I glance in his direction. He’s clad in all-black, his shoulders are slumped, and his hands are stuffed deeply in his pockets.

“Yes?” I say.

“Do you have a quarter to spare?” He takes one of his hands out and opens it wide. I notice the deep groves in his palm. His hand looks like it belongs to an old man.

What I want to say is, “No. I don’t have a quarter to spare. I don’t have anything left to spare. I’m tired. I’ve just gotten over having a fever, my house has more bacterial and viral colonies than a Petri dish, and this grocery store visit is my first solo hurrah in a long, long time. So please just leave me alone, and go find some other housewife to nickel and dime.”

“Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me…”

And so I take a deep breath as I dig through my change purse. I don’t have a quarter, but I do manage to come up with two dimes and a nickel amidst a treasure trove of pennies. I drop the change into his open palm. He closes it quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, waving his furled fist at me.

“Sure.”

When I’m in the baby section, two Hispanic men approach me. “Can you help us, please?” one of them says with a thick accent.

I want to say, “No, I can’t help you. I help little people for a living, and I’m tired of helping. I just want to grocery shop in peace and quiet.”

“I was a stranger and you welcomed me…”

And so I force a smile. “Sure. What do you need?”

He shows me what I thought was his grocery list. I see that it’s a WIC form listing the approved baby food items he has permission to purchase. His companion is clearly embarrassed and is staring at his feet. I think about how I don’t have to worry about feeding my family, and I swallow down a lump of guilt. It falls down inside of me with a heavy, aching thud and sits in my middle like a rock.

Stop being in such a rush, I admonish myself.

I try to assist him, but the form is rather cryptic even for someone whose first language is English.

“Thank you,” he says after I’ve handed him a box of authorized baby cereal.

“You’re welcome.”

Then my cell phone buzzes. I curse myself for bringing it with me, but then I remember that I now keep my grocery list on my iPhone. Blasted technology.

I don’t recognize the number, but it’s local. What if it’s an emergency (that’s really why you have a cell phone right?)? So I answer the call. It’s a friend. She needs a favor. It isn’t a big favor at all, and this is a friend who has done a lot for me. I owe her one. But I don’t want to say yes.

“I know you’re busy,” she says.

I am busy. Too busy to think. Too busy to sleep. Too busy to help a friend in need? Wait a minute.

“Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends.”

“It’s no problem at all,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

I hang up, and I wander over to the cereal aisle. I’m looking for plain, old Cheerios. Not Yogurt Burst Cheerios. Not Honey Nut Cheerios. Not Oat Cluster Crunch or something or the other Cheerios. Just good, old-fashioned Cheerios. The tyranny of too many choices is stressing me out.

When did life get so complicated?

It didn’t. Not really. I’m the one muddying things up. My thoughts, my tendency to over-analyze everything is like a knife because I waste time and energy cutting through so many things that really don’t matter. It’s simple, really. There’s only one right choice I need to make every day, every moment no matter the cost. It’s a choice that frees, not enslaves. I must choose to abandon myself to God, to give everything to Him – the big moments and the small moments in the produce aisle of the grocery store – so that whatever situation arises, I will do what He wants me to do even when I’m tempted to do otherwise.

With spiritual growth (and I’m obviously not there yet), I don’t think this even will come down to a choice. Loving God, doing His will, will become as natural as breathing (I’ve always been a wishful thinker).

How do I get to this peaceful place?

I have to empty myself and fill the void with Him.

This isn’t the same as punishing myself or neglecting my spiritual, physical, and emotional needs. It’s about emptying yourself of your way and embracing His way. It’s about ridding yourself of all that makes you weary and afraid. Abandon yourself to God. Take your burdens, your grief, your worries, your guilt, your annoyances as well as your joys, your wishes, your hopes, your love and your whole life, and bring them to Him. Submit your will to Him. Let God tell you what to do. This isn’t easy for me to do. Or anyone to do. We don’t like being told what to do. But I’m glad I listened to God in the grocery store instead of all those selfish, negative voices in my head. I’m grateful I said “yes” when I was tempted to say “no” because what I learned (for the umpteenth time) was this: Empty yourself and God will fill you up.



Copyright 2010 Kate Wicker

I’m not sure how this would have panned out had I been working on the editorial staff of some glossy based out of New York City, but my colleague was respectful of my position and didn’t force me to write about the event – and, in fact, didn’t publish anything about it in the end.

My pro-life revelation sparked an ongoing dialogue between us about why I was pro-life and, conversely, why she was pro-choice. Like so many of my pro-choice friends, she stressed that she would never think of getting an abortion, but that she just didn’t feel like it was the government’s right – or anyone else’s – to tell a woman what she should do with her body.

But therein lay the irony: This same woman was a devoted mom and lactivist. Aside from working on the women’s publication, we also collaborated on a parenting publication where we both wrote numerous pro-breastfeeding articles. My colleague practiced extended breastfeeding with all of her children, and she worked tirelessly to support breastfeeding in the workplace, including promoting a support group for working, breastfeeding moms and helping to get a designated pumping room in one of her previous places of employment. But more than that, she was one of the most loving, attentive, and selfless mothers I’ve ever known.

Since becoming a mother myself, I’ve encountered many devoted moms like her who are vehement defenders of babies, children, and their needs. Some of these same women are also pro-choice. It’s a juxtaposition that confounds me: These women often have no problem with shaking their heads over moms who don’t breastfeed their babies, or those parents who allow their little ones to “cry it out” alone in their cribs. But they see no reason to give babies in utero any defense whatsoever.

“Breast is best!” and “Give babies the best start and breastfeed!” they shout from the rooftops. But isn’t life the best start of all?

