It's Not Easy Being a Mom “Momma-knowing” comes with experience It’s not always easy being a mom.  First, you birth them, then you bathe them, then you teach them right from wrong.  No matter how hard you try, with all that you do right, you're bound to do some things wrong.  You gently guide, praying that your mistakes will be minimal, and their understanding large. Yours is a sacred charge to keep: share wisely, nurture gently, discipline carefully, mentor gracefully.  Sometimes the living out is filled with joy, sometimes with pain, often it is a knotting of the two.  As long as you are mother, you carry the call in your heart. Mothering is a noble, sometimes thankless task, worthy of nothing less than the best. Constant motion, diligent care, eyes in the back of your head. There are no vacations or extended sabbaticals, it’s twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five, winter, spring, summer and fall, ‘til death do us part. You labor long and hard working in the mulch of experience, the muck of pain, constantly sifting the loam of their lives.  Mothers sow seed with care, the future in mind. Tiny sprouts peek their heads through the soil, and you find yourself stepping carefully lest you trample them underfoot. You pluck with vengeance, not always certain if what you holds is an auspicious flower or a stubborn weed.  Still, you have to try.  If permitted to remain, the weeds of discontent, bitterness, rebellion, and hate will choke out the life you have cultivated with care.  Even after the garden is tidied, you remain with heedful eye, hoe in hand, daring any weeds to return. Nurturing and plucking are only part of your mothering duties.  Protecting your small garden is necessary as well.  Day after day, you build first one mile and then another of solid boundaries - keeping out the bad, protecting the good. “You may watch that. “ “No, you cannot go there. “ “Yes, that's a good idea, go for it.” It is a never-ending act of balance. A nursing breast, dry bottom, a lullaby are gentle rays of sunlight at the dawn of her babies days.  The sun rises and she warms their lives in myriad ways: a fresh-baked cookie, an out-loud giggle, a tight “you matter” hug, a whispered, “I believe in you.“  Happy memories blend with the bad, and write the story of their lives.  If left up to you, there would only be sunshine.  You want that there will only be blue skies, and gentle winds.  But, it will not always be so. The dark clouds will come, reducing your sunshine to a distant journal entry written on the pages of their hearts.  The lightening will crash, the thunder will clap and your precious plantings will bend in the ferocious wind.  They will cover their heads from the pounding rain and cry.  You will be at their side, absorbing the storm with them, trying your best to shield.  Deep in your heart you will sorrow. Yes, you want to protect, yet you must not always do so.  The question is how and when. The elements, though fierce, can build strong, hardy roots; they can also destroy.  The dilemma of motherhood becomes, “What if I protect when I should expose; expose when I should protect?”  You will not always choose what is right, but you will try.  You know it is best that they face the storm while under your loving care.  They hurt; you hurt.  Sometimes you are strong, sometimes weary and confused. The water from the storm adds moisture to their soil, and when the sun shines again there will be new growth, maturity, and stability.  The rain is not the only source of wetness. There are times, in the dark night hours, when you will gently water with the tears of your soul, and most times they won‘t even know. No, it is not always easy being a mom.  You hope that their feet will stay on the right path.  You have stood at the ’Y’ in the road, and you know that it is not always easy to discern the right way.  One path leads to pain and sorrow, the other to life and fulfillment.  You have not always chosen the right way; you do not want that for them.  Voices clamor for their attention, and you pray their ears will be deaf to the bad, keenly tuned to the good.  Still, there are those who wander, and you pray that soon,  God please let it be soon, they will turn their hearts toward home. With the passing of the years, you gain added perspective.  No matter how well you have parented you will discover that it has been less than perfect.  With the realization will come gut-wrenching pain and the sorrow of regrets.  There will be tears for angry words, foolish misunderstandings, missed opportunities, choices that proved wrong.  You never wish for a time when yourr children will take a stand against you.  You want that always they will stand together against the world.  To be caught in the middle between those you love is a lonely place to be. Some of the principles you hold dear will be tossed carelessly to the wind.  