Western Kingbird at Bryce Canyon, Utah
Since this update comes just two days after celebrating Mother’s Day, I want to share some reflections on my attitude towards motherhood and a poem I wrote about my daughter, Sara.
Like many young women, I questioned my ability to be a good mother and wondered whether I should risk ruining a child's life by being their mother. The parents I observed growing up made parenting seem like a burden--a difficult, challenging task. I seldom babysat any infants as an adolescent, so when my daughter, Sara, was born I didn't know how to change a diaper and was afraid she would go the way of all my indoor plants: a slow demise.
To my great surprise and relief, motherhood turned out to be constant entertainment, at least that's how I felt about my kids. They were adorable and delightful and funny. And unlike plants, they were very good at letting me know when they needed water and food. My kids grew to be wonderful young adults in spite of me and continue to bless my life with their wisdom, goodness, and humor. For Mother's Day, I feel they deserve a big "thank you!" for making motherhood such a loving, joyful experience.
One year, I wrote a poem about Sara and gave it to her for Christmas (my son, Jordan, got a recording of me singing "If You Want to Sing Out" by Cat Stevens). With permission from Sara, here's the poem to share:
To Hear Sara’s Voice
I heard her cry when she came into my life,
after three days of labor,
her cone head hidden by the knitted hospital hat--
a miniature gnome of a face, sleeping.
I heard her bell-like laughter ring like glass,
after beating me in Pente, game after game.
“You think you know everything,
but you don’t know anything!”
I heard her call me to her fashion show,
“Ladies and geminet! Boys and girls! Come see the show!”
As she stood swathed in colorful scarfs,
with a grin and welcoming wave of her small hands.
I heard her nervous giggle behind the armchair,
when I’d murmur, “I wonder where she could be hiding?”
Then, she would spring out and say, “Boo!”
“Ack!” I’d cry with a hand over my chest.
I heard her sing our made-up song in Psalms:
“Depart from me all ye workers of iniquity,
for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping,”
as a fond memory of mom being silly.
We’d say, “I love you,” and, “I love you too,”
at the end of each phone call or visit,
like parentheses around the joy that comes,
whenever I hear Sara’s voice.