I look at these admirable moms who ply their tots with nothing but organic food, read endless board books to stimulate their babes’ burgeoning minds, and do everything in their power to give kids of all ages a voice – and I can’t help but wonder why they don’t see the need to do the same for the most helpless children of all.

Why does our society only advocate for the children who make it safely out of their mothers’ wombs, or those lucky “fetuses” who become babies as soon as the woman carrying them decides they are wanted? How is it that so many of us can be passionately concerned with a baby’s entitlement to be breastfed or to be nurtured in a loving, sensitive way, but completely disregard her entitlement to life?

Why is it that, before a child is in her mother’s arms, she is nothing more than a disposable commodity, a choice – not a human being that deserves respect, love, care, and above all, the chance at life?

I’ve asked these questions over and over, sometimes to my friends who have different views, sometimes during prayer, sometimes in the silence of the night when I’m watching one of my children sleep or cradling a nursing baby to my chest.

One day, my colleague and I were talking about the challenges of nursing and why it was so important to encourage and support breastfeeding moms. At the time, I was pregnant with my first child and knew I wanted to breastfeed, and I agreed with my supervisor’s strong views on the subject – but something struck me that day listening to her impassioned speech on why breast is best.

I asked a not-so-innocent question: “What about the moms who have all the support they need? Maybe they’re at-home moms who don’t ever have to worry about pumping, and they don’t experience any real problems with nursing, but they just don’t like it. What do you think about them?”

My colleague suggested that women who don’t breastfeed only because it’s not convenient or easy or something they enjoy were being selfish.

She had fallen right into my trap. “But it’s their body, their breasts,” I retorted. “Don’t they have the right to do what they want with them?”

“Not when it’s at the expense of their baby,” she said. “Babies deserve better.”

My point exactly. Babies do deserve better. They deserve life.

This column was originally published at InsideCatholic.com, an online journal of Catholic faith, culture, and politics.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

Typically, I’m in such a rush that I avoid onlookers. I’m not overtly rude, but I don’t stop to make idle chitchat either. My goal is to take care of my grocery list before one of my kids melts down or surreptitiously takes shampoo off a shelf, pulls it into the car she’s cruising along in at the front of the cart, and starts smearing it all over her body (thinking it’s lotion of course), and isn’t caught in the act until a confused Mom smells mango, even though that type of fruit wasn’t on her list (yes, this is a true story. I won’t fully reveal the guilty party, but she often wears pigtails and exclaims, “I two!”).

But today was different. I had only one child with me. This was easy street.

During our visit we were stopped by the grocery paparazzi several times and received the following comments:

“She’s a big one for almost four months!”

“She’s so small for almost four months, isn’t she?”

See how fickle the paparazzi can be. You’re too fat one minute and a weak waif the next!

“Well, you’ve got an angel there.”

True, true.

“Oh, look at that funny hair.”

I swear, I combed it. It has a mind of its own.

“He’s so cute. Errr…I mean, she. Sorry.”

No worries. Apology accepted.

“Is that comfortable for you to have her attached to you like that?”

Yes. Very much so.

Now in the olden days – as in when I was a newbie mom with just one child in my care – I admittedly would have fret over some of these comments.

In fact, I vividly remember when my husband and I ventured out to a salad buffet-type of restaurant with Madeline when she was around the same age as M.E. is now, and an older man and his wife stopped to ooooo and ahhhhhh over our little brawny bundle.

“Wow! He’s gonna be a linebacker. How much did he weigh when he was born?” the man asked, smiling.

I looked at my daughter’s pink and yellow outfit and then back at the grinning and obviously nearsighted man. “She weighed 6 pounds and 15 ounces.”

“She? My goodness. What are you feeding her?” the man asked, still smiling.

“My milk,” I replied, not smiling at all.

“She’s beautiful,” his wife added, probably noting my annoyance with my firstborn daughter being mistaken for a beefy linebacker.

This was not an isolated incident. Everyone use to comment on how chunky Madeline was. I know now I should have been proud of those rolls and extra dimples (they were of my own making and made for a healthy, happy baby, after all). But I used to worry my daughter was destined to a future in the NFL and that it would be all my fault for nursing her too much and too often.

Fast-forward four years, and my daughter is tall and slender. But what if she’d stayed on the roly-poly side? What difference? Why was I so hung up on what strangers had to say about my baby?

I wish I’d had the confidence I have now. To appreciate the fact that I was feeding my baby somehow, someway with my body and that she was perfect just the way she was.

While I was a fairly laid-back first-time mom in many aspects (I didn’t constantly check to make sure my infant was breathing, for example, and I nixed the whole idea of having a perfect nursery, didn’t bother to use a Diaper Genie, and didn’t put a call into the pediatrician with a question until she was 15 months), the most innocuous comments could occasionally drive me to collapse into a heap of self-doubt. Was I nursing her enough? Too little? Was I, by subscribing to what experts called “attachment parenting” but what just felt natural to my child and me, setting my child up to be a leech who would be rooted to me like a barnacle for the rest of her life?

How tiresome it must have been to spend so many of my waking hours fretting over others’ unsolicited (and probably well-meaning) commentary about parenting!

And what a blessing it is now, that as more of a seasoned mom (although I realize more than ever with three completely different, tiny human beings who are constantly growing and changing under my care that I’ll ever have this whole parenting thing figured out), to not be crippled by the relentless foray of unsought pearls of parental wisdom tossed my direction at every aisle in one random grocery store visit.

Yes, M.E., our newest addition, is a chunky love. Is she too big or too little for four months? We’ll see at her next well-child visit. Honestly, I don’t care what the growth charts say. She started out small, and now she comes in chunk-style – just the way I like my babies. Of course, Rae (my second) was on the small side at this age, and she was perfect, too. (Yes, I’m biased. I’m their mother. I’m supposed to be.)

