The Art of Motherhood

In certain occupations, such as baking, medicine, and architecture, perfection is of utmost importance. Motherhood is not one of them.

One of the hardest lessons I have had to learn, as a born perfectionist, is that, like cooking and painting, motherhood is an art, with more room for creativity and imagination than we usually take; it can be stymied by trying too hard to adhere to a certain worldly model – that “perfect mother” that many of us have built up in our brains, composed of pieces of motherly characters from books, movies, and real life.

I don’t think I contradict myself to say we should strive to be like Mary. I think she would not have tried to do things perfectly by our modern standard. Everything we know about her motherhood came about the “wrong way” for her time. She conceived a baby out of wedlock, gave birth in a stable, lived as a poor wife of a simple carpenter, lost her son in the temple, and had to watch her son die a cruel death.

When we view motherhood as a gift, we don’t have to pay God back by being perfect mothers. He knows we can’t, and He doesn’t expect it of us. All He asks is we give them Love. Treasuring a child means putting him or her as our first priority and doing our best for them, given whatever circumstances we are in.

A good friend recently reminded me that to think we could do things perfectly on our own is a sin of pride. Let us offer up our weaknesses then, to God, and ask Him for the grace we need to help bring these young ones up to glorify Him.

Luke 1: 46-55 (NAB)

And Mary said: 16 "My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;

my spirit rejoices in God my savior.

For he has looked upon his handmaid's lowliness; behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.

The Mighty One has done great things for me, and holy is his name.

His mercy is from age to age to those who fear him.

He has shown might with his arm, dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart.

He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones but lifted up the lowly.

The hungry he has filled with good things; the rich he has sent away empty.

He has helped Israel his servant, remembering his mercy,

according to his promise to our fathers, to Abraham and to his descendants forever."


Painting: “The Madonna of Humility” by Robert Campin, Netherlandish, circa 1450-70

What Ever Will I Do With Myself?

My favorite outspoken cashier was at it again today. My long-time readers may remember the story about the cashier who, upon noticing my then-blossoming pregnant tummy, remarked, “Oops!” She always has something to say about the type and amount of groceries I buy. “The Millers are buying out the store again!” she’ll announce, thinking it is funny for the hundredth time.

Today, we were discussing how all our children were getting along in their new school year. She leaned over to my toddler and said, “Mommy won’t know what to do with herself once you go to school.”

I said jocundly, “Oh, I always find plenty to keep myself busy.”

“I know, cleaning and stuff. . .” she trailed off.

I knew better than to correct her. But as I went home the thought horrified me, that people think all stay-at-home-moms-with-school-aged-kids (SAHMWSAK) do is stay at home and clean! What horrified me even worse was that I used to be once of those who wondered what stay-at-home mothers did when their children were in school all day. I did think life must be dreadfully dull.

That was back in my homeschooling days, when I had more than my hands full with three children constantly in my care. I commented about one such SAHMWSAK in my neighborhood to another homeschooling mom.

“I wonder what she does all day?” I mused.

“I bet you could eat off her floor. . .,” answered my friend.

“But she has a house cleaner come every week.”

“She probably does charity work,” reasoned my friend.

The fact of it is that, although it may seem that we clean all day, we do not. A friend of mine who keeps a lovely, tastefully decorated and well-organized home, actually clocks her housework at 3.5 hours per week! That leaves an awful lot of time for do more intellectually fulfilling activities!

Once I had the children in school and “just” a newborn baby at home, I thought my life would be one of luxury and constant streams of creative writing. I learned all too well, too quickly, that that was not to be so.

Those of us whose husbands work overtime to afford us the ability to stay at home often turn into do-it-yourselfers, out of necessity. Jobs normally relegated to the husband or a hired handyman are taken on by us tough super-moms. The more we learn to do, the more we see of what we would love to learn to do, if only we had the time!

