sofa. She turned to me and her face collapsed. More tears fell on her already wet cheeks, and she choked through her stuffy nose, “I don’t want to go. I’m scared!”

I held her, I comforted her, and I tried to talk some reason into my little girl, but all she saw was fear. She didn’t want to go, and I wondered what would come of me making her. Would it help her or would it hurt her? I didn’t know the answer, but I couldn’t stand to cause her any more distress. 

“I won’t make you go if you really don’t want to.” I whispered. And she drew in closer to my side, her body still racked by slowing sobs. 

Then I spoke out loud to no one in particular, “it’s not easy being a mom. It’s not easy to know what’s the right thing to do.”

My husband, in earshot, came around the corner, and he softly replied, “you know there’s no such thing. There’s no such thing as being right when it comes to being a parent. You just do what you can, and then you move on.”

Some parents co-sleep with their kids for years. Some parents insist on their babies “crying it out.”

Some parents do time-out, and some are spankers. 

Some moms breastfeed exclusively, and some moms decide the stress of breastfeeding is harming their relationship with their baby. So they formula-feed instead. 

Some dads stay home. Some moms stay home. Some parents both work full-time.

Some parents say “no” to make-up, social media, and sleepovers all together, while others say it’s all acceptable within reason, with guidelines and rules. 

Some parents throw their kids in the deep end of the pool, or rip the training wheels off by a certain age. Others wait until the child seems ready. 

But do you want to know which way is right? Do you want to know the right way to parent? 

The answer is there is no right way; there’s just your way. And even then there’s no guarantee it’s right. Plus it can change quickly. 

There’s no right way to do this parenting thing. You just do it. You take it one day at a time, one issue at a time, and you do what your heart tells you to do. You listen to God, you listen to your child, and you listen to yourself. There’s no right way. There’s just the way you decide to go, and then you move on from there to the next issue. 

Because that’s the other thing about parenting. There’s always something else down the line. And even as you go from one decision to the next you may not know if you’re getting all the answers correct. 

There’s no score sheet available. It’s the ultimate test of blind perseverance, and the only reward is that sometimes along the way, as they get older, they make comments and decisions that let you know you must be doing something right. Plus there’s smiles, giggles, and some cuddles and big hugs along the way. And occasionally there’s even a “you’re the best mom ever” thrown in there, which is always, still, parenting gold. 

  

I Pray I’m Doing Well

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Most coherent, reflective thought comes to me in the still, silent night, that moment when I am putting my child to sleep, after she has gone down, but before I place her in her bed. And last night was no different. 

She had finally quieted and had given up the good fight of resistance to bedtime. I rocked slowly back and forth, continuing the lulling motion a bit longer to ensure my youngest was indeed in a deep surrender to the sandman. 

As our bodies tethered by love moved back and forth in a sleepy-time medley I gazed at her drowsing face. There was something about a sleeping baby, and I didn’t think even the most majestic sunset could compare in beauty to my dozing princess in that moment. 

My thoughts came quickly in an emotional outpouring, and they whispered to my soul after a hard day. It had been a long day, as life with young children tends to be, and while it had been a blessed day, it had also been a challenging one. 

I pray I did well. 

So many days I awake refreshed, prayers of thanksgiving on my lips, and morning cuddles to accompany a hot cup of coffee. I arise a strong woman ready to conquer the little world I transverse that is childrearing, but somewhere along the way, in between tantrums, skipped naps, and bruised egos, my resolve begins to slip. 

My patience wanes, my energy drains, and the strong, eager mother becomes a weary, weepy woman who is certain she has failed. I have many jobs, but only this one calling in life I am driven to do so well, yet sometimes I feel like I fall flat on that duty. And as the day turns to night, as hyper children finally sleep soundly, I stare at their closed eyes and I pray. 

I pray I’m doing well. 

My heart’s deepest desire is to show my babies the love of Christ, to show them His heart by example. Yet so many times I miss the beat, and as our day wanders off path, and my focus wavers from the task at hand, I find myself simply holding on for dear life. In my mistakes, misgivings, and missteps I reach blindly, clinging to the cross, holding on to the hope that my babies somehow still know that I love them. 

I pray I’m doing well. 