You will sorrow that they do not, cannot, understand.  There will be conflict and sorrow when heart-beliefs collide, and you will be left wondering and unsure, “Was I really wrong?”  You will remember a time when they just wanted to be understood, and you will find yourself wishing for the same. A mom cannot always explain the trepidations of her heart, or the ache when one of hers exclaims, “You’re out of touch!” when really you are not.  “You don’t understand!" when really you do.  You know things with your mother heart you cannot find words to express.  They may interpret your silence as uncaring.  It is not.  It is sorrow, frustration, sometimes shame. Even if they weather the storm, pruning is just around the corner.  More often than not you hold the sharpened shears.  To allow them to grow at will, requires no effort at all.  It is the pruning that shapes and prepares them for tomorrow.  Knowing thus, you tenderly wound, anxious for a harvest of bountiful fruit, apples of gold, framed against the backdrop of your devotion. First steps, skinned knees, junior high, broken romances, job, college, marriage, babies . . . on and on it goes.  In the beginning your words are plenty, tender, tough.  With the passing of time, they are fewer; you've said all that you can say and life becomes the primary teacher. “Momma-knowing” comes with experience; it is not part of the start-up package.  When you were a young mother, you had energy but not always wisdom. And, when are iold, your vigor will lessen, but your understanding will be large.  You learn to pick and choose your battles knowing that some things matter very little, others very much. One day they will think you old and silly, probably long before you actually are.  They talk, you know they do, and you wonder, when you are weighed in the balance, if the scales will tip toward gracious, good, and kind.  If it does not, you hope they will be merciful. Sometimes they understand the beating of your mother heart; most times, they do not.  Your trepidations they call needless worry; your concern, meddling; tears, manipulation; ideology, idiocy.  When you curb their independence and they say, “But, I am grown!” only youe will understand the aching in your breast. How do I know these things?  I know them because I am your mom. I have lived my life with my arms stretched toward tomorrow, and I have lived my life wanting to hold my children in today.  I have not always done well in giving you wings.  I wish that I could have you as you are now, and yet as you were then.  It was easy when you were babies, you did not question or struggle, you simply rested in my love.  And, when you were toddlers, I was you hero, and the sunshine of your lives.  As children you reached for independence, still you wanted me when you skinned a knee, or life did not make sense.  Your teenage-years were, well . . . teenage-years.  Sometimes we did them well; sometimes we did not.  But never, ever, even once, did I sorrow that you were mine. Your need for me will lessen in the days to come, yet I will continue to be needed.  It is a bittersweet time in life.  I have gotten rather used to the selfless investing of me into you. Each act of kindness, each tender tear, each silent vigil, each restless night has been the dropping of a golden coin into the treasure chest of your years.  You will not know for a very long time that it is full because I have loved you. I remember when I carried each of you as babes, snuggled safely in my womb.  I swayed with the music of my heart, wrapped my arms around my swollen tummy, and sang you my silly songs. Each moment of each birth was remarkable, miraculous, painful, worth it.  I would do it all over again for the joy of holding a soft, innocent body close to mine.  I counted fingers and toes, touched silken tufts of hair, and smelled deeply of baby sweetness.  Who knows the number of sleepless nights, colicky walks, tummy aches, and diapers by the dozen?  You were too tiny to know, and I too full of love to care.  I gladly danced the mother dance, shaping the character of your lives with my ardent love, and passionate prayers. Answers to questions were easy when you were very young, unless of course you count, “Why do we have fingernails on our toes?” and “How do bosquito’s say goodnight?” Your questions became more difficult with the passing of time, and I wished I knew everything. With the coming of your own babies, there will be fresh understanding.  You will whisper, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “Now I understand.“  Some things I wish they understood today.  Like why I want them close, just because I love them so. No, it’s not always easy being a mom, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. And, I would do it all over again just for the joy of having, knowing, loving you.  Mom (Ronda) Copyright ©2004rjknuth Strength for Today:  Psalm 40 Reaching