“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”

― Thomas Campbell

Frida Kahlo, “My Grandparents, My Parents and I”

“We all have an inner voice, our personal whisper from the universe. All we have to do is listen — feel and sense it with an open heart. Sometimes it whispers of intuition or precognition. Other times, it whispers an awareness, a remembrance from another plane. Dare to listen. Dare to hear with your heart.”

― C.J. Heck, Bits and Pieces: Short Stories from a Writer’s Soul

Charlotte Bronte

“I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes”

― Vladimir Nabokov

A favorite Nicaraguan memory

“Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,

Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.”

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it.

Memories need to be shared.”

― Lois Lowry, The Giver

Do you celebrate Dia de los Muertos? How do you share your memories?

• Mother, Mothering, Motherhood
• A Mother’s Love
• This Moment
• Mothering By Faith

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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A mother’s love isn’t easy to express

without a multitude of cliches cropping up

or trying to sound like I know something special.

The idea of a mother’s love, to me,

is commitment, dedication, and respect.

It’s a thankless, painfully difficult job

if you do it right.

A mother’s love is confrontation, holding firm, letting go and

trusting things will work out.

It’s boundaries

celebrations

hand holding, back rubbing and

tear wiping.

It’s believing in your child, their potential

and unlimited possibility.

A mother’s love is taking a backseat to their dreams,

driving them to be courageous

grateful

and kind.

It’s balancing everyone else’s needs,

and when those needs come head to head,

backing down or finding another way around.

A mother’s love is smiles, bubbles, long walks and road trips.

It’s doing whatever it takes to get it done.

It’s growing up, facing responsibilities, and

allowing them to fail.

It’s knowing what’s wrong and right and when the lines get blurred.

It’s holding them close, pushing them away, and

reeling them back in again.

It’s setting an alarm to get them out of bed,

and another to make sure they’re safely home at night.

A mother’s love is cooking, singing, digging, traveling and

trying to keep up with their emerging and varied personalities.

It’s holding their hand during a shot, caressing their feverish forehead and

wiping away tears of regret as they slide down their cheeks.

It’s nurturing dreams and quietly cultivating new ideas for their future.

It’s harnessing talent, releasing failure and helping navigate life’s lessons together.

It’s teaching them to trust and to love, to find joy and dare to be themselves.

A mother’s love is perseverance. Dedication. Honor.

Whatever it takes to bring forth a human who can walk through this world

with grit, grace and courage.

It’s convincing them they are worthy of everything the universe has to offer.

It’s showing up to life.

This post was inspired by The Dinner, a novel by Herman Koch. Two brothers and their wives sit down for a tension filled dinner to discuss a tragedy that can change both families’ lives forever. Join From Left to Write on October 29 as we discuss The Dinner. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Emmalee pulled another mug from the cabinet and poured more coffee. She handed it to Cora. “Can I ask you a question? But you got to promise to be honest with me, even if it means hurting my feelings.”

Cora nodded and took a sip from the mug. “Sure.”

“It’s just that you know so much about babies and mothering, and I was wondering if you think I can take care of a baby on my own?”

“Of course you can, sweetie,” Cora said, sitting her mug on the counter and reaching for Emmalee’s hand. “But you ain’t alone.”

Emmalee brushed away another tear.

~from The Funeral Dress by Susan Gregg Gilmore

Do any of us really know if we can take care of a baby on our own?

Eighteen years into motherhood, and I still find myself asking that question on a regular basis.

Motherhood, for many women, is the ultimate mission in their lives. It is the transcendent goal they strive for, feeling that with the birth experience complete, their lives will somehow magically fall into place.

Many of my friends carefully planned motherhood. Some wanted to be young mothers, feeling that if they were able to give birth in their early twenties that they would be ‘young enough’ to enjoy their children – I’m sure some felt their youthful bodies could more easily survive childbirth and keep up with active toddlers. Numerous girlfriends, like me, chose the college and career path first, deciding that the stability of accomplishment would surely be the golden ticket for a successful parenting experience. I was confident that if I took care of myself first, I would be well-equipped to deal with the uncertainties of mothering.

Some women I know simply tumbled into motherhood, like many experiences in their lives, without any inkling of how they got to that place where they had to choose between what was right and best for their child, and what felt right and best for themselves. I have friends who have endured the torment of infertility, their bodies battling against every maternal instinct they feel, only to end in crumpled dreams and a reconfiguration of self. And I know women who calculate the ticking of the biological clock, never having cast their bet at deliberate conception but feeling each second tick by in real time, sure that if it doesn’t happen soon, it never will.