Some days that is all I can do. I can only sit in my rocker at the very end, quieting my child, my mind, and my spirit, and surrendering my day to the one who holds it all in the palm of His hand. 

He who holds my heart, He who knows my desire to raise my kids in a manner that is pleasing in His sight, He who forgives me when I do less than His best for me; I cling to Him, my Lord, my God. And I pray that I am doing well. 

My socked feet touched carpet, slowing the sway, then ceasing our rocking lullaby. I stared again at her peaceful face, transfixed by such beauty, such perfection, such a happy, healthy child. Perhaps I was doing well. 

I knew I could do better; I could always do better. But there was also tomorrow. For this night I would lay her down, I would lay my own exhausted body down, and I would lay it all down at the feet of Jesus. 

     

Why I Take Far Too Many iPhone Photos

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When you’re a parent you do a lot of things that probably wouldn’t be your first choice if given the option, but instead you decide to do things that your children want to do. You make plans and do fun things (fun for the kiddos especially) with their best interests in mind. 

I’ve found myself really exhausted this pregnancy, and in all honesty I don’t feel like doing a thing. This was even more true today since I awoke at 6 a.m. to go renew my CPR, yet still I found myself loading the kids up for an outing. 

Where are the towels?! Really, where did they go? No one knew the beach towel whereabouts anymore than they knew how to pack a bag for a day at the splash pad, so I found myself alone stuffing bathroom towels, sunscreen, and water bottles in a bag. 

As with most fun plans, Mom ends up doing the brunt of the work while everyone else sits back and asks “are we there yet?” But it’s nine times out of ten worth it when you reach the destination and excited little voices cry out in delight. I love that part, and it’s a big reason I do it. 

After the bags were unloaded and a plethora of sunblock was applied I sat back on a park bench allowing the sun to bake me, and I smiled contentedly as I watched my children play. The joy on their faces, the musical laughter, the squeals of delight. I breathed it all in and I felt full. Full of my own parental delight in seeing my children enjoy life’s simple pleasures. 

The blue sky was radiant, and a smattering of just the right number of clouds filled the horizon. It was perfect. I looked at the children splashing around, and they were perfect. So I grabbed for my phone. 

I clicked away, taking several shots, and I beamed proudly as I asked the girls to “look here. Smile.” I glanced over to my right, and there I saw some women on another bench watching me intently. I felt a moment of shame for some reason, and I walked back quickly to my seat to put my camera phone away. 

I sat back down, and I watched the girls again. I hadn’t really stopped watching them, but I realized my moment of unexpected discomfort came because of the recently popular stigma about mommas with their iPhones. I had read all the blogs and articles warning of the error made by many of living through the lens. They claimed that too many people were so busy snapping photos of the precious moments that they couldn’t enjoy them, and I guess the thought that I was missing out on any of the amazing things going on around me just left me bothered. I didn’t want to let this pass by.   

I slid my phone into a pocket of the beach bag, never taking my eyes from the exuberant chaos that abounded. They ran, and they giggled in surprise as huge sprays of unexpected water caught them off guard. I laughed too. 

I had been up several times intermittently running through the water with them, and we had all had fun, but my most favorite part was just sitting silently and watching their faces. I could feed off of it for days, and as I watched my four year old straddled over one of the sprinklers I was enamored by her beauty. Something about the way the sunlight made her blue eyes shine, or perhaps how the excitement transformed her already lovely features into the most gorgeous sight I had ever seen. So I reached for my phone. 

  
As my hand touched the case I hesitated. Wasn’t I taking too many photos already? But I grabbed for it anyway, and I quickly snapped a photo of her soaked laughter. I had to. 

I realized then as I watched her why I do it. It’s true, I take far too many pictures with my iPhone, but I know why I do. As I looked at my little girl playing so carefree, the same little girl who insisted on growing another inch every single day, I knew I just didn’t want to miss it. I wanted to capture every single smile, every laugh, and every lovely moment in all its glory. 

I wasn’t missing out; I was memorializing it. I wasn’t lost behind the lens; I was living through it too. I was there, and I was present. I just didn’t want to forget. Ever. 