I feed M.E. when she’s hungry, when she begins to stir in the night, when she cries during the day, or when she just wants to be close to me. I take note of her rolls, and I pump my fist in the air in triumph. I have a healthy baby, with strong limbs, who is growing each and every day! I “wear” her as I go about the daily grind. She’s a lovely accessory, and yes, it is quite comfortable to keep her so close to me. She sleeps close by and I sometimes hear her soft sighs and marvel at the wonder of her. I soak up her smiles and watch as her cheeks move in involuntary sucks long after she’s ceased nursing and is sleeping, curled into me.

I don’t really care what others think or say about my baby. She is tiny for four months. She is big for four months. Perhaps she’s an androgynous sprite with hair that defies gravity to the casual onlooker. And I wholeheartedly agree with the “experts” that she’s an angel attached to me.

This post is not an endorsement of any particular type of parenting. If, as you read this, you’re wondering why my baby appeared to be “attached” to me as I foraged for food for my family at the grocery store, attachment parenting, or some semblance of it is the ideal I strive for, but I’ve found some of its principles – which seem to change anyway – are not always a constant reality in the trenches.

This is, on the other hand, an endorsement of mom tuition – a gift I believe all women-turned-moms possess. Use it, and use it wisely.

This one’s for all the new moms who – after a trip to the grocery store or anywhere out in public (or even during a click-by on some random new parent discussion board where a plethora of welcome and sometimes not-so-welcome advice awaits) – might find themselves lying awake in bed at night reciting an inner monologue of self-doubt about their mothering. Silence the inner critic. Once you become a parent, it is a waste of precious energy to seek popular acclaim from the experts and all those who make their public opinions known. Parenting gurus – from your own mom to the cashier at the grocery checkout line – are an opinionated lot, and each has his or her own idea of the right way to parent. If you try to listen to everyone, you’ll end up with confused kids and no firm parenting principles of your own.

Please ignore the sweet old lady in aisle 7 who tells you your baby is too big. Ignore the cashier who says your baby is awfully small. Ignore comment number 5 on the discussion board that says the only way to be a good mom is to do this or to not do that. Ignore the friend who advises you to let your baby “cry it out” if every ounce of your maternal being is saying it doesn’t feel right. Tune out the finger-wagging advice that tells you you’re spoiling your baby by keeping him close to you all day. Be the mother you want to be. Better yet, be the mom you feel called to be. Smile politely at all of your baby’s admirers (they really do mean well), and snuggle up with your little one. Then repeat after me: Your baby is fine, and so are you.

Mother knows best, and you – not the woman who tickles your baby’s toes in the produce section – are your child’s mother. Be secure in your role. Because your baby doesn’t feel more secure in anyone’s arms but your own.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

Will it be my friend or foe this morning?

It takes a few seconds for the digital number to appear. I stare at it and then step off the scale. I tell myself I have to let it go, that the number on the scale is irrelevant to my happiness.

I return to bed and watch my sleeping baby’s form. Her eyelids briefly flicker open and I see a sliver of blue. She sighs. Her tiny fist unfurls to reveal her perfect hand and her arm jerks. She folds into me and I feel her heat against my body. I love her so deeply, and I am thankful for this love. Sometimes I think it’s my love for my children that keeps me from falling off the edge again, to succumbing to disordered eating as I’ve done in the past.

I recently stumbled across Deuteronomy 25:18-19 and recognized that vigilance is imperative during this exhausting point in my life. The passage reads: “He harassed you along the way, weak and weary as you were, and cut off at the rear all those who lagged behind.”

When I’m exhausted, I’m more likely to cave in to past temptations. When I am weary, I let my guard down and allow the relics of my eating disorder to creep back into my life. It’s all too easily to fall into old habits, to let demons of the past haunt me and lure me in.

Every day is a struggle for me. Whenever I feel hunger pangs deep inside of me, I have to tell myself I must eat if not for my own nourishment than for my baby who needs my body to have enough energy to feed her.

I always worry when I bring up my struggles with body angst. People don’t understand, especially since I don’t look like I have a weight problem (though I certainly do have a type of weight problem). Even my own husband can’t understand it. “You’re beautiful,” he says. But it’s not about beauty. My weight is not about how I look or even how my jeans fit. For me, it’s about being in control. It’s about having a quantifiable means of measuring my worth.

My nights are unpredictable and so, too, are most of my days. When I slip between the sheets each night, I never know when the baby will wake up to nurse or how long I will have to hold her upright after each feeding so that the gurgling and the wet hiccups will no longer cause her pain (and keep me awake). I don’t know when my older children will need me – when my day will begin or how it will unfold. I can have a plan in mind, but it can slowly begin to unravel with an unexpected crying jag (from the baby or me), a sibling sprawl over a once-forgotten stuffed animal that has swiftly taken the center stage as the number one toy to have in your possession, or a spilled smoothie seeping into our carpet.

In short, in my fatigue and my dicey days and even dicier nights, I feel powerless. I cannot control the number of hours (minutes!) I spend in REM. I cannot always control my children’s behavior, try as I might. I do not know when (or if) my husband will be home from work to offer support.

But how much I eat, the delightful downward trend of the scale – these are areas of my life in which I can wield complete control. I can whip my body into submission and deprive myself of calories. If I eat too much or the number on the scale gets stuck at an “unreasonable” number, I can always take certain purgative measures (skip breakfast, exercise for longer and harder) to compensate. When I feel lacking as a mother, there’s one area I know I can master; I used to be very good at controlling my weight.

Not that I subscribe to the unhealthy habits of my past. I try not to weigh myself very often at all; I resist losing weight unless it’s done the healthy way. But I am faced with the temptation to start obsessing over calories and the number on the scale nearly every day.

