I have been thinking about the notion that a mother’s heart
travels about the world outside of her body as it moves where her children
move, in sync, as it were, like an avatar in another dimension.
It must come with the territory of motherhood. Seeing that a
mother’s heartbeat is the very essence of creation of her embryonic heritage,
and as it grows to maturity and once her sacred child is born, a bit of her
heart—some would say, mostly all of it—leaves her body forevermore. As a young mother, those first few days and
nights are spent on high alert; I spent guarding over each of my newborns. They were always within arms’ reach. A little
sigh, a whisper of air, a grunt of discomfort—whatever noise came from this
little beacon of light—any of it at all, evoked a physical reaction in me. There is no more faithful guardian of treasure
than a new mother. Such devotion
demanded sacrifice of any precluding selfish needs. Sleep? Only a little, when
the kingdom is safe, thankyouverymuch. Food? Anything offered is accepted, but
the energy to prepare it is lost due to lack of sleep.
Sleep, you see, is the main focus of the
day. At first, the lack of sleep is
barely noticed because the love hormones are flying through my body—such pure
amazement in the creation of another human being elicits high energy in body
and mind, so much that to sleep through the experience is not possible. The
idea of sleeping off this miracle is ludicrous.
Adrenalin-fueled wakefulness is part of the after-birth. And thus, a mother is born.
Once the adrenalin has worn off, the call of duty pushes a
mother to continue to sacrifice her needs over the infants. I do believe this intense period of sleep
deprivation is a fragile time in a mother’s life. What I learned was that I didn’t need 9 hours
of sleep to get by, as had been my previous habit. Somehow, without
understanding it, I could get by on much less, and interrupted sleep for weeks on end. Craving it always, but accepting the lack
thereof for the most part. Of course, I
had intense despair in the heat of the moment when the baby was ill, for
example, it would catch up to me and my body demanded a release of exhaustion.
Usually through a veil of tears. But
overall, I looked forward to getting up with the new baby for those 2am
feedings. The still of the night, when
it was just baby and me while the rest of the world slept—those were sacred to
me. We had a rhythm outside of the
clattering world that created sweet melodies of a personal chorus that only the
baby and I knew. I welcomed greeting my
little creation in the soft light of night, pulling their warm body into mine,
and reclining in the rocking chair next to the bed by the window where I could
see their little features, inhaling their freshness, innocence and the pure
welcome of their being.
I looked over
them with critical eyes—is everything well? Clean? Safe? I took my duty seriously. I welcomed the privilege of motherhood and
the responsibilities that came with it.
Even when the baby learned to walk and talk, I followed them
everywhere. My mother radar on full alert. I used to joke that I needed to sew
bells on their clothing so I could hear every step of their daily journey
around the house. And they likewise,
followed me around like chicks to their mother hen.
Jokes that "mother cannot go to the bathroom alone" exist
because of the truthfulness of the matter. Children need their mother. It
reminds me of a moment frozen in time: our family was seated at church and as
always, I was between the two youngest children at the time, Joseph and Arianna—both
of whom were still in elementary school. I was wearing a bracelet given to me
by a thoughtful friend that had birthstone charms for each of my children on it. The children knew which stone was theirs and
enjoyed twirling it on my wrist until they found their stone. Joseph,
snuggled up next to me was twirling the bracelet softly around until he found
his yellow topaz stone, stopped to admire it, and whispered into my ear: “You
belong to us.”
A greater truth could not have been said. I do. I always have. I always will. Above every other calling or duty, desire or
distraction—I belong to my children.
They have sanctified me by the very cause of their existence. I have no other genuine purpose but to be
their mother, no matter how old we all grow to be.
So when they turned into teenagers with small measures of
freedom entering adulthood, it was only natural that I would ask where they
were going, with whom they were going, and when they were returning. Eyes may have rolled at me in utter disdain
for they saw it as long, gripping apron strings on their person—but in truth,
it was totally selfish on my part. I
needed to know when I would be whole again.
They were taking my heart out into the world with them and I would be
incomplete for their journey. Even then,
I didn’t know why it was so important to know the details of their comings and
goings, but I see it now so clearly.
While they were gone from my sight, not only did I miss them and worry
for them, I missed a part of me.
When my son and two oldest daughters served missions—David Scott
in Montreal, Canada; Danielle in New Jersey; Diana in upstate New York—they could
only write home once a week and calls could only be made twice a year on
Christmas and Mother’s Day. Usually the
emails came on Monday mornings as that was a designated “Preparation Day” for
missionaries in our church, or “P-day”. It
was set aside for them to tend to their personal living skills —cleaning their
apartments, grocery shopping, laundry, writing letters home and to their
Mission President to let us all know how they’re doing, etc. It is a very important day for families,
particularly mothers as we wait to hear from our children wherever they are
serving all over the world.
What I discovered
from my first time as a “Missionary Mom” is that I didn’t really care so much
about the contents of the email—while I enjoyed the news of the week, mostly I took comfort that my son was healthy enough to get to the local
library in Montreal, or Ottawa, or Ontario, or any of the other 10 cities he
was living in at the time. That’s all I
cared about. He was alive, he was
healthy. And of course, always needing a
few more dollars in his bank account.
Initially, in the first few months of his mission, I would sit by the
computer waiting for the “You’ve Got Mail” voice chime to alert me of his
email. But soon, I turned up the volume
on the computer so I could be in another room and hear the notification, so I
could get things done. It was a little
maddening, really, to go through that for two years.
It was the exact same for my daughters
though only 18 months each. Every P-Day
was the same. I just needed to get their
emails and only then could I go about my day at ease.
Now most of my children are adults. Five of the seven have
lives far away from home. The closest is
nearly 8 hours away by car, while the furthest child is a 24-hour flight on the
other side of the world. How grateful I
am for modern technology that allows our melody to continue! I speak to almost
all seven children nearly every day—whether by phone or via FaceTime—I get to
hear their voices and know that wherever they woke up, they are safe, healthy
and happily taking care of my heart. They
are my heart—David Scott being my firstborn is my refiner’s fire. He made me a mother. Danielle or Dani as we call her, is “my
mother’s helper”—her presence helps me be a better mother to the rest. Dean, my special needs son, is my soft
spot. Lessons I’ve learned from him have
been hard and sacred. Diana is the peace-making middle child. She tries to keep on
balance and keeps us balanced too with a soft word of praise or reprimand, she has
a unique relationship with all of her siblings and it is safe to say she is the
“favorite” if there ever is such a thing, though she’d tell you there is no
favorite. Dara or “Day” calls or checks
in throughout the day on her way to class or on the way home from class. Most conversations with her revolve around
her lack of money (it burns a hole in her pocket) or her latest favorite topic
is the young man she’s been dating since October and wants us to like him as
much as she does. We do not. So that bit of conversation is short and ends
well when I answer her request for a money transfer. Day likes everyone. She wants to adopt everyone. She always has been a friend to the
friendless, the quirky and questionable.
Her dating habits reveal the same, unfortunately. She wants to save some poor man and make
better out of him. Another story for another
day.
And then the last two at home—Joseph is on the verge of
flying out of the nest after graduation this Spring, and Arianna or “Bee” will
be the last chick in the roost for one more year. And then it will be officially noted that I
will have parts of my heart trekking all over the world and still be able to
breath. A miracle in and of itself.
Moral of the story: Call your mom.