I smiled over at the ladies on the bench to my right, and I took a video as my girls ran through the spray. Good one, I thought. And it was. I wasn’t ashamed of loving the moment so much that I wanted a static memory to take from it. Tons of just such memories lay in photo albums and picture boxes in my home, and I was more than happy to add to the collection. I wasn’t embarrassed that I took far too many iPhone photos, because for me it would probably never be enough. I could never take too many pictures of their perfect little faces. 

And I knew that one day my grown children would find these photos in an album much as I did when I looked through my mother’s things after she passed away. They may not remember this day thirty years from now, but they would when they saw the pictures. 

I put the camera phone back in its pocket, and I ran to join them. We laughed, and we squealed together in delight as the water took us unaware. It was wonderful, it was perfect. 

And then, “Look at me Momma.” My toddler cried out excitedly, “Take my picture!”

And so I did.  

  

It Isn’t Fair

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I pulled my weary body from the couch with the full intention of dragging myself to the bedroom for a much needed night’s rest, but I stopped in my tracks unexpectedly. I was stuck in place as effectively as if my feet had been nailed there. Either way I couldn’t budge. I couldn’t move a muscle. I was transfixed. 

It isn’t fair. 

That’s what I thought at the time as I stood motionless staring down at my baby girl who had fallen asleep on the floor. I suppose she wasn’t really a baby anymore, but in my eyes she should be. In my heart she was. But this opinion stood in stark contrast to the sight before me that had indeed stopped me dead in my tracks. 

  
It isn’t fair. 

I thought it again, unable to think anything else. Well, anything other than the pride and love that swelled up inside me, threatening to spill out in the only way it knew how. Tears. 

How?! How? I wondered in shock and awe. How had the tiny baby that had changed my life morphed into the girl at my feet? Her legs stretched the distance of the living room rug, and I couldn’t believe that this giant, long-legged child had once fit comfortably in the bend of my right arm. What happened?!

It isn’t fair!

Her face! Her face had changed; her features had become more defined, less pudgy. The fat rolls had faded, distinguishable knee caps and knuckles had replaced them long ago. But this was different! Her face; she no longer looked even like a little girl anymore. She looked like a big girl, and somewhere in the line of her jaw and the sweep of her lustrous eyelashes I saw a glimmer of the young woman she would become. 

It isn’t fair, my heart lamented. 

I recalled long nights nursing every two hours, when gas drops were my go-to thing. I rembered her excitement at the first big toy we bought, a Weeble Wobble treehouse, and how she would dance clumsily to the music it played on two short, chunky legs, her diaper sagging like it always did. 

Learning to talk, I was so excited. My baby was so smart, and I eagerly anticipated each new word as they grew into more each day until she was stringing together whole sentences. Then one day she could say anything she wanted. Anything at all. 

But now she asks questions. Big, big questions, seeking answers to the curious world around her, and not stopping until she knows more. 

It isn’t fair. Not at all. 

The other night I had returned home from work, and she sat in her room busy at play with her older sister. I stood in her doorway gazing at her beauty. Oh, how I had missed her so! I stood in anticipation of the running, exuberant embrace she would throw around my neck as I bent down towards her. It’s what we had always done when I returned home from a long day away. 

But she just looked up, smiled, waved hello, and back to playing she went. Talk about not fair. 

It was like every day my love for her grew, but then again so did she. If I wasn’t present to see it for myself I’m not sure I’d believe the quickness of her transformation. Her legs just kept getting longer. Her mind kept expanding, amazing me daily with the intelligent thoughts that emerged. 

I stood motionless in my living room gazing at my big, baby girl, and I finally stepped forward. I had to move, do something. So I scooped her up lovingly and took her to bed. As I laid her down gently her eyelids fluttered open, and musical words floated from her mouth.

“Hold me.” She said. 

And I did. I held her, but the thought persisted even stronger in my mind. 

It isn’t fair. 

It wasn’t fair that someone like me deserved a gift like this. All the mistakes I had made in life, the people I had hurt, the shameful, selfish acts I had committed. It wasn’t even fair that I deserved to love like this, to be loved like this, but yet somehow I was. I was quite certain then that God had given me that baby girl to show me just a portion of His grace, and how much He loved me. And as she grew bigger each day He gently whispered in my ear, “See. Don’t take the love for granted. Hold it tight always, just as I hold you.”

