Motherhood

My mom has been fit-to-be-tied since I fell. More than anyone in the world, she knows my go-go nature, my lust for the next thing, and my insufferable sadness over being stopped dead in my tracks. She and dad made a quick trip last week to get eyes on me and help a little around the house.

We were chatting in the car when the subject came up of a mother’s intuition. Mom is not a clairvoyant woman. Nor is she dramatic or flamboyant. Altruistic and private to the core, she is not one to dominate a conversation or haphazardly spew the deeper secrets of her inner world.

As we talked, she modestly mentioned that the night before my fall, she awoke from a nightmarish dream that SHE had fallen.

I was stunned.

I was the one who had fallen. But even BEFORE I fell, she dreamt of her own body crashing to the ground.

Isn’t that the perfect depiction of motherhood? Feeling the pain of our children in our own flesh? How was it possible that when Landon would climb trees as an adventurous fourth grader, my body felt like I was the one hovering fifteen feet in the air, standing on a wobbly branch?

We ache when our child trips, feel the pangs of sorrow when they don’t make the team. Our own hearts leap for joy when they show courage and we are left feeling helpless when they are riddled with sadness. There is no fury like the red-hot anger we feel when a good friend turns their back on them. We wring our hands with anxiety when they are fearful of facing their next new thing.

How does this work? These mysteries are far beyond what I can surmise. So, what do we do with all this symbiotic pain?

I’ll tell you what my mom taught me to do.

Drive into town to say, “I love you. I’m sorry. I know this is hard.”

Unload the dishwasher.

Warm up some leftovers.

Pray.

Fold the pile of laundry.