But then I hear my baby cry. Or my toddler reaches up to me with her deliciously chubby arms and says, “Pick me up, Mommy.” Or my preschooler challenges me to a game of tag. And I know I must eat if not for myself then for the children who need me – all of me – to feed them, hold them, chase them and most importantly, to teach them that their own bodies are temples deserving of respect and honor.

When I begin to notice every inch of flesh, the way it moves when I move. Or when I am tempted obsess over every bite that passes my lips, I tell myself that I need to be strong. I need to fuel my body and not punish it. I need to remember that pursuing thinness has no eternal value at all, but raising children does. And I remind myself that God is in me. He dwells in this body of mine.

I cannot wish away this cross I bear. For a long time, that’s what I’ve tried to do – to forget that I ever had an eating disorder. In fact, not so long ago I wrote to a friend who was struggling with her body image that I used to see myself as weak for not being able to completely rid myself of this inner turmoil. However, what has helped me is knowing that this is a cross I’ll likely have for the rest of my life. It’s one I must accept and embrace. Much like a recovered or dry alcoholic, I’ve come to see that I can be physically recovered but that I face an ongoing process of restoration. I’m always working to detach myself from my unhealthy thoughts and to attach myself completely to God. Only then will his love and power for healing have the ability to take hold of my life.

So I will eat for my baby, but I’ll also eat for myself and for the God who created me and loves every postpartum, soft inch of me.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

Unfortunately, most of the time I’m waiting for the tears of joy and the absolute belief that Christ is my friend and is truly with me as I go about my daily life.

Lately I’ve not only been longing for lightning bolts – I’ve simply been hoping to be able to say a prayer without my mind wandering or without a toddler telling me she has to use the potty. I long to have a day where I am filled with the Holy Spirit instead of just fumbling through my day, picking up crushed Cheerios from the carpet I just vacuumed or changing the seventeenth blowout diaper while wondering where God’s promised graces are hiding as I lose my patience again.

During a recent phone conversation with my mom, she overheard crying. It was my 3-month-old, who was gnawing on her fist apparently famished despite having been nursed about an hour ago, but Mom mistakenly thought the sobs belonged to my toddler Madeline.

“Is Maddy okay?” she asked.

“Probably not. Not after the way I treated her yesterday.” I burst into tears.

I proceeded to tell Mom about an all-time low I reached in the trenches of motherhood.  After a long day when my husband was on call and no reinforcements could relieve me, I lost it with Madeline and was reduced to a screaming mess. Without delving into too many of the dirty details, my hollering was in response to a potty accident that involved a long trail of poopy footprints.

“Mom, I was so scared by the suddenness of my rage. I’ve never been like that,” I whispered, afraid to say this admission too loudly.

“Sometimes it’s good to be scared. Maybe God wants you to need him more.”

Maybe God wants you to need him more.

Hours after our conversation I couldn’t stop thinking about these words.  Perhaps I’d become too self-righteous in my mothering role. Whenever I expressed doubts about being a good mom or about being open to life when I felt like a mess just nurturing two precious souls, fellow Christian moms assured me God would give me the graces I needed to answer his call.

So I put my trust in these wise women and went through my days just expecting God’s graces (and I’m referring to his special graces, the little “favors” to live out our calling, not the habitual grace that’s permanent and sanctifying in us all) to fall down upon me without really opening my heart to Him.

But without prayer we can’t really expect to be receptive to God’s gift of grace. That’s like expecting to land a dream job without any effort. Maybe you’ll get lucky and a headhunter will call out of the blue, but most likely you’re going to have to polish up your resume and start networking to get hired.

Truth be told, I’m often too tired to find time for real prayer. I frequently collapse into bed in the evening without so much as a passing prayer for the graces of motherhood.

So maybe this really is why I hit an all-time mommy low. Maybe God wanted me to need him more.

God doesn’t expect me to never fail, but he does expect me to never fail to try. So try I must. I can’t simply expect to have limitless patience or to feel profound peace simply by catching a glimpse of a Crucifix. Yet, I can and must make time for prayer. I must open my heart to God’s graces and I must always remember that my faith, while not always certain or unswerving, is a gift to continuously be cherished and cultivated.

This essay was originally published in Canticle and was written during Kate Wicker’s second pregnancy. She has just celebrated the birth of her third child and continues to pray for the graces of motherhood.

It was a strong feeling – a true vocation.

Though the desire to be a mom was great for me, what I felt while holding friends’ newborn infants in my arms more than envy or even joy was fear. I felt terribly clumsy cradling these tiny treasures. They were always so small. Tiny fingers. Scrunched up faces whimpering as I tried to rock them. My arms went stiff. It felt unnatural. So I began to worry: Where were my maternal instincts? How could I want to be a mom so badly if I couldn’t even hold an infant the right way?

Then my vocation was fulfilled on November 15, 2004 when my husband and I brought home our first child (I’m now expecting number three!): A beautiful, healthy baby girl -  our Madeline.  I was surprised how holding my own infant was far easier than holding others’ babies.

Looking back, those first few months of motherhood were a blur of happiness. I easily fell into the rhythm of motherhood, feeling lucky because I bonded instantly with my little miracle. I’d cry out of joy while nursing this symbol of love.

Postpartum blues? Not me. It was more like postpartum mania. I loved holding Madeline. I answered her every cry with my breast, cuddling, or a lullaby. Motherhood felt like heaven to me, and she was nothing short of an earthly angel.

Reality hits

But suddenly around six months when all my friends’ babies were starting to “sleep through the night” I hit – no, slammed – into a wall. Madeline was still waking up almost every two hours, even though she wasn’t hungry. She was a happy, energetic baby, but she needed constant interaction. Sleep was elusive for both of us, but I appeared to need it more than she did. I was drunk with exhaustion, and I was also scared – for the first time in my life – of getting pregnant again. To make matters worse, natural family planning wasn’t as simple anymore now that I was nursing.

