Mother Love

A mother's love is so deep and complex....not all mothers, perhaps. But I could guess a great many. There are those too young mothers who feel the burden of their young one weighing down their days. They feel the pressure of not enough money or education. Their youthful fun is being robbed by a hungry, needy being. They dream about the would-have, could-have, should-haves that are no more, all the while their sweet precious one transforms before their blind eyes. There are those who perhaps rush through too many lost moments, trying to be and accomplish before the clock runs out, missing what is that will never again be. I believe though that most mothers are amazed and grateful for the gifts bestowed upon them, the wonder and awe that these tiny, too little, then not so little, ever-changing beings bring to one’s life.

I look at my boys, and I am that mother. There are those aspects that we name away by biology and genetics. It is aunty so and so's smile or papa's strong will. Sure. we can name some traits, good and bad and dismiss their true belonging to ones who came before, but when I gaze deeply into the sparkle in my boys’ eyes, I see not another but truly them. The sparkle informs me of a gift from a star, formed by the maker in perfection. They are wonderfully complex and unique beyond measure.

There are nooks and crannies I do not know, although he does. He knows the dreams in their hearts and the hairs on their heads. Of this I am sure. There is a wonderful solidity in some of this, the aspects that I know to be unchanging, his goodness, his omnipotence, his sovereignty.

There is also something terribly scary. It is that knowledge which passeth all understanding, a mighty plan destined always for good....even through the darkest most unexpected tragedies. I look at my boys and I tremble. I tremble for all the reasons no one seems to talk about before motherhood. We certainly can't imagine the depth of love and sacrifice we might be willing to give, and that is ok. What we don't imagine is that aspect of ourselves that is so tied into our little ones, that we feel, feel so very much. We feel our butterflies when we hear them call or cry out from a skinned knee. We feel the anticipation of that day when first love will surely break a heart, and we feel the fear and helplessness of the unknown.

It comes is odd ways too. I look at Pierson and he is my P. I look at Soren and he is our Thor. One is a snowflake, the other a viking. P alternates between exuberant energy and being a scared kitty. Sometimes he withers like a violet and cries a bit too easily, his artistic personality makes him both beautifully and overly sensitive. Sometimes I play the role of a drill sergeant. I tell him boldly, "sit up straight, stop your crying and try it again". He pleads and cries in a whiny voice, I insist. He buckles up, quivering lip and all and does the task at hand. Inside I have a small chuckle: it is only a game. I play the tough one, to push him through, so that through me he can know that he too is strong. When he completes the task, he has surprised himself, and love pours forth. He says, " I love you mommy", I know the game is well played and each time he will begin tear drop by tear drop, to fill his bucket of strength.

The other is so different, a mountain of strength. He pushes me around in a chair at two, he wholeheartedly body-slams, with his big generous heart leading the way. He has no fear, he does not whine or cry when he does not get his way, he screams and stomps the floor in defiance. He is a force to be reckoned with, and yet, and yet it is he that I fear for more. Maybe it is because he is the young one and a mother naturally feels the need to protect the little one, but I don't think so. It is the strange irony of life, that makes me fear the worst. That it is the strong one that would surprise us most, the most unlikely, and so it holds the power of the unexplainable.

P has a simple wisdom at times, so beyond his years. Sometimes these little gems pop out of his delicate pink lips and his big brown eyes sparkle. I am always taken aback.

Soren (Thor) is a little monster, my sweet little monster man. He tests and he tries, all the while playing the game, he has a half smirk and devious look in his perfect bright light eyes. He glances at me sideways waiting to see what mommy will do. "No Soren, bad boy" I say in my firmest voice, trying not to laugh at his coy sweetness. “Fine,” he says, “I will take charge here.” He frowns and begins to slap is plump pink cheeks. "No, no, no, angel—do not hit yourself". He begins to cry, he feels guilty, he looks at me and in his most begging kindest tone, says "bisou, or nursies". Of course, my little love, I will always, always forgive you, even the most egregious act. I am your maman, and my heart knows no other way. P chimes in, "He wants to make sure he has not broken the connection"! Yes, dear P, yes he does.

In the end, P's fear, his sensitivity is a kind of prudence too. He thinks..... a lot. Sure, he is an eight year-old boy and sometimes seems oblivious. The other side though is always pondering, questioning, analyzing, and in the end I feel it will protect him, to an extent.

The other is the mystery. I fear that things will come maybe a little too easy for him. He is our little Nordic Viking. And yet, he always, since the day he was born, seems to have one little chest cold, or sinus type infection.

I look out at the huge beautiful trees in the back yard, the sun shimmers on their leaves, I feel God's presence and perfection in his perfect creation. I think about the young mama who recently passed leaving three unfinished girls to a heavy-hearted father when skin cancer claimed her time. I think about the singer who was married a year and her husband was lost to an accident one morning on his way to work.

It is the mystery that is troubling, I want to leave that to Job. Alas, a mother's heart is never the same—mostly it is sweet, but there is in it a little bit of bitter too.