Mother, Imparter of Truths (and Inside Jokes)

the joy of being the very first person to tell a person good things

The first day with my firstborn child was, quite frankly, a bad one. That “recovery sleep” I expected to follow my home birth never happened, and I was exhausted from moment 0. Newborn Stephen didn’t catch onto nursing, and I had never seen a woman breastfeed before, so I was desperately searching my La Leche League manual for different holds and positions we could try. Nothing worked.

I had read about a postpartum “hormonal cocktail“ of happy emotions that was supposed to help me bond with my newborn and feel like an actual mom. That also didn’t happen. I was 19 and felt clueless, stupid, unworthy…a fraud. I hardly slept that night, being awakened at least every hour to try to nurse this kid who just could not figure it out. The night felt like forever.

Against all odds—or so it felt—light eventually peeked through the cheap apartment blinds. I looked at my 18-hours-old son and it occurred to me that he might be confused by the change in atmosphere.

“Stephen, this is called morning,” I told him. “The sun comes up every single day. You can count on it. It’s never not come up.”

And there it was, that magical first moment where I truly felt like a mother.

I taught my kid something. I introduced him to a fundamental truth of the universe. And it happened to be a truth I really needed at that moment, too.

As the years passed, of course, that child had more questions. Once, he explained the strange phenomena where your underwear is stuck and you need to tug at it, and I had the privilege of teaching him the term “wedgie.” Every other part of language acquisition was a joy to participate in as well, even with mundane things, like “What’s the difference between a park and a playground?”

I remember reading the Jesus Storybook Bible’s retelling of Jonah and the Big Fish, and I explained that just like the fish spit out Jonah after three days, the grave spit out Jesus. Two-year-old Stephen would then say “Patooie!” when we talked about Jesus’s resurrection because he remembered that, like the fish with Jonah, death couldn’t hold Him in. I can’t exaggerate the joy of being part of moments like that, where you tell a person that death doesn’t always have the final word…and he actually believes you.¹

I have five kids now, and my firstborn is almost a teenager. Every single time I get to be the first person in all creation to explain something to one of my kids, I feel like Neil Armstrong. I’m doing something no one in the universe has ever done before. What an immense privilege. Boy, do I want to do it right.

Admittedly, I have no intellectual prowess regarding the scientific or mechanical, so my best answers in those fields are usually, “No clue; let’s look it up!” or “Ooh, that’s cool, whatever it is!” Even basic common-sense concepts are not my strength, but curiosity and awe make up for it, I hope.

Giving “the talk” to my tween daughter wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be, especially since it’s not one talk, but many conversations, as questions or necessary topics arise. The first time I explained the basics to her, she said, “Thank you for telling me about that.” No need to sneakily Google it or ask friends to find answers when your mom already told you the truth. The conversation wasn’t awkward, and, since one of the most curious mysteries in all of life is now solved, it enabled us to watch comedies together where the characters might occasionally mention “sex.”

That—the ability to introduce my kids to sitcoms—is another happy thing. After the littler ones are asleep, I’ve been able to watch shows with the older kids that I loved in my teendom, and together we relish all the inside jokes and running gags. Parks and Rec has been our overall favorite. We joke with each other about Lil’ Sebastian, making a Jerry mistake, The Low-Cal Calzone Zone…classic references. A few months after we finished watching The Good Place, I was leading family devotions and shared how there are so many mysteries about time that we can’t comprehend, and my 11-year-old offered that maybe the timeline of the universe works like “Jeremy Bearimy,” and I just about lost it with pride.

Speaking of pride, I rightfully enjoy the glory of imparting knowledge. The other day, my 9-year-old sewed herself a gorgeous baby blue dress with a turtleneck. She explained to my husband, “I sew the dress inside-out so it hides the seam when I put it on. Mommy taught me that. It helped a lot.” The most I’ve sewed is one hideous skirt, but I did know enough to share that tip with her a few months ago. “Mommy taught me that” was the highlight of my day, especially because a few hours earlier, a lesson I taught in long division was not nearly as well-regarded.

To be a mother is to be an imparter of knowledge. I’ve introduced my kids to Vivaldi and Relient K and shown them how to make a kick-butt chicken curry. I’ve shown them how to apologize and how to pay attention to people whose voices are not heard. I have fun imagining other ways I could be using my time and intelligence, and I fully plan to do many of those things, but…I’m really happy to be using most of it right here, right now, with people who are 11, 9, 7, 5, and 3.

I may not have ever made more than $7.50 an hour, but I’ve taught five people my best understanding of the biggest secrets about the cosmos, the meaning of the universe, and daydreams of what we might be doing ten million years from now. I’ve convinced them that they’re of tremendous value and deeply, truly loved. What greater role could a person have than to introduce another person to all these things?

I have so much to learn, and there are crucial pieces of knowledge that the motherly figures in my life are still imparting to me. A big thing I’ve learned lately is essentially the same lesson that I told my son long ago: the darkness does lift. I can’t say I’m eager to teach that to my kids—I wish they will never need to know it—but there will be a day when they will cry alone and feel like they’ll be trapped in night forever. As confusing and exhausting as child-rearing is, what a privilege it is to be the first person to teach them, “Morning always comes.”

I hope this encouraged you ❤️

Love,

Hope

P.S. I hiked 30 miles of the Appalachian Trail this week! I’ll share more later. But here are some other photos from the past week :)

It’s Do-Homeschool-Outside Season!

And while they do worksheets, I like to write letters! My love for calligraphy has definitely reawakened lately.

Believe it or not, this was our walk to a coffee shop. A date with the aforementioned firstborn :)

And finally, after waiting for two decades—yep, I would listen to the album on repeat in middle school while playing Neopets—I got to scream along to every word of my favorite album of all time, The Beautiful Letdown by Switchfoot. This album has shaped me tremendously. What an incredible thing for a young person to be given an anthem that we’re “meant to live for so much more.” Every single song is powerful and I love it. Also, Jon Foreman really knows how to do a show. Look at the joy on the face of that guy in the hoodie 😅❤️

1. If you’re of the opinion that this is brainwashing, let me remind you that every parent teaches their child what they believe to be true. I am not reckless or passive with my understanding of truth and take this very seriously.