So I held her tight. My big, growing girl, and though it wasn’t fair, as I fell asleep next to her I realized one thing absolutely for sure. 

But it was wonderful. 


Why My Way of Mothering is the Only Right Way

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I think as mothers we all desire to do the very best for our children, and when we fall short of that we obtain an uncomfortable measure of Mommy Guilt. We feel as if we were made to do and be so much more, and with good reason. We want to do right by our children, and do the right thing. But when it comes down to it there’s really only one right way to mother. 

I was recently on a play-date with my daughters, and as the children ran around together the other mother and I talked. I’m not sure what brought the conversation around to this little factoid, but it was something that had been on my mind. I was hesitant, and actually embarrassed to even say it out loud, but finally I just blurted out my confession. 

“Here I am pregnant with number three, and I haven’t done a single thing in the last one’s baby book.”

I mean, I hadn’t even written a single word. Not even her birth weight. And the most embarrassing part was that she was almost two and a half years old already. Mommy fail, right?!

So imagine my surprise, and ultimate relief when the other mother of a growing toddler replied, “Yeah, me either!”

The baby book was important. I mean it was a big deal, right? But for me the last couple of years had been a big deal. We had played a lot, fixed about a billion plates of nuggets and macaroni, and taken a lifetime worth of bubble baths. We had learned new words, crawled, walked, potty-trained, and most importantly snuggled for hours. I had not recorded every tooth eruption in a book, but I had memorialized the time in other ways. 

And as I sat on the sofa next to a woman like me, a momma who loved the heck out of her babies, I realized we did things our own way. We knew what was important to us, and we went with that. 

Some women breastfeed. Some don’t. Some moms wear their babies, and others let them cry it out. Some of them co-sleep, and some make their very own baby food. Some moms only feed organic, and would scoff at disposable diapers. Some women begin their search for the perfect preschool while their child is in utero, and some moms will make the decision to homeschool. Some moms will spend hours on homemade birthday decorations off Pinterest, and others will grab something last minute from the dollar store. Subsequently, each child will have the “best day ever, Mom!”

Some moms will keep a perfectly scrapbooked record of their child’s life, and some of us will enjoy that life in other ways. 

I think what it comes down to is this very important truth. My way of mothering is the only right way. For me. The way that works for me is perfectly right for my family, and the way that works for you is what’s best for yours. Because there’s really no single, right way to parent. There’s simply what’s right for you. 

  
Some of us are Pinterest moms, but some of us are Fred’s dollar store moms. Some of us buy a birthday cake from the local, popular cake lady. But some of us go to Walmart. And some of us make our own. And sometimes the batter may be gluten-free. Or sugar-free. Or loaded with tons of sugar!

After years of wasting time watching how other moms mother I have decided that my way is the only right way. It’s the only right way for me. 

My kids are happy, healthy, and loved. That is what matters most. And although I would still like to get some of that baby book filled out before I deliver in December, I’m not sweating it if I don’t. Some of us are baby book mommas, and some of us are photo album queens. But all of us are moms doing it the only right way we can. The right way for us. 

Thank You for the Trash, Lord

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I walked swiftly across my kitchen floor, and immediately the feeling of crushing particles were felt under my foot. I sighed to myself in a growing frustration, and thought, didn’t I just take care of this?!

Indeed, the day before I had spent a large amount of time sweeping and mopping my floors, and I stood dumbfounded as I stared at the large pile I had collected via broom in my kitchen floor. After less than twelve hours it had gone from clean back to being unable to walk barefoot without stepping on food. 

I felt livid, and the longer I looked at the abnormally large, crumb pile I felt my anger swell. But then it stopped. Because then I looked at the mound of mess in a different way. For some odd reason instead of seeing work for me, I saw proof of the life that lay before me. And it wasn’t one of constant sweeping. Well, it was. But it was also one of immense blessing. 

So as I swept the evidence of my children’s presence into a dustpan I thought of it just like that. It was a solid representation of the gift I had at my fingertips, and in my lap. Even if they were messy. 