There was one night when Madeline was waking up every 45 minutes when I lost it. I cried out, “Help me, God.”

And God did.

The next day I discovered an article in my parish newsletter about Christ’s journey to the cross, and all I could think of were the parallelisms to the journey into motherhood.

Although Jesus’ death on the cross pales in comparison to the act of mothering, being a good, Christian mother is undoubtedly a vocation that demands loving until it hurts – something Jesus did so well.

In today’s society there are a lot of messages out there urging mothers to pamper themselves. Get a massage. Enjoy a pedicure. Hire a nanny or a maid. Ask Dad to fold the laundry, feed the baby, cook dinner and bring home the bacon.

While agree all moms need time outs, especially time to pray and nourish their soul for the tough vocation they’ve embraced, I do have to wonder: Are we afraid to put ourselves on the line? Is “giving until it hurts” not something we’re prepared to do?

While it’s perfectly acceptable and absolutely necessary to ask for help sometimes, it’s also important to look to Christ as an example of selfless love.

Madeline is 4 years now, and she’s sleeping much, much better. And both my daughters are both so full of life and personality. I can’t complain (although I admit I do too often).  I love being a mom (most of the time). When I do have a dark “mommy moment,” I ask for God’s grace, and I gently remind myself of the following similarities between motherhood and Jesus’ journey to the cross:

Jesus gave himself unselfishly and excessively.

He could have given far less; one drop of his blood could have saved us all. Yet, he freely chose to shed every last bit of it. He gave what is beyond “enough” or sufficient. If there was more to give, he gave it. He never stopped to count the cost. Nor did he expect something in return.

Mothering can be a thankless job at times, especially when your baby is too young to hug you or even smile at you. When my babies were newborns (especially with Madeline since I didn’t know what I kind of return I’d get later on once she left what my husband and I refer to the “lump stage”), I sometimes felt like they were only handed over to me when they were crying. It was my job to pacify the infants while others (grandparents, my husband, friends) enjoyed holding them when they were content. Even in the later months Madeline, in particular, would sometimes nurse and nurse and nurse, and I sometimes felt “used.” Did this little leech only love me for my big, milky breasts?

Even as my kids grow older and “reward” me with hugs, kisses, handmade cards, handpicked flowers, “I love you, Mommy” and other statements that make my heart melt,  there won’t be any report cards or a salary to validate my performance or worth as a mother – even though it’s a 24/7 job.

But that’s not why I or any other mom takes care of their children.

Like Jesus, mothers are called to give unselfishly without expecting anything in return. We sometimes must give every last drop of milk. We have to sacrifice sleep. We are called to constantly nurture our children. Of course, the irony is that we do get so much back in return – the coos, the smiles, the intent stares, giggles, the sacred word “Mama” passed from their lips – all those little things. And at the end of the day, we can hope that the greatest reward will be to raise an unselfish, Christian child.

Jesus made his sacrifice a supreme act of love for the Church.

Jesus actually saw sacrifice as desirable – as the most perfect way to show His love for us. This isn’t a popular notion in a time when me, me, me rules the roost. Maybe this idea of “sacrifice is good for the soul” is behind the adage: “love hurts.” If it doesn’t hurt – at least a little some of the time – then is it really love?

Sacrificial love is the greatest love of all. “Greater love has no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13). Just replace man with Mom and friends with children, and it paints an accurate picture of the kind of love a mom has for her children. Every day moms lay down their lives for their children – not literally, but we do give up a lot in order to be mother to our children. Gone are the days of marathon sweat sessions at the gym, lazy Saturday afternoons of curling up with a good book, a full night’s sleep (can you tell I miss my sleep?!!?), eating a leisurely meal instead of wolfing down food so we can tend to our kids’ needs…

There’s always another diaper to be changed, another load of laundry to wash, dry and fold, another spill to be soaked up, but all these seemingly mundane tasks are tiny sacrifices and a way to show our children we love them. Jesus says, “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross daily and follow me.” (Luke 9:23). Like most moms, my life has changed a great deal since the arrival of my first child; however, by giving up a career outside of the home, sleep, and some of my free time, I’m making small (very small compared to what Christ did for us) steps down the path to holiness. Sometimes moms have to deny themselves and put their children’s needs first. When we do this, Jesus smiles down at us.

Jesus gave himself willingly and even joyfully.

Okay, here’s where it gets tough, at least for me. It’s not enough to give. As mothers, we must give with great love and joy. From making PBJ sandwiches to playing Peek-A-Boo, everything we do should be done with love. If I give as a mother all day, but then complain to my husband all night long, I am not being Christ-like. (Can you imagine if there was another chapter in the New Testament that consisted of Jesus complaining about dying on the cross for a bunch of pitiful sinners who didn’t appreciate him?). Similarly, if I hear my child cry, scoop her into my arms and then snivel in frustration, I am not being joyful in my giving.

Believe me, I’ve “lost it” more than a handful of times when Madeline has needed me in the wee hours of the night or even during the day when one of my kids throws an irrational fit. I am only human, but God calls me to be more like Jesus in everything I do.

I once read – I regrettably can’t remember where – that God does not expect us to fail. He only expects us to never fail to try. There will be days when I may complain or vent, days when my children test my patience, days when spreading peanut butter over bread seems like the most tedious chore in the whole world, but if I can just take a moment to think about Jesus and what he did for me (and how he did it with joy) then maybe I can go about my motherly duties with more love and less grumbling.

