On Mothers and Motherhood

May 2022

This month we asked our writers to reflect on Mothers and Motherhood

To my mother

Joseph Carlson
MSMU Class of 2025

I did not, nor do I, deserve you. That was the point, wasn’t it? That I should grow up only knowing grace, only knowing the unconditional love which is the very reason for my existence? That I would have the joy that comes from gratitude for being loved gratuitously. I didn’t do anything for you, Mom. I wasn’t an investment, at least not a good one, because for all that you’ve done for me, I will never be able to give you that time and effort back. Even when, God willing, you are old and gray, and I am taking care of you, that cannot compare to what you’ve done for me. I would not exist without you, and all I am beyond that would not exist either. You formed me, Mom. I grew up with the expectation that the point of life was to give selflessly, that the point of parenting is to love your children with your whole self. Thank you.

Someday I will be a parent. I am happy at that but terrified, because I know that every little virtue and every little vice I manifest will be a lesson to my children on how they ought to conduct themselves.

That is the peculiar thing, of course, that many of my vices now are the same sort of ones you struggle with. In the grand scheme of all that you have given me I have only to be thankful, but I certainly did get your stubbornness. It did not always make for the most cohesion in the house between you and me, but truly, there was never a moment when I doubted that you would forgive me. It drives me to want to make up for all the wrongs that I’ve done. You often pop the bubble that is my ego, and thank God for it. Mom, you never deserved the slander I accosted you with when I was younger. If there is anything that will be your greatest merit in Heaven, it is the abuse you took for my sake.

Your heart is always so open. You are a testament to the truth that, in order to love someone, you don’t have to understand them completely. We’ve worked on it since, but there is even still a sort of gap in our understanding of each other, although it is so much narrower than before. Your heart, still, was open to my desires, my hurts, my feelings, my ambitions, and in it, they were always accommodated. You never capitulated to what I wanted when you knew or thought it was wrong, thank goodness, but you still cared.

Only God knew that when you had me we would have such opposite personalities in so many ways, all of us in the family. Yet, He knew what He was doing, because now, as a unit, there is almost no virtue that all of us lack. For almost every moment one of us is irrational, another one of us is rational. For every moment that one of us went astray, the other would pull them back. Whenever you grew, I grew, and when I grew, you grew; and you let it all happen. Children are expected to learn from their parents, but you decided that, even though what you could learn from me was miniscule compared to what I could learn from you, you would learn from me still. Even though I was difficult to understand, you spent so much time investigating, reading, and attempting to know how to love me better. And even when your solutions weren’t exactly what I thought I needed, the love you gave me was certainly what I needed.

That’s the thing; moms are just people too, people who have decided that they will devote their entire lives to a particular group, a family. You could have fallen short, Mom. You had your own baggage, suffering that had to be set aside every single time I needed anything. Yet, you never hesitated. I wouldn’t have picked a different mother for myself had she been even more virtuous than you. There is no doubt in my mind, even though you didn’t always fully understand the particulars of what you were to do, that the greatest parts of who I am came from your unconditionally love for me. You’ve done your duty, and well.

But I know that it was never just a duty for you; I know that you did it so well because you did it solely for my sake, out of love. When there was a choice to be made between my good and yours, never, not once, did you choose yourself. When you knew I needed you, you were there. Thank you, Mom.

The joy of being your son has come most of all, not only from the wonderful love you’ve shown me, but from getting to know you as a human being, a person with her own personality, dreams, desires, hurts, fears, and loves, just like me. The divisions between many children and their parents occur often because they do not see each other in this way. You have often told me how proud you are of me and my siblings. You never cite our accomplishments, although you are proud of those. You always simply said that you are happy to have known us so intimately as people. You love us for the particular persons we are, and this is now what I most look forward to when I someday am a parent. You reminisce about what it was like when we were children, but in the context of who we are now, and you’ve told me that it is even better to be my mother now that I am grown than then. You love me, you’ve always loved me, and I have never doubted it. Even in moments of pride, of fear, I’ve always known that you love me, and I love you. Thank you, Mom.

Read other articles by Joseph Carlson

All that motherhood is

Claire Doll
MSMU Class of 2024

There’s a picture of my mother somewhere in my basement. A photograph, tattered and worn, capturing a moment in time where my mother wasn’t yet a mom—she was simply a young adult, age twenty like me, with loose, brunette curls and a sun-filled smile. Finding this photograph as a twenty-year old now, I wonder what my mother was like before she had my sister and me. I wonder if she knew she’d have a daughter that would grow to be like her, with the same ever-changing blue-green eyes and dry hands in the winter and stubborn, hardheaded attitude. I wonder how she did it, how she raised me, and most importantly, how she put up with me.