And I said, “Thank you for the trash, Lord. It shows that we have plenty.”

Thank you for the sink full of dishes, Lord. It means we have enough to eat. 

Thank you for the rolled-up pair of discarded, men’s socks on the living room rug. It means I have a husband present here for me to love. 

Thank you for the ring around the tub, Lord. It shows I have happy, healthy children who are able to go outside to run, play, and get really dirty. 

Thank you for all the laundry, Lord. As I fold it into different piles I see how many children you have given to me. 

Thank you for a husband who gets home so late, Lord. It shows me how hard he works to provide for our family. 

Thank you for toys all over the living room floor, Lord. It reminds me that we are able to provide material possessions for our children. Even if sometimes we buy too much. 

Thank you for long, exhausting days with the children. It reminds me how blessed I am to be able to stay home with them. 

Thank you for all the repetitive days of cooking and cleaning, Lord. It shows me how blessed I am to be able to have the time and energy to serve my family in that way. 

Thank you for bills, Lord. Each month you show me how you can provide. 

Thank you when things do not always go my way, Lord. It reminds me that your way is so much better. 

Thank you for my messy home, Lord. It is messy, but it is mine. It is filled with toys and dirty laundry, but it is also filled with love. In fact, it overflows. 

Thank you for crumbs on my feet and cranky babies in my lap. It reminds me that happiness comes in all shapes and sizes, but the life you have chosen for me is just right. And I thank you for it. 

  

A Word for the Fathers and Fathers-To-Be

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I recently had a young girl on my mind, and though she is still very little, I found myself worrying for her future. Her father was absent from her life, and I wasn’t sure if he even saw her more than once a year. It wasn’t that he lived far away, and even though he and the girl’s mother didn’t see eye-to-eye, I couldn’t understand how that could be a reason to never see his child. Didn’t he care about her?!

See, that’s how my brain works. Maybe he does care about her. Heck, maybe he loves her even, but as the victim of a broken relationship with my own biological father, that’s the kind of thing that will enter my mind. I will worry for this girl’s feelings, for her self-esteem, and for her sense of worth. I will worry because when it comes down to it, I was forever wounded. 

And I guess that’s what I wish he could see, this little girl’s father. And it’s what I wish all men could see. I wish that they could see the power they have over their child’s life and future. Men have the power to destroy, and the power to lift up a life, but in the end it’s their choice how to proceed. 

I am fully aware that there are deadbeat moms out there, but thankfully my own mother was my lifeline during a tumultuous childhood. So many single parents are out there like my mom was, pushing to make their child’s life better, and as the daughter of one of those heroes my hats go off to them. But still…

All the hardworking single moms in the world will never be a dual-parent home, and while these single mothers work so hard to be both a mom and dad, in the end you still have a child left with an empty place in their heart. And that’s what I wish absent fathers could see. As a daughter with a hole in her heart left by her father, that is what I’m trying to get across. 

Single parents shouldn’t take offense to that fact. Single parents are trying, and are doing exceptionally well with the hand that they have been dealt, but they can never fully cover the void left by an absent parent. No matter how hard they try. 

My Mom loved me so very much, and I never doubted that. I also had the blessed opportunity to gain another dad here on this earth. This wonderful man adopted me, treated me like his own flesh and blood, and showed me how a father was supposed to love his child. But still…

Still I was a little girl, even when I became a big girl, and later a woman, left wondering, why did he leave me?

When a man becomes a father he forever holds a piece of the child he helped create, and when he decides to not be a part of that child’s life they feel like something is missing. If they’re like me they’ll seek that affirmation elsewhere. They’ll seek it later in life as the approval of man, or perhaps as the temporary healing they find provided by drugs or alcohol. And even as they hop from one man’s bed to another seeking love they will forever wonder, what’s wrong with me? 

Yes, there’s an exception to every rule. Some young women will be stronger despite your betrayal of them as their absent father. Some will strive for healthy happiness in solid relationships, and thank God, some will find healing early through the love of Christ. Some young women will succeed despite the past hurt you caused. But many will not. Too many will not at all. Do you really want to take that chance?