As busy moms, it may be difficult to find time to pray and remember what Jesus did for us. I’ve discovered that an easy way of honoring Him is to just pause for a moment and look at a crucifix or other religious icon (e.g., a rosary, the Bible, a book of saints, etc.) and whisper words of thanks and ask for his help. This helps me renew my strength and find peace even in the most chaotic days.

Some of the most beautiful moments of my journey into motherhood have been the ones when I’ve had to give and love until it hurts. Labor immediately comes into mind. What a joyous moment when I held my babies for the first time after hours of work! Talk about the fruit of your labor! Even those sleepless hours of the night when the rest of the house (and it feels like world) are peacefully slumbering are special. In those dark hours, my baby looks to me and no one else to “save” her (from hunger, loneliness, a wet diaper). I can only hope that with God’s grace I can continue to rise to the occasion and give freely, excessively, joyfully and with supreme love.

*A version of this essay was originally published in Canticle.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

As I quickly typed, trying to shoot out one last email, my 2-year-old daughter begged for another taste of Toddler Crack (“Elmo, peas, Mommy! Peas! Elmo now peas!”). I never thought a furry, red monster could be so addictive, but Madeline sees me pull out the laptop and she starts shaking like a strung-out junkie knowing that her next hit — an Elmo’s World computer game — is just a click away. I patted my little addict on the back. “Baby, let Mommy finish this one thing and then we’ll play Elmo.” Amazingly, this seems reasonable enough and she returned to her Pollock-like piece of art, filling her white paper with varicolored, wavering lines of scribbles.

Meanwhile, I’d forgotten all about my Kegels.

I can’t help but think that even my pelvic floor muscles have already slighted my second child. I religiously did at least 50 Kegels a day with Madeline. With this butterbean, I’m lucky to get in a few token squeezes.

I know this is just the way it’s going to be. From the moment my husband Dave and I held our firstborn, Madeline became the center of our world. She bobbed her springy head and smacked her rosebud lips. I started nursing her. She picked her nose for the first time. We caught the milestone on film (good blackmail material for when she starts dating). Nowadays when she asks me to read The Hungry Caterpillar for the umpteenth time, I oblige. (And then I curse that fat, little caterpillar for making me feel hungry again and gulping down a piece of chocolate cake, ice cream cone, pickle and maybe even some cheese and watermelon.) Our house is covered wall to wall with photos of Madeline. Her baby book reads like Faulkner; I’ve included long, detailed narratives recounting all the minutiae of her existence.

But before I’ve even pushed baby No. 2 out into the cold, unfair world, she’s already being snubbed. Not only do I forget my Kegels, I occasionally eat soft cheeses and grab a bowl of cereal instead of egg whites, sliced strawberries and a whole-wheat piece of toast (a typical prenatal breakfast during my primgravida days). I don’t get enough sleep. I regularly pick up a 28-pound package (Madeline) despite warnings not to strain myself, and some days I need a real cup of coffee (or two).

To make matters worse, we’re having another girl. Don’t get me wrong — my husband and I aren’t one of those couples who have to have a boy. Besides, we plan on having a big family, so there’s not a lot of pressure to have one gender over the other. I was actually thrilled that I’d be able to use Madeline’s vast wardrobe (courtesy of the grandparents) and nursery bedding again. But that’s just it. This little girl won’t have my undivided attention or a brand-new wardrobe. She’s our second-hand child. The one who gets our second favorite girl’s name, her sister’s hand-me-downs, board books with chewed corners, previously slobbered-on teethers and even a potty that’s been well christened. She’ll even eventually have to share Madeline’s room. It won’t ever really be her room because Madeline had it first, just like her big sister had first dibs on my breasts, love and attention.

Sometimes I worry there’s just not enough love to go around. I can’t imagine a child as worthy of my love as Madeline. Other than some sleep struggles, Madeline has been a sweet-natured, no-hassle child. The “terrible twos” have been terrific. Even her withdrawal symptoms from Toddler Crack have been manageable.

So there were moments when I felt this baby’s little jabs in utero and couldn’t help but wonder: How can I possibly ever love this little girl as much as I love Madeline? What if she cries nonstop as a newborn? What if she transforms into a tyrannical terror as a toddler? What if she screams, “Mine!” and tries to claim Madeline’s toys as her own? And even if she’s a docile, sweet and near-perfect child, will I ever love her the same way as I do Madeline?

Then I saw her first close-up.

Like chalk on a blackboard, our baby’s white silhouette filled the screen during my 20-week ultrasound. “Baby sister,” Madeline said as we watched our newest addition gracefully move in her watery world.

At one point, a tiny, fine-boned hand took center stage on the screen. It was only a grainy image, but I could clearly see each finger waving toward me like the delicate appendages of a starfish dancing beneath the undulating waves of a tide pool. And I knew, as my baby girl reached toward me, that even if she’s second in succession to her big sister, even if she turns into a tantrum-throwing tyrant, and even if we misplace her sonogram and don’t memorialize it in a fancy scrapbook, there’s more than enough love to go around and that she’s, without a doubt, second to none.

Kate Wicker wrote this essay when she was  pregnant with her second baby. Now that she’s expecting her third child, she knows for a fact that the one way to stretch your heart is to have another child.  When it comes to welcoming new children into the world, there’s always enough love to go around.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

First, the natives were restless and I woke up not once, not even twice, but three times in the night.

At the break of dawn, I had to drag my exhausted, bedraggled zombie of a self out of bed. A cup of coffee and a few rushed prayers later, I felt almost human. The kids and I were ready to go, but just as I was buckling my toddler into her car seat, I caught a whiff of something toxic. I checked her diaper and sure enough, she had a blowout that was now leaking onto her outfit. Lovely. So the three of us rushed inside for a quick diaper and wardrobe change for the baby.

Onward Christian soldiers!

Back into the minivan and off to church! We merged onto the highway into a sea of cars and I thought, “God, if you really want me to go to Mass today, why are you making it so difficult?”

