The Mystery of Motherhood

Lisa and me in 1977

I have always loved kids. As a young teen I made a bunch of money babysitting kids. I like the idea of children; their infectious giggles, wobbly first steps, and matter-of-fact honesty that we all lose as we grow up. (well, except Chloe O'Brien. Hers is totally intact.) I can't begin to imagine a world or a society without them. I loved being a mommy, though my boatload of doubts over my mothering abilities point to the contrary. So it's natural to say I assumed I would have had a dozen of my own kids. Half a dozen at least. But, it turned out, two were my quota. Two had to suffice. And the two I have are more than enough for me. They fill my heart with joy and pride. They have brought experiences to my life that are incomparable to anything but a mother's world. It can sometimes be the most simple and intoxicating kind of love imaginable. But honestly, a mother's love is such an impossible kind of love. Just when you learn how something works, it all changes. You hang on tight, then it's time to let go. You want our children to grow up, but it's too soon to cut out naps. You pack up boxes of their outgrown clothes and later remember you weren't quite ready to let that little striped shirt go. You hug them close and risk being pushed away. But only you know their fears and their faces, in ways no one else ever could.  It's a mystery that is really no mystery at all. Not to you. Not to a mother.

Waiting for the countdown. SMILE! ~ 1983

It takes a lifetime of learning a simple truth. You will never, ever, ever learn it all. And before you're ready, before you've planned your next step, they're grown and they're moving on. And they don't need you in ways you were not prepared for. They're doing the adult thing, just like you taught them. And it's too late to take it back. And it hurts. Sometimes the ache is so deep you feel as if your heart will break in two. And then someone shares a glimpse of the love that is waiting for you. A love that cuts through the pain if only you can wait for it. It's the love for your grandchild. You hear the stories and you watch the incredible joy spread across the face of a sister or a friend when they describe the realities of being a grandma. And, for me at least, the wait can seem an eternity. But then it happens. You find out that your baby is having a baby. It doesn't seem real and it doesn't make you feel so different. Not yet. But slowly, your own child's heart turns back toward you and you find that you are needed again, but in ways that are richer, and deeper, and you wonder if your heart can possibly ever hold all the love and warmth and blessings that you begin to feel. A new mystery begins and you have learned to set a slower pace in finding all its facets. There is a child within your child. And it's real. And he kicks and he hiccups and he has his own name. And he has a beating heart with sounds that fill your ears with wonder and excitement. And there is that specialist of bonds now. The love you feel for your grandchild is new and different and sweet. It's blossoming. But you find that the bond you feel now toward your own child has changed. 

Relaxing with my daughter ~ 2010

You feel a connection with someone who knows that no one else will ever, ever, ever love their child in the way that only you can. It's a new kind of mother's love. And maybe it's a mystery. But it's really no mystery at all. I love you, Lisa Marie.  

~Susan Renee