Good morning my friends, as i sit here in the warmth of my house I am so thankful that I do not have to be working outside today, it is a bitter cold, damp, 19 degrees outside! The sky is gloomy but my heart is full of joy and happiness. In dream last night I dreamed of my daughter and her unborn baby. I awoke this morning feeling as if I know my little "cha" baby, oh, the sweet gentle love of a baby.
In prayer this morning I bowed my head and prayed for all of the mom's and dad's in the world, we do hold a common bond, one that leaves us feeling totally weak and vulnerable when our children hurt, one that leave us violently angry when someone hurts our babies. I asked God to allow us to feel his pleasure in the job that we have done in rearing our kids, I asked him to continue to bless us with days of doubt, with days of wonder and with days of receiving those hugs that melt our heart, those kisses that take away all the pain we have ever felt. I asked Him to continue to let us hurt when our babies have pain or sickness, to beam with happiness when our children are happy, to continue to keep us aware of changes in our children and to never allow us to forget the great sacrifice made so that we can be families forever if we live with Christ in our heart and always reach out to him. As our children grow and become adult, the love only increases, as we see them step into the role of parents, as we become witness to them feeling just as we did when they were little. God continue to bless us with the love of our children. I asked God this morning to provide for you warmth against the cold, for compassion toward the angry, for understanding for the irritants and for peace, calm and comfort in all that you do today! In the name of Jesus our savior, our brother and our friend. Amen.
I came across this story today and although I agree with everything written, I also must say that it is not just for MOMS, it is for all parents, dads feel the same as moms do about their children and sometimes I think dads do not receive the "kudos" they deserve.
For all Moms (and Dads too)
We are sitting at lunch when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family."
"We're taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. "I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations...."
But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.
I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.
That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best crystal without a moment's hesitation.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood.
She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of her discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.
I want my daughter to know that everyday decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.
However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years -- not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.
I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor. My daughter's relationship with her husband will change, but not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.
I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving.
I hope she will understand why I can think rationally about most issues, but become temporarily insane when I discuss the threat of nuclear war to my children's future.
I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or a cat for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real, it actually hurts.
My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reach across the table, squeeze my daughter's hand and offer a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings. This blessed gift from God . . . that of being a Mother.
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