With all the disinformation about people with uteruses and all types of family structures—plus the sad decline in the West’s birth rates— it’s worth considering the divine calling that is drowned out by all this noise. Motherhood, a high privilege reserved for biological females, is as much a journey as a destination and, as such, requires a trustworthy roadmap.
When moms my age first got pregnant, we had a roadmap; we were in the midst of the Babywise movement. To be a good mom, you had to make baby sleep, eat, and play on a strict schedule; this presumably established order and kept the little bundle from controlling your life. Of course, this also entailed letting babies “cry it out” after bedtime; savvy moms needed to resist the naughty temptation to pick up a screaming infant during the Babywise “sleeping” hours.
Most of my friends followed the Babywise teachings carefully, and it seemed like the system had its merits. They went to trendy restaurants with a sitter at home, confident that come what may, little Madison would have a bottle at 6:15 and be tucked away by 7:00. Oh, the freedom! Unfortunately, little Madison would also be up by 6:00 a.m., but that was okay; nap number one was scheduled for 9 a.m.
For various reasons, however, the Babywise system never appealed to me. I used a different roadmap—the natural approach. I was a breastfeeding, health-obsessed young mom, fully convinced that baby formula would turn my kids into Type-2 diabetics or dummies. I used cloth diapers because it was an obvious way to save money and avoid waste. I bought a grain-grinder and bulk containers of whole wheat, millet, and dried corn; I spent hours making my own fresh-ground whole wheat muffins, cornbread, pancakes and pizza crusts. Store-bought baby food was a no-no; it had to be cooked, pureed, and frozen in my own kitchen, or it didn’t cross my babies’ lips. The 21st century had no appeal for me when it came to the care and feeding of my children.
When it came to childcare, I was even less flexible, and perhaps for good reason. I didn’t want my kids hanging out at a preschool, collecting stomach bugs and jacked up on juice boxes and Goldfish while missing out on all the outdoor play, good books and correction they’d get at home. Preschool, to me, was just a means of picking up germs and bad behavior.
Along the way, though, I sometimes questioned my homesteader instincts; they weren’t quite the thing among more fashionable moms, and I didn’t like being dowdy. While I was laboring through homemade days, they were dropping kids off at mom’s morning out or preschool. When they went on date nights, they weren’t worried about hurrying back to nurse the six month old. I was full of home-keeping passion, but burdened with keeping it all afloat; they, by comparison, seemed to be breeze by with style, managing life with sitters, playgroups, and of course, Babywise.
Now twenty-three years in, my college kids are eating Taco Bell, not millet muffins; they’re enjoying late nights out with friends, not gathering on the sofa to listen to the next chapter of Paddle to the Sea. Nobody has to endure my lesson plans or trips to the farmer’s market anymore. They’ve gotten flus, strep, and all the other viruses I battled valiantly to avoid.
And as for my friends whose babies were invisible from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m? Their kids do the same things. If my Babywise buddies or I were judged according to our kids’ college diets and bedtimes, we would all get a giant “F” for our trouble. Our manuals and systems, it seems, didn’t produce the results we’d labored for all those years.
Obviously, early childhood routines are not intended as roadmaps that follow our children to college; nap schedules and homemade baby food have a limited lifespan. Even the school-age feats of mothering strength—being a team mom, hosting class parties, or chairing a gala—are but passing attractions that will leave their legacies only in social media posts or scrapbooks, if anyone keeps those anymore.
To be a mother demands far more than all this. Mothers must steward young souls as they navigate this small and bumpy sliver of eternity. It means showing them how to walk heavenwards and spot the fingerprints of God along the way. It means harnessing every every experience of natural beauty, human interaction, musical talent or athleticism to glimpse into the Creator’s heart and mind. “For in him all things were created,” and “in Him we live, and move, and have our being.”
It also requires a well-developed sense of danger, discretion, and conviction. When you send your children to school, will they spot the malignant fads passing for history, English, or art? Will they be prepared when a classmate mocks their shoes or their beliefs? Will they recognize good character and avoid the bad? Or will they be taught that truth is dynamic, cowardice is kindness, and that all roads lead to the same happy place?
Mothers, then, must prepare for the vicissitudes of this adventure by consulting the correct roadmap. It must name roads as they are, not as they are imagined. It must stand on objective truth, not squishy ideas from Oprah’s book club. It must clearly mark life’s spiritual swamps, toll roads, and cemeteries—the costly decisions that exact emotional pain; and most of all, it must lead to the right destination.
Unfortunately, many mothers navigate life with a map that doesn’t reflect our spiritual realities. In fact, they may not even use a map at all. They are foolishly optimistic, imagining a world of good intentions and positive energy, where things just “work out” through believing in yourself, trusting “the village” or getting advanced degrees. They tack to the left or the right with shifting winds of culture—lifelong learners, but never arriving at the truth. They raise up the next generation of the gullible and gutless, certain they are making the world a better place.
In truth, every soul is traveling towards eternity in a world of objective good and evil. Everything in life pulls toward a distant, yet present, eternity—either through the dark caverns of sensuality or unbelief, or through the bright transcendence of divine purpose. Our children’s education, relationships and pursuits play a role in leading them along toward one destination or the other; so mothers must evaluate those experiences with that in mind.
Let me illustrate this point in miniature. When my children were young, I wanted them to love the outdoors and soak up all the beauty. It was my job (and my husband’s) to introduce them to colors of the sunset, Blue Ridge trails, and the thrill of diving under waves. I wanted eight year-olds to read children’s poetry on a quilt outside in October. Winter was for crisp hikes, cozy fires, coloring, and Narnia tales. In the spring, I wanted them building outdoor forts; in summer, I wanted them swimming, playing baseball, and living outside. I wanted them to love all the simple pleasures of God.
Most of all, though, I wanted them to know God. None of those other pleasures could rise above mere entertainment if they were not tangible expressions of the God who exists, and who designed a universe for our delight and his mysterious glory. His kingdom, in the end, is the happier destination, and in our daily pleasures, I pointed them to that end.
