The virtues of motherhood

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!

Looking back

Today Mass was celebrated for a doctor who changed the life of a priest—Fr. Riley was one step from abandoning the Midwest misery of Notre Dame for the glamour of Hollywood, but typewritten letters from a friend convinced him to stick it out and here he is. Quite the legacy. It made me think of a priest who changed the life of a doctor…

Apprehension filled my heart as I sat in the stiff chair, clutching my test results. What if he couldn’t tell me what my career path was? What if I answered some of the questions wrong? What if he told me something I didn’t want to hear? I almost laugh looking back at it now, how anyone could be fearful of meeting with a soft-spoken five-foot jolly caricature of a Jesuit. 

As freshmen at Creighton, I’m sure there were many opportunities for career advice, but the only one anyone took seriously was Fr. Schloemer. (Reverently picture a garden gnome. In a collar. That's him.) His formal title escapes me, but he worked in academic counseling, and the general sentiment was that he was the one to tell you what to do with your life. There was a prerequisite personality and skills inventory whose results I carried to my appointment that day, but I was still skeptical.

The structure of the meeting was informal. We mapped out a sample course schedule based on my chosen major (biology) and I don’t even think he looked at the test. Near the end of the discussion, he set the course for my vocation as a physician. With his dulled pencil in hand, he humbly asked, “May I make a suggestion?” I nodded somewhat hesitantly. He scrawled “MCAT” on my schedule between the column of my prospective sophomore and junior year. I cringed.

“I don’t want to take the MCAT. I don’t think I want to go to medical school.”

“You’ll have all your prerequisites done. It’s better to do it before you forget. It doesn’t mean you have to apply to medical school.”

He had a point there. So I resigned myself to this new development and left feeling somewhat unfulfilled. I still didn’t have an answer. Or so I thought.

From that moment on though, I could see God chipping away at my wall. I wasn’t confident enough, or smart enough, or dedicated enough to be a doctor. But I started to want it. I would see a cluster of short white coats shuffling through our science building and I began to tell myself, “That could be me.” I began to see myself in medical school, taking care of people, studying for the long haul, and I was at peace with it, even excited about it. Within a few months, it was as if there had never even been another choice. This was what I was meant to do.

From the beginning of this long journey, I knew this was God’s plan for me, obviously not something I came to on my own. And every time I hit a road bump (from a failing grade—yes, those happened—to being belittled by a surgeon to staying up 30 hours straight), I knew I wasn’t doing this by my strength. I knew I wasn’t alone. God had foreseen this when I was a scared little freshman, and He knew I could it.

So thank you, Fr. Schloemer, for those four letters and your humble “suggestion”. It changed my life.