When I was sixteen, I knew everything. I wore just a sweatshirt to school in 20-degree weather, because the cold never bothered me. I was picky with my wardrobe, with what I ate, with how I looked, because what sixteen-year-old wasn’t? And inevitably, I picked fights with my mother. I was never an early riser, so waking up before the sun for school resulted in mornings of bickering and talking back and the most awful of attitudes. Maybe it was because my mom and I were so alike in our stubbornness, or maybe I was just a mean, irritated teenager. Whatever the case, growing up, my relationship with my mother was defined by these tumultuous ups and downs.

But I’ve learned that we challenge the people we love most. My mom sees me at my best and at my worst; she not only knows every tear that slides down my cheek, but also wipes them away as they fall, whether I’ve stumbled off my bike, or whether I’ve had my heart broken by a boy. And through it all, she has painted a lovely and true image of what being a mother is.

Motherhood is holding your daughter’s hand, both when she learns to walk and when she experiences her first heartbreak. It’s loving your daughter even when she yells, even when she slams the door in your face. It’s staying up late to make sure your daughter arrives home, only to wake up early the next morning to bake her breakfast, chocolate chip muffins topped with extra syrup. Motherhood is writing notes to sneak into lunchboxes, ending each message with a sincere "I love you." It’s knowing that your daughter’s tears are temporary, knowing that she’s stronger than she thinks, and telling her all of this. But motherhood is ultimately watching your daughter grow into someone who wishes to be exactly like you.

My mom is the strongest, happiest, most fulfilled, and most selfless person I know. When my older sister was born, my mother sacrificed her job as a nurse to care for her daughters. Because of that, I am overwhelmingly thankful. I would never have been able to pursue extracurriculars in high school, maintain straight A’s, hang out with friends, and even go to college. This kind of selflessness makes me wonder how my mom herself lived. How could she be so loving? How could someone have the power to raise another life? How did she do it all in the past twenty-some years?

There’s a lyric from one of my favorite Taylor Swift songs—"Never Grow Up"—that refers specifically to motherhood and nostalgia: "Remember, that she’s getting older too." As children, we tend to look at our parents as frozen in time. We grow old, from jubilant toddlers and kids to angsty teens and matured young adults. We live freely and joyously in our youth, because when we’re that young, the world is just beginning. It’s colorful and beautiful and ripe and has everything we’ve ever hoped for. But seldom do we realize how our parents age with us. They watch us take our first steps, send us off to kindergarten on the bus, and then in the blink of an eye, sit in the audience at our high school and college graduations. How could someone possibly go through all of that? How could they find the courage and wisdom to not only care and provide for a human, but also give them wings to fly into the world? In mother-daughter relationships, moms especially possess such strong and empathetic hearts during all of this. There are tears and fights and attitudes and bickering, but at the end of a long day, they know how to love more than ever, and they never stop loving. It’s unceasing and abounding.

It’s a feeling I certainly cannot explain, but someday hope to. I hope I can possess even half of the selflessness, of the strength and beauty that my mother has. I hope I can clearly and thoroughly express how thankful I am for what she gave up and continues to give up for me. I hope I can somehow make up for all the sleep she lost just to make sure I got home safe, and I hope I can be a light to her like she is to me.

Now I come home from college on the weekends, and I can’t wait to hug my mom. To sit down and tell her all about my day, while trying the new cookies-and-cream peanut butter she bought off Amazon. To order out dinner and watch an episode or two of "Big Little Lies." We moved houses a couple of years ago, and our new home has a big chalkboard in the kitchen. Each week, my mom writes a quote on the board, so that when my sister and I come home from college, we "feel inspired," as she says. But I just hope she knows that I don’t need a quote or a song lyric or anything to feel inspired. All I have to do is look at my mother, look at how beautiful and strong she is, look at how she smiles with such gentleness and love—that is what inspires me, and will continue to inspire me, for as long as I live.

Read other articles by McKenna Snow

Marmalade, multitasking, and motherhood

McKenna Snow
MSMU Class of 2023

It is too monumental a task to try to sum her up in a thousand words. Even with a picture of her to go along with it, you’d be missing out on far too much. She’s fun. She’s kind. She’s my mom.

As I write this, I am home for Easter weekend, and I watch her sitting in a chair, looking up recipes for a ham she wants cook overnight. She’s petting our little pug. Her grey skirt is comfortably posing like a blanket against her white sweater, which contrasts her dark ponytail. She asks me if I know what orange marmalade is. Dad walks into the room and she asks him if he thinks orange marmalade would go with ham. He thinks it would be too sweet. They talk about ham and Easter quiche recipes for a while, and then she starts talking about my three youngest siblings and their spelling sentences. She’s taught all eight of us how to read and write. Now that I’m older, I get to watch in real time how she teaches my little siblings math and science, and how to read a short story.