There was no reply, just constant bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way to my exit.

We finally made it into church and there in the presence of Christ, I thought of something I hadn’t before.  It certainly wasn’t God blocking me from the Eucharist, making it difficult for me to get where I needed to be. He wasn’t the one encouraging me to stay home and snooze while I popped in a DVD for the kiddies or to turn around so I wouldn’t have to endure one more minute of heinous traffic.

But it was someone just as real but a whole lot harder for me to acknowledge. Maybe, just maybe, it was Satan whispering in my ear, telling me it was okay to not go to Mass, telling me I deserved a break and that God would understand, keeping me from the peace I so desperately craved, preventing me from giving thanks to Christ.

Nobody talks about the devil much anymore.  Honestly, most days I don’t give much thought to his presence, and I definitely embraced God’s existence long before I accepted Satan. Why talk about a somewhat abstract source of fear, temptation, damnation, and evil when we can focus on the real mercy and love of Christ?

Interestingly, belief in the devil is a sign of spiritual maturity, according to many theologians, including Pope Benedict XVI.

I guess that makes me a teenager in terms of my divine development.

About a year ago I was trying to make it Mass while visiting friends in Savannah. We were looking at a map of the city and heading toward the direction of the cathedral when the sky turned a steely, dark gray. Powerful gusts of winds started whipping through the buildings. I was torn. I thought I might be close to the church, but I couldn’t tell for sure and it could be dangerous to continue roaming the streets in a storm without so much as an umbrella. So we all retreated into a restaurant. Hail began to fall.

One of our friends looked at the unexpected weather (it had been sunny only minutes before) and said to me, “That’s the devil working to keep you from church.”

My first reaction was to scoff at this fire-and-brimstone perspective. As if the devil comes in the form of sudden thunderstorms. Isn’t that a little melodramatic?

Yet, when the sky cleared with surprising alacrity revealing sunshine I found myself thanking God. To show my gratitude, I decided to try to make it to Mass in time. I had just a few minutes to spare, so I sprinted off in the direction of the cathedral. As I ran through Savannah’s unfamiliar and uneven streets, trying not to trip on patches of cobblestone, I realized my friend’s words must have wheedled their way into my subconscious because in my mind I was talking to none other than the devil himself, saying, “You’re not going to keep me from Mass.”

It all made sense. If I could believe God had given me sunshine in the midst of a storm as a signpost that maybe I should try again to get to Mass, then why shouldn’t I believe the volatile weather from only moments before was a comparable message from the devil?

Still, the idea of the devil tempting me through a mass of storm clouds and hail does sound a little too weird. Too Hollywood-like and maybe I am over analyzing things (I tend to spend way too much time searching for signs), but my friend’s comment as well as the challenges I sometimes face when I’m trying to get my family to Mass are important reminders that God’s not the only one at work in my life. There are far less virtuous forces in my life. Evilness exists, as much as my happy, God-is-love, life-is-full-of-hope-and-goodness, Jesus-came-to-save-us-all, self would like to think it doesn’t.

God works in mysterious ways but so does the devil. He doesn’t tempt me as the proverbial red-faced demon, prodding me with a pitchfork to join the Dark Side. I’ve witnessed no Exorcist head-spinning effects. In my cushioned, sheltered, and blessed life, I haven’t had a personal taste of true evil, although I see glimpses of it in the news or in statistics about genocide, abortion, and violence every day.

No, the devil’s much more subtle in my life. As C.S. Lewis reminds us in The Screwtape Letters, remaining incognito is all a part of his plan. He works “undercover,” so we won’t recognize him.  He wants to be about as believable as Freddy Krueger.  Because if I’m not aware of him or his motives or even think he’s a real, presence in my life, then how can I possibly be on guard against him?

The devil doesn’t come at me with metal-clawed leather gloves or temptations in the desert. Instead, he disguises himself as seemingly justifiable excuses and rationalizations. “I’m too tired to go to Mass.” “It’s rush hour. I can’t possibly make it in time.” “It wouldn’t be fair to my kids. They need their sleep.” “My baby’s got poop all over her.”

That just may be the devil talking.

I should be making every excuse to receive the sacraments. It shouldn’t be the other way around.

Now that’s God talking.

As a mom of young children, I don’t think God expects me to flock my herd to daily Mass all of the time. However, I should be able to squeeze an extra Mass into our lives here or there.

The devil went down to Georgia the other day. He tested me in the form of a crying baby in the middle of the night and a preschooler’s fitful dreams. He appeared in an atomic diaper and a congested highway. He whispered in my ear. “It’s okay. You don’t have to go. You can always go to Mass some other time.”

But I tuned him out and chose to listen to another voice that said, “Come to me all you are weary are burdened and I will give you rest.”

And He did.

Copyright 2009 Kate Wicker

As we start to enjoy Advent and all of the related holiday festivities such as festooning our home with holiday décor, reading our favorite Christmas stories,  and counting down to December 25th with our Advent calendars, Madeline gets more and more excited.

“How much longer until Christmas?” she asks.

Like most kiddos, she’s ready for the big shebang, and really, four weeks to a preschooler can seem like an eternity.

So how do I teach her to enjoy the waiting? To relish in not only preparing for the holiday fun but also in preparing for our Lord’s coming? To not only open presents come Christmas morning but to open her heart to Jesus as well?

To start, I can be a better example. How can I expect my preschooler to be patient for Christmas when I’m always looking ahead?