Look at the world of prostitution. Look at promiscuous women in and out of abusive relationships. Look at men and women alike suffering under the steel hand of addiction. Do you know what a majority of these broken people will have in common? Yes, an absent father. A father who gave them up. And they will be the first to tell you that they still wonder, what was so bad about me that I wasn’t worth fighting for? Why was I so easy to let go?

Maybe I’m way off base here. Maybe I’m just a wounded little girl who can’t let go of the father who gave her up. But what if I’m not? What if you have the power in your hand to make your child feel special, or to conversely, make them feel worthless? What will you do with that?

Over the years I found a lot of healing in my life through a relationship with the Lord, and I discovered the true meaning of love through the character of my Father God. And I’m so grateful for that. I’m so grateful for a mother who loved me, and an adoptive dad who is my absolute hero. But when I look back at some of the low points in my life I am all too aware of how Satan used my biological father’s rejection of me to bring me down. And I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. 

I’m so happy to know my daughters never doubt their father’s love for them. They watch our love towards one another, and they are given a wonderful example of family through this. I’m so grateful for that for them, but I am also blessed that their dad understands the power he holds in their little lives. He sees that his words of affirmation and love are molding their character, and I know he would never let them go. 

He also has a daughter from a previous, broken marriage, but she too is very aware of how much her daddy loves her. He shows her every chance he gets. Just because the parents romantic relationship is severed, this doesn’t mean the relationship with child should be too. See what I’m saying? 

Children need to know daddy loves them. They don’t need to feel like they got divorced too. It’s hard enough as it is. 

  
Men, you have a great task before you. You are molding future generations. You are making future leaders and healthy individuals that will contribute in a major way to society as a whole. But you have to take this role seriously and understand the ramifications of your absence. You don’t want to leave a void in your children’s life. 

Just don’t. 

For the fathers, and even for the future fathers-to-be, realize what you are capable of in this life. You are capable of building a child’s self-esteem in a way that no man can tear apart. That’s power! 

Or you can be responsible for forever wounding a life. 

So I guess my question is, “what will you choose?”


As side note I am in no way advocating for anyone to stay in an abusive relationship for the sake of a child. That’s a completely separate discussion than the one at hand. So please don’t confuse the issue or misunderstand. This post is for parents who make the choice to not be a part of their child’s life. Period.  

The Best Mother’s Day Gift of All

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As I drug my weary body through the house, exhausted from not only the previous twelve hour shift, but also first trimester fatigue, I thought about the fact that today was Mother’s Day. I realized with disappointment that today would be the fourth Mother’s Day in a row that I worked as a nurse rather than spent at home as a mom. 

I gazed down at my right wrist, and there rested the dainty, new bracelet my husband had purchased for me on this occasion. It was his gift to me as a token of appreciation for being a mother to his children, and I smiled at the thought. He was sweet, and I could imagine no other parenting partner I would desire to join me in this journey. 

I carried my eldest daughter from the couch where she had fallen asleep to the bed where she could be more comfortable, and as I tucked her inside the covers I slipped in too along beside her. The warmth of the comforter felt good on my bare legs, and my heart felt warm also inside my chest. My spirit was elevated as usual by my affections for her, and I lightly traced my finger along the curve of her jaw. So perfect. 

I prayed for her as I gazed at her sleeping face, and I thanked God for the opportunity to be her mom here on this earth. In motherhood you worried about your children when you left their side, but I once again reminded myself that she didn’t just belong to me. She belonged to the Lord; I just got to watch her here for Him. That was my gift. 

I thought these same thoughts again moments later as I prayed for my spouse. I didn’t worry for our children alone. He worried right along with me, and when decisions needed to be made for our family I could count on him completely. And while he also didn’t belong solely to me, he was my partner and companion in this life. He was also my gift. 

I concluded my sober, silent walk-through before leaving for work at my youngest daughter’s head of bed. Her tiny features pointed upward to heaven as she drew deep, restful breaths. I prayed protection, and I prayed for health, but mostly I gave thanksgiving. Thanksgiving for my little gift. 

  
I walked away from my babies on Mother’s Day morning realizing that I chose to work every Mother’s Day, most holidays, and other days of celebration so that I could be afforded the opportunity to be a mother present with my children more often on the other days. Today was the day my motherhood was celebrated, but I reveled in that feeling all the other 364 days. 

