My greatest goal with those colicky babies was to take away the pain. Rubbing their tummies, finding home remedies, even cutting out allergens from my own postpartum diet for weeks and weeks.
As they grew, taking away discomfort wasn’t so simple. Mothering became more of truth-speaking in the midst of the pain…hurt feelings from conflict with friends, sibling rivalry, not being chosen for that sought after team.
Truly, their struggle often stabbed me in the gut. Justice is rooted in my core, even in the small stuff. Instinctually, I strive for wrongs to be made right. Especially when it comes to my kids.
But now they are mostly grown, and my hope in taking away the pain gives way to the sobering fact: a mama doesn’t really have that power in the end.
Recently, my child encountered one of the deepest hurts of their life so far, My previous tactics— pretending to be above their pain even if I was reeling on the inside, the effort of pouring out wisdom in the midst of their wounds, all the energy, secret tears, and constant empathy…all that surely has prepared me for this moment of facing sorrow on a grown up scale.
If only. Not so much.
And as much as I want to push my kid along to find okayness again, I know the journey ahead far too well. It’s not an easy obstacle, and it’s definitely not quick. Loss and heartache cling relentlessly. And even as their mama, their biggest advocate, I have no power to tame it outright.
All I can do is wait in the shadows of their pain and be available when they need me.
And all the while, I am absorbing some of the grief too. Because, after twenty-three years of parenting, the greatest consequence of mothering is bearing their grief far more than my own. Yet, that inevitable burden is worth it. For my babies. The ones I love with all my worn-out heart.
angie dicken 