|DOWN HOME with Granny B|
A wise man who understood the marvelous miracle of children and the mothers who love them once wrote:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
for they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
for life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and he bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Lat your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Sometimes with all the bending, we mothers fear we'll break. But when we hang in there a little longer, we find more bend inside than we knew we possessed.
Being a mother is a tremendous responsibility and an unequaled joy - a lifelong, exhilarating/exhausting, exuberant/exasperating task.
I'd rather make a home than a fortune. I'd rather bow for the tender kisses of my children and grandchildren than before millions of fans.
I believe a loving home is the greatest gift one person can give another.
Being a good old average mom is truly one of the few irreplaceable jobs in the world. Whatever else I do with my life, someone else can do it, even if I become President of the United States. But I'm the only person who can by my children's mother.
Years ago my fourteen-month-old daughter Amy struggled for oxygen in the hospital pediatric ward. Amy was terrified and screamed when the nurse tried to place her in a croup tent. But when I slipped off my shoes, lifted my body up onto the hospital bed, maneuvered myself into the croup tent, and reached out for her, Amy quickly crawled into the ominous hissing enclosure and into my waiting arms. Her small shaking body lovingly molded to mine as she gently laid her tiny head on my shoulder. You see, Amy knew that if her mother was there, no matter how frighteng it it appeared, she would be home and safe in my arms.
Through all the carrying, delivering, holding, feeding, changing worrying, comforting, cleaning, encouraging, and working - the burdens of motherhood sometimes grow heavy. Yet because of that weight, we discover a stronger person inside.
Through loving our children, we are born again.