I looked back down at the lovely, silver bangle on my wrist, and I smiled at that gift. It was wonderful. But more than any outward offering of jewelry or flowers I was most supremely blessed with the role I held in this life. I had been given the gift of motherhood. Another present of life grew in my womb even now, and that was the kind of thing I celebrated. 

My growing baby inside me, my beautiful sleeping daughters, and my gracious husband were my true gifts in this life, and on this day. They were the reason I rejoiced today, and I could take that along to work with me. So although I remained exhausted in body, I was renewed in spirit. I was a Mother, and that was the best gift of all to me. 

Five Ways My Mom Taught Me How to Mother

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It’s been over six years since my mother went away, and though I know she’d never intentionally leave my side, it just so happened that this earth couldn’t handle her greatness any longer. So she went to cut-up with the rambunctious angels, and she stands in the ranks with other beautiful mothers who had to leave this earth after their work with their children was done. 

And although I desperately wish I could still seek her knowledge and counsel in my own life, I am supremely blessed that in a way she resides here with me still. The lessons and example she set as a mother live on in my own life, and by her lead I have been able to become the mother I am today.  

1. She taught me sacrifice. I don’t suppose there’s any other characteristic that exemplifies motherhood than that of sacrifice. After all, from the moment of conception women begin to sacrifice their own body and comfort for that of their child. But my mother’s example set the bar high for me. 

When I was young we struggled in life. Our circumstances were unstable, and our financial security was nonexistent. To put it plainly we were broke. We had no family nearby to turn to for help, my biological father had abandoned us, and left us with an empty bank account and mounds of bills due. It’s not a pleasant memory in all my childhood remembrances, but it taught me the strength a woman can possess. 

My mother worked so hard so that I continued to have a roof over my head. She skipped dinner so that I could eat when our cupboards became bare. In a time when she felt broken, for me she stayed together. She never let me see her cry, and though I heard her muffled tears at night, for me she was always smiling and hopeful. In a time when things were very uncertain she made me feel safe, and like everything would be okay. She would have gone to any length to make certain I was safe, well-fed, and emotionally secure. 

It is something I will never forget. 

2. She taught me to embrace embarrassment. That may sound confusing, but what I mean is this. She taught me that it wasn’t important what the world thought of you; it was only significant what your loved ones knew. 

I always think of fourth grade. Mom was very involved in my school, and though she worked a lot, she still took time to show interest and help make my book covers. She also showed up to my fourth grade field’s day dressed up as our classroom mascot. We happened to be Price’s Peanuts, and she spray painted an egg crate, foam pad the color brown for her costume. She looked eerily like the Planter’s peanut guy except for the ball cap instead of a top hat. 

As a kid I was beyond excited for her presence, especially in a peanut costume. As an adult I think about things like her feelings as she stood center of attention draped in foam padding. Was she embarrassed? Not a bit. She taught me that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. All she cared was what I thought. All that mattered to her was my excitement, and the fact that I knew she loved me. 

Often times being a mom means letting go of worries for how others think you’re doing, and instead allowing your conscious and heart to drive your interventions for your children. It doesn’t matter what the world thinks, but it does matter that your child knows they’re worthy in your sight.  

3. She taught me unconditional love. Moms love their children, and really great moms love them unconditionally. It’s like God created motherly love to show His creation an example of how much He cares for us, and my mom took the role seriously. 

I wasn’t an easy child. With all the turmoil and changes we went through I, for some reason, developed a horrible habit of lying. Around eight years old I lied all the time. If I thought it might make me look bad then I lied about it. I don’t recall my very first lie, but I do remember my last. 

I had done something really bad, and being the habitual fibber I was I made up my mind to stick to my guns. Denial, denial, denial. But everyone knew that I had done this awful thing. They just wanted me to fess up. 

I was determined to maintain my faulty innocence when my mom took me aside. “Baby,” she said, “just tell me the truth.”

I wanted to, but I just couldn’t. Then she added, “I know you’re lying, but I love you anyway. It’s always been the two of us, and it always will be. Tell the truth and I’ll stick by you. I’ll stand by you and take up for you.”