There is a certain sense of possibility in the unknown. The first moment our child is placed upon our chest is glutted with possibility and hope. We feel powerful, exhilarated, and terrified all at once, knowing that life as we knew it before has forever altered. Our insecurities, our inadequacies, and our aspirations pile into the six pounds of sticky, squirmy flesh that has suddenly become ours alone to nurture for a lifetime. And we wonder, can we do this? Are we enough? How will we know when they ________ or __________ what to say? To do?

And somewhere along the way, we realize the secret. We hear the words of those wiser than we, words that remind us that we all we really need to do is practice mothering by faith.

“Our crown has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do is wear it”― James Baldwin

We realize that we are not alone, that all those mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers that have come before us have set the course for that pocket-sized little person we cradle in our arms. We realize that we carry with us in the very center of our soul everything we need to take care of this baby on our own. We realize, that if we stop long enough to peer right into our hearts, that we really do know the answers.

We become conscious of ourselves. We exude the instincts bred into us. We wear the crown proudly, sometimes pausing to push it back into place when it teeters precariously, or drop to our knees to scrape it up off the ground when it falls.

But we smile broadly at our child, feeling every bit the queen of the world. We trust. We are mothers. We CAN do this. We are not alone.

We are mothering by faith.

“When nothing is sure, everything is possible.” ― Margaret Drabble

 No one has ever entrusted impoverished Emmalee with anything important but she takes it upon herself to sew her mentor’s resting garment in The Funeral Dress by Susan Gregg Gilmore. Join From Left to Write on October 15 as we discuss The Funeral Dress.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. 

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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The Wounded Deer by Frida Kahlo

Earlier this week, my friend Lindsey from A Design So Vast shared an article written by Debora L. Spar, president of Barnard College, titled, “Shedding the Superwoman Myth: Where Feminism Went Wrong”. I often find many of the  topics Lindsey writes about lingering in my brain, but this one in particular struck me between the eyes and hasn’t left my mind for days. That tells me something. I need to listen.

I’ve written before about the idea that women today have more choices to make than ever before, and with those choices comes a whole assortment of wonderful opportunities and enormous challenges. Debora Spar writes on this idea, stating that “the challenges that confront women now are more subtle than those of the past, harder to recognize and thus to remove.” Or challenges are subtle – until we get to the point when the dessert tray of post-feminism becomes less tempting, and we run screaming into a dark, quiet corner wondering how we ever got here when all we have is all we ever really wanted.

I absolutely owe a huge debt of gratitude to those women who fought so hard for my generation’s ability to have it all, to be simultaneously a full-time worker, mother, and wife all in one lifetime. Never in my 1970s formative years did I ever imagine I would be juggling these demands and actually enjoying myself most of the time. It never entered my imagination that I could do all this – nor did I imagine the struggles myself and the women in my life encounter when we can’t.

I think what we didn’t bank on was the fact that with our struggle to be equal, to open doors of opportunity, that the rest of the demands placed on us women wouldn’t diminish. As Spar states, “none of society’s earlier expectations of women disappeared. The result is a force field of highly unrealistic expectations. A woman cannot work a 60-hour week in a high-stress job and be the same kind of parent she would have been without that job and all the stress. And she cannot save the world and look forever like a 17-year-old model.” Amen.

I often find myself in that place – wondering if I’m making the right choices, if my children are getting the same kind of parent as I had, one who didn’t work outside the home. I wonder if I’m using my time well here in this lifetime, if I’m walking the talk, and if I am, are my kids watching. I am not, however, worrying about looking like a 17-year-old model – at least I can take that one off my plate.

When I was talking to a friend today – a woman I met professionally several years ago, and have come to admire, I started thinking about this again.  She’s nearly a decade younger than I am, and has already been a teacher, directed educational programs, and is starting her first principalship. She’s married, has two young children, and is going back to school. At night. After a full, full day of a full time job. I asked her why, and she matter-of-factly responded that it was her time. I immediately flashed back in my life ten years in comparison, and then stopped. She likened her life to being on a treadmill, and we both agreed that when we were in the middle of it we were ok-almost giddy, actually. We consented that, for us, the familiarity of work, the acknowledgement of focusing on a task that we are confident with, offers what Spar describes as “because these women are grappling with so many expectations—because they are struggling more than they care to admit with the sea of choices that now confronts them—most of them are devoting whatever energies they have to controlling whatever is closest to them.”

I started to do what is so familiar to me, to many self-proclaimed feminist and wonder women – I retreated and reflected. I second guessed, I what-if-ed, I imagined the different choices I could have made, should have made, and then saw myself ten years ago. Two small kids, a full time job, a husband with health challenges. The enormous weight I was carrying crushed down on my shoulders like a giant hand, forcing me into the ground. For a moment, I felt like I hadn’t done enough. I had somehow let myself down.

