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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Scribble and Scrambles - A Mother's Sigh


I find the picture of baby porcupines to be the perfect accompaniment to a post about mother pain.

A mother sees the tiny exposed tender underbelly of her child and does what she can to protect it. While the child, especially when reaching a certain age, embraces the quills and doesn't hesitate to use them.

One mother I know struggles with a child who is ill. Very ill. Tender underbelly. The same mom is fending off quills from another child who doesn't quite know how to express fear and sorrow appropriately.

Another mother has raised her family and has opened her home to foster children. After three not-so-wonderful situations she is the unpaid babysitter for a child who was returned to an unhealthy home environment. Did I mention my friend got the baby at mere days of age and had to return the child the day before the first birthday. Now, my friend is willing to do what she can to give this baby a glimpse of love and hope. The few words the child knows are crass and four letter.

Another mother just let go of a little birdie, er...porcupine, who really has no business leaving the nest. This mom envisions a whole season of hard-earned lessons for her baby.


I see this in my own set of two parents. Good grief, I have gray hair (yes, X-ta, more than 25%) yet my parents, and my husband's parents have come to our rescue, given us advice, bandaged us up and sent us out the door again. More often than not, they've nursed a quill wound before the crisis is over.
Sigh.

I want my children to grow up and become the potential that lurks inside of them, begging to get out. But I know that they have to find their own way to that place of wisdom and contentment.


My respect level towards the generation before mine has grown by leaps and bounds. I hope my parents can see a glimpse of wisdom and grace within me.


Pass me the bandages and quill snippers, would ya?