By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Motherhood is not for the faint of heart.
You may think I’m referring to the massive ordeal that is labor and delivery. Anyone who has ever known a mother of any sort should have at least some inkling of the gravity of that. No — I mean the task of being a mother itself. Far beyond bringing a child into the world, it is a calling that will test every speck of your mettle.
If you are considering the prospect because you are enamored by baby cuddles and bedtime stories with a sleepy little one, that is entirely understandable. But what many may not realize is that those tender moments are only the tiniest tip of the iceberg — and when I say iceberg, I mean the entire continent of Antarctica, and since it is floating rather coldly, perhaps we should throw in Pluto for scale.
Allow me to clarify: I do not say this to discredit or dishonor motherhood. As someone blessed enough to have had one of the greatest mothers in the history of humankind, I know its value is immeasurable.
Perhaps that is exactly why I so often feel I am doing, at best, a lackluster job myself.
There are moments when something I say or do brings my daughter such authentic joy that she lets out that delighted, unguarded squeal children make only when happiness catches them completely by surprise. In those moments, my heart warms as though sitting inches from the noonday sun.
And then, inevitably, I’ll see some extravagant display of motherhood from someone else, and suddenly I sink like a lead balloon inflated with concrete.
I know comparison is a thief. Still, the example set before me by my own mother raised the bar so very high that it is difficult not to measure myself against it.
I suppose I can cling to this: my daughter often launches affectionate surprise attacks in the form of unexpected hugs and frequently reminds me how much she loves me.
Is that simply her naturally warm heart? Or is it evidence that I am doing right by her?
I cannot say.
I choose to cling to the latter, though the former is not half bad either.
Such is the quiet debate that often unfolds among the many corners of my mind while I sit back, listen, and — if I’m honest — fret more than I likely should.
But there are truths about motherhood for which no amount of wisdom can prepare you until you are living them.
One of them is this: suddenly, your heart is walking around outside your body.
Yes, it is a cliché. But I know of no better way to describe the terrifying reality of loving something so completely that its joys become your joy and its hurts become your own.
You gather your child beneath your wing as best you can. You shelter. You teach. You guide.
And then you realize that to truly love them, you must also let them go.
To shelter her from everything would leave her unprepared for the world she must one day face. And oh, how I wish I could spare her so many of its lessons.
But ships in harbor are safe, and that is not what ships are built for.
So I can teach her to sail carefully.
I can teach her how to navigate.
I can tell her of my own voyages, of the storms I weathered and the lessons they taught me.
I can teach her to seek wisdom, to cling to Truth, and to trust the One who charts waters far beyond what either of us can see.
For now, while she is still young, I can hold her close.
But one day I will have to send her out — my heart, with long blonde hair and eyes the same color as mine, only a shade darker — into this gloriously beautiful and terribly tumultuous world.
And when that day comes, all I can do is pray she stays her course, offer my wisdom when it is sought, and make certain she always knows this:
No matter how far she sails, she can always come home to her mother’s loving arms.
Prose and Possibilities 