Dear harried Daughter

I'm no theologian, but I am pretty sure it is okay to pray while you're showering or brushing your teeth and while you're loading the dishwasher or folding clothes. Sometimes, all you can manage is to pepper your conversations with God throughout your day between diaper changes and wiping up spilled milk. Sometimes all you may manage are deep sighs of "Jesus, help me!" or "I give it all to you today." If you manage to squeak out a quick morning offering, you are doing well.

I remember long days, exhausting days, when all I wanted to do is to run away; when I could hardly wait until your father got home. And those days - one rolling into the other - when I felt like nothing I said was getting through, when I really was just talking to the walls.

I begged the walls (because there was no one else to beg), "When will they learn not to clobber each other, but share nicely instead?" "Will there ever be a day with no tears, no whining, no temper tantrums?"

Those were long days.

The walls offered no answers, but wondered, instead, when I'd finally get around to washing off those sticky, little fingerprints and crayoned curly-cues. Stupid walls.

These days Isaac's smudges live long on my windows. Grandmothering has a way of giving you a delightful new perspective.

Curse those dark days when I did what I vowed I would never do - spank your little bottoms, employ the TV as my mother's helper, lose my cool and scream like a banshee, resort to threats, bribery or shameless groveling. And then ... the guilt. Oh my gosh - the guilt. It would swell up and spill over and down my cheeks.

That's when I would call your grandmother.

Don't fret, my darling. Mothering is hard. Plain and simple.

My grandmother used to say, "Unfortunately, children are not born with a set of instructions." It all seems at times to be nothing more than a grand experiment. What works with one kid, is bound not to work with the next or the next. Trial and error. Three steps ahead, two steps back.

Somewhere along the way, and certainly not soon enough in my young marriage, I learned to ask Our Blessed Mother to fix whatever I messed up that day. For a long time, that's all I could pray each night as my head sunk into the pillow. Well that and an abbreviated version of the Act of Contrition - "God I am so sorry. Give me the grace to do better tomorrow."

I'm certain Our Lady made good on my desperate pleas, as none of you has ended up in therapy ... well, not yet anyway. And neither have I. And the one who was the hardest to raise, the one I tangled with the most, is now my biggest fan. And that is a balm that soothes my worried mother's soul.

Over time, situations and details will fade from your memory, but what remains is love. You will always love them and more than everything else, it is all they really need. 

Love, love, love them. And if it hurts you know you're doing it right.

Loving you madly,

Mama



Katie and me
March 1986

 

 

Katie and me
July 1987


 

Katie and me
August 1988