Wonder Woman (Photo credit: Looking Glass)

And then I stopped. First world problems, Jen, my inner muse whispered to me. Be grateful for what you have. The choices you have are more than many women today can ever dream of. Don’t let anyone make you feel you’ve done anything other than the right thing. Everything happens for a reason.

Suddenly that put it all in perspective for me. Debora Spar, Lindsey and I agree – it comes down to choice. “Women need to realize that having it all means giving something up—choosing which piece of the perfect picture to relinquish, or rework, or delay.” I made my choices long ago, and most of them, I think, have been pretty good ones. I learned that maybe I can’t have it ‘all’, but I can have what I need – and for that, I am grateful. Blessed. Proud.

For all those moments when I felt like a wounded deer – and those arrows still pierce now and then – and for all those days when the Wonder Woman cape chokes my neck – and it does on a regular basis – I am grateful. I thank the women who came before me, who paid for my ability to be more, do more, than they ever dreamed. I thank them because I get to choose. That’s what I get to carry on to the women who come after me.

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Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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My babies

I rode my bike home at dusk today, far too late for mothers and children to be playing at the park. From a distance I could hear the pee wee football players running their plays as the coach barked inspirational suggestions of improvement. Nearby, the pee wee cheerleaders pivoted and jumped in unison to some hip hop song I couldn’t quite make out. As I rode the familiar path towards home, my mind ticked through the mental checklist that pops up far too frequently: dinner? homework? lessons? laundry? I wondered what my teens had been doing all afternoon while I was at work, and hoped for the best. My heart felt that tinge of loneliness that happens only when I’ve been away from them too long. His birthday is tomorrow. Fourteen years of blissfully mothering him. Crossing the bike overpass, I dipped down towards Sycamore Park as images flashed in my mind; we’ve been mothering together for 15 years. How could that be possible? Two thirty-something moms, both bulging from the last trimester of pregnancy in the scorching summer heat, we dreamed of a few moments of shade while our three-year olds dared each other down slides and monkey bars. We chased them down, secretly hoping the jostling would push us into labor. Juice boxes and goldfish marked our territory, shared stories and sympathy sealed our hearts. We searched the pages of the parenting handbook, sure that the advice we sought must be somewhere out there. Mothering toddlers together helped us feel less alone, less unsure, and more hopeful that just maybe we’d get it right.

My teenagers.

I see now what they meant -those women who said, “Someday you’ll understand when you have your own.” Funny how that pops into my mind these days. I remember standing in our blue and white kitchen, my two teenage brothers pulling food out of the refrigerator like bears just out of hibernation. I couldn’t understand why my mother always complained that she had just gone to the store, and lamented about the empty cupboards left at the end of the day.Suddenly, with my own two teenagers I get it. I hear her voice when I pick up the towels from the bedroom floors, when I straighten their unmade beds, and when I wash the peanut butter crusted knife left drying in the sink. ‘Season the chicken more than you think you should’, and ‘Don’t work too hard’ ring through my mind when I find myself alone, silent in the moment. Mothering teens often feels treacherous, as if I’m teetering on the next big catastrophe. I breathe deeply, and Motherhood pulses through my veins, bringing forth all those lessons passed down from one to the next.

She couldn’t have been more than a few months old. Curled in her kangaroo sac, snug against her mother’s chest, Fiona coiled her chubby little legs tight against her torso, happy just to be pressed securely against the most important person in her world. I felt the weight on my chest, just looking at her, remembering my own first months of motherhood. I’m not sure I would have had the courage-or confidence-to bring my newborn into a work meeting. Life then had very separate lines, motherhood and teaching. Like flipping a light switch, I would move in and out of my roles with intentional distinction, not yet knowing that that movement was truly impossible.Not realizing that, like Fiona, my children would be forever on my chest, eternally positioned over my heart. I didn’t realize that, yes, I would make mistakes and wish words could fly back into my mouth and yes, I would occasionally miss a page from the parenting handbook. I didn’t understand that as my children aged and moved away from my reach that I would have to stretch my arms to reach out to them, never wanting them to leave and yet simultaneously thrilled to see them go out on their own.

Motherhood. Something learned, yet innate all the same. An experience to be cherished, not squandered. A gift to safeguard, not consume with personal neediness. Meant to be shared. Meant to be savored, every last second.

A controlling mother, a missing daughter, and a family who is desperate for love. This post was inspired by the the psychological thriller Mother, Mother by Koren Zailckas. Join From Left to Write on September 19 as we discuss Mother, Mother.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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