I’m definitely not very good at waiting. And, I’m not always the model of patience, especially not lately when exhaustion often consumes me as I’m faced with taking care of two little ones and a baby in utero while juggling so many other things in my life. Like many moms during this time of year, it’s easy for me to start to feel overwhelmed as I attempt to tackle my holiday to-do list on top of my everyday responsibilities.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself to not get so caught up in all the peripheral holiday hoopla – from sending out a slew of Christmas cards to attending yet another Yuletide potluck  – that I’m  distracted and not nearly as mindful as I should be of the “reason for the season.”

When I really start to focus on the meaning of Advent and Christmas,  I ‘m also better able to grasp that there’s no better time celebrate Jesus than right now.

Sure, I enjoy seeing decorations and hearing Christmas carols, but I don’t really need any of the sights and sounds of the holidays to bring Jesus into my life. I don’t have to and shouldn’t wait for a holiday season or perhaps a time when I have great prayer needs to invite Christ into my life. Nor do I need to wait until Christmas morning when my family opens all those colorful presents beneath the tree to consider the gifts Jesus gives me every day.

Advent is a time for waiting and preparing, but it’s also a reminder to celebrate Jesus now. I don’t want to get so wrapped up in the holiday preparations or even in the waiting for his coming that I forget all the joy I have in my heart at this very moment because of him and his selfless love for us all.

“Mommy, it’s not going to be too much longer, is it?” Madeline asks.

No. It’s happening right now. The Light of the World is here if we only take the time to open our eyes and look….

“Mommy, I have to poop.”

“Now?”

“Now!”

This little tête-à-tête wasn’t between my daughter and me (she refuses to poop in public and often tries to get out of BMs at home, too), but with my bathroom neighbors — a mom with her young son.

I continued to eavesdrop. I couldn’t help it — the boy wasn’t being shy at all about making his “stinky.”

“I did it, Mommy! I made a big stinky!”

“Great job, Honey!”

Our children’s toilets flushed at the same time and we nearly bumped into one another as we exited the stalls.

“I’m impressed. I can’t believe how quickly he pooped in a public restroom. I have trouble getting my preschooler to poop at all,” I found myself saying.

“I know. He’s our little pooper. Oh, your baby’s so cute. How old is she?”

“A year.”

“Is she walking yet?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Don’t worry. He didn’t walk until 16 months and now he runs and jumps all over the place. Have a good day.”

And we went our separate ways — her with her talented pooping toddler, me with my not-walking-yet-baby and  poop-resistant preschooler.

I didn’t use to talk about poop with complete strangers, but something happens when you become a mom. The fact that both of your uteruses got their own zip codes when you were preggos makes for an instant connection.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with another mom or reached out to help one of my own kind. Once, I saw a frazzled mom at the grocery store.

Her baby was crying and her older child was whining. I could tell she was  on the verge of losing it, so I said to her little boy, “I love that  dinosaur on your shirt.”

He immediately stopped pining for a candy bar and started telling me all about his favorite animals. His mom smiled and mouthed a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

Other moms have done the same for me. One took my antsy baby from my arms during church. “So you can actually pay attention,” she whispered. Others have held the door for me when my arms were full and a preschooler was clinging to my pants legs. Veteran moms who know what lies ahead have uttered words of encouragement after noticing I was looking a wee bit weary toting around two kids under 4 for a “quick” errand.
“You’re doing great,” they cheer. Or, “It gets easier.”

Then there are my real friends — not just passing strangers who knowingly nod their heads or smile in support when my child has a meltdown in the produce section. Some were girlfriends long before anyone ever called us Mommy, and it’s amazing how  much closer we’ve become since we’ve been passed the holy  torch of motherhood.

When one of my kids refuses to nap (day after day) or turns beet-red during a bowel movement, I don’t immediately call my pediatrician, consult my stack of parenting books or Google “baby constipation.” Instead, I call one of my mom friends.

Unlike my childless companions, it’s only other moms who can truly offer maternal empathy. They’re the friends who won’t be totally grossed out if I talk about the color of my baby’s poop. They’re the ones who know what it’s like to notice the beautiful  curve of a newborn’s ear while she nurses and to want to cry because it’s so perfect.

They’re quick to trade tricks of the trade like how to get marker doodles off your bedspread. They still think you’re beautiful even with the white streak of diaper ointment smeared in your hair. They understand the flattening lethargy the daily grind of motherhood can bring, the profundity of giving birth to a child, the way an infant’s cries can rip you apart and the intense love and joy that goes hand-in-hand with being a mom.

They’re the ones who can say, “I’ve been there,” and really mean it. Because, in the end, we’re really just looking for the sense that we’re not alone in this journey.

Like it or not, as mothers we’re in the trenches. And just like soldiers, we need people who’ve got our backs and are going to give us cover. Sometimes during times of peace, we can laugh at our kids’ antics and share our favorite parts of being a mom. But sometimes, let’s face it, motherhood is a war (a battle of wills, a grueling campaign for sleep or pooping on the potty), and we can either be the medic and offer our support to fellow moms or humbly accept help as the wounded soldier.

I’m very fortunate because my personal mom friends are eager to enter the frontline to give me a break when I admit that being a mother ain’t always easy. But they’re also the ones who remind me that a lot of things are hard in life — like performing brain surgery, living under communist rule and going no-carb. Some things are worth it. Swearing off pasta, if you ask me, isn’t.

But all my momrades and I would agree that kids most certainly are well worth everything — the endless laundry, another hour of sleep you didn’t get, the saggy boobs, the  purple stretch marks, the “I-don’t-want-to-go-to-bed” tantrums, the crushed Cheerios in the car upholstery, the calamitous  diaper incidents, the handprint smudges all over the walls and your brand-new white pants, and the insufferable whining over  a silly plastic toy at the dollar store.

Ask most any mom — from the one you’ve just met in the  public restroom to your close friends — and they’ll tell you that kids may hijack our sleep, flat abs and sometimes our sanity, but they certainly hijack our hearts, too.