Motherhood is refining. In a way that even marriage isn't. And boy is marriage refining. But motherhood has a way of cultivating (forcing?) virtue that is unlike anything I've experienced otherwise, and my daughter is my most effective teacher so far.
She teaches me humility. I'm sure 30 years ago, they would have just called her a slow crawler, or said that she was "moving at her own pace", but this week E was officially labeled with significant gross motor developmental delay. Seeing the check box on the physical therapy referral form dealt quite the blow to my ego, as both a mom and a pediatrician. I worry for her. I want the best for her. And yes, I want everyone to look at my child and say, "oh, how advanced she is!" But as my patient and understanding husband reminds me, this is just who she is and we love her exactly how she is. More than our pride.
She teaches me gratitude. When I'm about ready to explode because she just won't stop fussing when I set her down, or when she ruins a clean pair of pants because she can't hold onto her food, or when it's emergency bath time in the middle of the day because, poop in the hair. Just then, when my exasperation and need to control things is at a peak, her goofy little 7-tooth grin melts my heart, and I know that being a mom is one of the best things I will ever do.
She teaches me selflessness. Like it or not. Every time I'd rather take a nap, or go for a bike ride, or have a beer, or sleep in, or not wash onesies in the sink, or have control of my schedule/body/choices. I can be resentful, or I can submit and learn that it's not all about me. I don't always choose the right one. But I try.
She teaches me generosity. As an introvert, the grocery store was still one of the public errands I enjoyed. It reminded me of time with my dad. It allowed me little indulgences for under $5. And after the advent of self-check-out, I could do it all without talking to another human being. Enter the world's most social baby. She waves. at. everyone. Everyone. She smiles with her whole body and people just can't help but talk to her. The butcher. The pharmacy tech. The produce stocker. The self-checker monitor. Every retired old lady in the whole store. And so my solitary shopping trips are no more. I must stop and entertain the masses. But I can just tell it makes their day, and I certainly don't want to stifle E's magnanimity, so I'm learning to be okay with it. I can give them some of my time and energy without it killing me (at least it hasn't so far).
She teaches me flexibility. Because sometimes the nap doesn't go according to plan (like, almost always). Sometimes she just wants to play peekaboo for seven minutes (trust me, that's a long time!). Sometimes we don't make it home and end up nursing in a parking lot. Sometimes the laundry doesn't get done. Sometimes, most times, life happens, and I don't get to be in charge. Which is probably a good thing.
A priest friend of mine was recently talking to another priest friend and said, "We're too selfish. We need kids or something." Not that the ordained life doesn't have virtue-building characteristics. But there is something unique about motherhood (and fatherhood, yes, but motherhood specifically) that empties us, and fills us, unlike anything else. It's the hardest and most beautiful thing I've ever done (along with marriage, but marriage with kids is the next level). And it's definitely my path to holiness.
Mother Mary, pray for us!