I have never forgotten that conversation, and after I came clean I decided never to lie to her again. A woman who loved me at my worst certainly deserved my best. Even at my ugliest she was my biggest supporter. And it brings tears to my eyes even now. 

4. She taught me that I had value. A mother always thinks their child is special, but sometimes they may neglect to put that into words or actions. Not my mom. 

My mom was always quick to tell me she loved me, repeatedly, and her actions certainly proved it was true. But there is one conversation I always remember. It removed any doubt I may have had telling me that I was less than precious in her sight. 

Around the time in my childhood of change and habitual lying, my mom and new dad were expecting a baby. I was excited to finally have a sibling, but I was also honestly concerned. I knew it would be their child, and I wasn’t sure how I would fit in that mix. I already felt like an outsider in a new town and new school. 

One evening, late in my mother’s pregnancy, she grabbed my hand seriously. We had been cooking dinner when suddenly she turned my face towards her. 

She spoke, “This new baby is wonderful, but she will never be you. It’s always been you and me. Nothing will change that. You’ll always be my baby.”

I knew then, if I had ever wondered, that I was special. I was considered something wonderful in my mother’s eyes, and she loved me as a unique, precious person. I had always had value, but she made me feel that way. 

5. She taught me I was always welcome. There is no greater feeling than to realize that you can always go home. My mom and dad made it clear to me when I first moved out that I would always have a place under their roof, and I held them to it. 

Over the years from twenty to thirty I came back home twice. Both times I was hurting, and in my mother’s welcoming embrace I always found acceptance and healing. Her love for me, even in the times when my problems were of my own making, was like a soothing balm to my spirit. I knew no matter how far I ran away from my true potential in life, I was never too far to return home for clarity and restoration. 

As I’ve written down these beautiful stories of my mother, and have shed more than a few tears, I am once again reminded how blessed I was to have her for thirty-one years. In that time she impacted me positively in so many ways, and even though she is not present for my life as a mom, she is certainly responsible for the type of mother I have become.

  
Mom, circa 1981

Why Mommy Says “I Love You.”

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I know I say it a lot, “I love you.” Sometimes I say it numerous times throughout the day. Some people will say it loses value if you speak it too much, but I think those people don’t know why I say it. 

I say “I love you” because I’m your mother, and for me the words just come. In fact, I don’t think I could stop them if I tried. When I look at your beautiful face the phrase just falls out, and it’s as natural to me as inhaling my required life’s breath. 

When I watch you run, when I watch you play, when I watch you sleep; I say it. When I watch you grow taller and more lovely before my very eyes, I say it. And even when you can’t hear me, I say then too. I have to say it. As your mom I have to say it. 

  
As your mom I am your biggest cheerleader and most loyal supporter. Even when you fail I root for you. Then I show you how to not fall quite so hard the next time. 

As your mom I would lay down my life to protect you from harm, and I would go to any length to defend you when you’re wrongfully accused. But when you are wrong I’ll let you know about it first. You might not like me then, but still I will say, even as you glare at me, “I love you baby.”

As your mom I will sacrifice my time, my body, and any semblance of a normal life that I once held. I will exchange it for a life with you. Gladly.

As your mom I will get angry sometimes, and occasionally I will say something I don’t really mean. But it will never carry the same weight of my other words. My every action will tell you how I feel. I will say, “I’m sorry,” and I will also proclaim, “I love you.”

As your mom I will lead you, guide you, and protect you, but I will also teach you that although you can depend on me, your true strength is found in The Lord. 

As your mom I will always, and I mean always, hold you when you are hurt. I will wipe away every tear, and I will feel it like it is my own. I honestly won’t be able to fix everything that causes you pain, but I will say, “I love you.”

And although my words won’t move mountains or make your life instantly better, they will carry a weight of truth that you will never know or understand. Until you become a mother, that is. Because when I say “I love you” it’s not just a phrase, and it’s not a compilation of empty words. When I say it, as your mother, I am simply speaking the volumes that my heart holds. 

You see, I could write on for years how much you mean to me, and my hand would never stop making the words to describe what lengths I would go to for you. But instead I say what just comes natural to my mommy heart when I think about you. 

I say, “I love you.”

And that is why.