I look at my yard and fill in the empty spaces with raised garden beds that I will build, fill in, and plant. I see in my imagination brick walls around groves of trees, overflowing with bulbs. On every fence are roses of every color, climbing, falling, blossoming. . .

I look at my bathroom walls and sigh, thinking of the free How To Tile clinic given at Home Depot on Saturday mornings. One day I will take that course and have bathrooms a millionaire would envy.

And of course there are my novels, books and books of handwritten pages just looking to be edited, word-processed, and proposed about.

Oh, if they only knew. . .

The funny thing of it is that my own mother, who worked as a per diem registered nurse when I was younger, defied categorization. Some days she was a stay-at-home mom. Some days she was a working mom. I always knew she filled all too many shoes. Later we would earn our masters’ degrees together!

But still we fall easily into stereotyping, especially when we finally find a clique of moms “just like us”. (I have yet to re-find that – and am not sure I want to.) We need to justify our own decisions to work, not work, work part-time, work-at-home; send our kids to private or public school, or homeschool, or maybe a little bit of both. If we are not too sure about ourselves we must by necessity see “the other” as wrong so we can be right.

I see Palin as one role model that will help bring together all mothers. Already I see the stay-at-home moms blogging in favor of Palin’s decision to be involved in politics at the highest level while also tackling the tough problems of mothering. She has shown us, just by being who she is and proud of it, that when you point your finger, three are pointing right back at you.

So what will I do when I am a SAHMWSAK? A little bit of this, a little bit of that, a whole lot of the other. I publicly pledge than not more than ten percent of my time will be spent on cleaning. I am sure it will be quite fulfilling.

Painting, Mary Cassatt, Mother and Child against a Green Background (Maternity) , 1897

Mothers are Like Roses

“Aren’t you supposed to prune this?” my husband asked, gesturing to the climbing rose, going on three years old, that is now almost as high as our house.

“Yes, I should,” I responded wistfully.

My ultimate goal is for roses of all varieties to take over my yard, crawling all over the house, gardens, fences, and other outdoor hardscape.

It is difficult for me to grasp the fact that by cutting back I will get more. When I see a new bush finally bloom forth its first rose, I know the best thing for the bush is to clip the rose and put it in a vase. But to take the one flower it has to show, seems to me like depriving it of its very rose-ness.

I do have one new rose bush, a miniature ever-blooming prairie bush, which has filled vases in every room of the house all through the month of June and promises to continue to do likewise for several weeks to come. Each small, delicate branch must have a dozen small roses. All I need is one cut and I have a bouquet to reward one of the girls for cleaning her room, or to grace the kitchen table, or accent the dining room.

You can see from the picture where I have cut ruthlessly. New, strong, lively red branches sprout from a once-delicate section of the bush. I can only imagine what kind of hardy plant will be coming back next spring in its place.

With my fingers carefully searching for a five-leaflet above which to prune, I think of how mothers are like roses, and God the gardener that prunes us.

Society tells us that our beauty has been stolen by pregnancy and childbirth, but in its place is strength and beauty of another, more mature quality. We give and give to our children, as the rose bush yields its flowers, only to be cut off. The fragrance and visual loveliness brings joy to a room for several days before fading away. A thoughtful person may harvest its petals to extend the flowers’ usefulness even further. If the stems had remained uncut, the petals would have eventually dropped, with no new flower taking its place.

Roses need food and water, but not too much. Too much food fries the plant, and too much water produces mold. Mothers need to tend to themselves, but not in an indulgent fashion.

Injuries must be mended by the gardener, so that disease will not enter the plant. Sometimes this requires further, careful cutting with a sharp knife, followed by a kind and careful looking-after. The rose must yield to its caretaker. We must yield to our maker.

Roses have thorns, and so do we. They are still considered the most prized of all the flowers, maybe because they are so difficult. An easier plant to care for might not be so highly valued.

“I am a flower of Sharon, a lily of the valley.” Song of Songs 2:1