I can hardly imagine how difficult motherhood is. There seem to be a million handbooks and parent guides and online resources, but at the same time, there are hardly any resources at all. Each and every parent’s life, and child, is new, different, unique. Each parent’s life has so much in common with every other parent’s, and yet each is worlds apart from their personal experiences.

My mom has been married to my dad for 27 years. When I look at her and see her laugh, I catch a glimpse of her from her college years. She is so pretty, joyful, and has a vibrant personality. When she was in college, she majored in special education, and was an incredibly talented singer. She could have given the world those talents and gifts. She could have shared them on a larger scale with school classrooms who would have loved her, and with professional singing opportunities that would have amazed many. Instead, she turned to a very interior life, homeschooling her children, and helping those in her most immediate community. She did this in small ways that made big differences to people, such as by leading groups that help support the military wives whose spouses were currently deployed, while her own husband was also deployed and she had five young children to care for. She turned to making friends with the other young moms in the homeschool group, helping her kids meet theirs to have playdates. She helped out at the local Catholic church and at parish events.

She has stretched in a thousand directions for us. She got piano lessons for us, took us to weekly adoration and daily Mass, karate, horseback riding lessons, violin… And when her kids starting growing up, she drove us to our first jobs, to get our drivers’ license, and to colleges for tours. She’s been with me, and all my siblings, through each stage of our lives. Now I am at college, looking into the face of one last year of it, and she and my dad are supporting me all the way through. I can’t thank them enough for all that they have done and continue to do for me.

My mom has taught me a lot of things, but one of the greatest is this: motherhood does not have to mean an abandonment of one’s dreams and talents. My mom’s love of music and singing wasn’t abandoned; it just looks like singing John Mayer in the car with her kids, taking me to violin lessons, and driving her incredibly gifted son to piano lessons for 10+ years. Her love of music looks like sharing great 80’s music with my dad while they cook dinner together for their family of ten. It looks like helping me discern what music is worthy of me listening to and what is not—teaching me to be picky about what lyrics are worth singing along to, and which aren’t.

My mom has shown me what a generous heart looks like. Generosity comes in many forms, and it is often accompanied by joy. She is kind and thoughtful with everyone she meets, showing how her vocation to motherhood extends to those outside of her own family, even if it is simply with a caring encounter to those she meets in passing. She’s the type of person to happily strike up a conversation with the person bagging the groceries to see how they are doing, make friends with the mailman, and leave small Christmas gifts out for the people who pick up our trash every week.

In my own home, I am thankful for the many ways she has shown generosity to me, in giving her time, attention, love, and material things. She shares a sweater from her closet when I can’t find one that goes with my outfit, but she doesn’t just tell me to borrow it; she tells me to keep it.

My mom really is something of a Wonder Woman in real life, but she has shown me that all she can do comes from God first, and nothing she does is really of her own accord. Her Catholic Faith is what gives her joy, energy to keep up with the craziness of life, and a love for us that will not go out. My dad and her have passed many things down to me but above all of them, I am most grateful for the Faith they have helped me cultivate. They have been there for me while I figure it out for myself, make my own decisions about what I really believe, and have given me the resources to pursue my life in the fullness of Christ.

Parents do a lot for their kids, and give a lot for them. I have seen it firsthand in my home and know I have grown up in something special. Seeing my mom in little moments like these, when she asks me if I like marmalade, I see it: my mom is many things all at once, and all at once she is just one thing: my mom.

Read other articles by McKenna Snow

Future Mother’s Day

Emmy Jansen
MSMU Class of 2022

"Happy Mother’s Day," Joe, an elderly gentleman at my church, would say to my mother, pulling up his walker to sit at the table with us. He was a Puerto Rican immigrant who taught me lots about marriage, war history, and good books. "And happy future Mother’s Day to you," he would turn to me and remark, giving me a smile that always carried more than one twinkle in his eye.

Joe has since passed away and this will be my second Mother’s Day without him there to celebrate with us after Mass. This comment that he made to me, year after year in the parish social hall, has stayed with me regardless of the month or holiday we’re in. It probably started when I was fifteen, much too young to care about motherhood or even know if it would be a part of my life. Joe saw straight through my teenaged confusion and included me in a holiday that I never felt was about me. It was—and still is—a day to honor my own mother and grandmother as well as those mothers around me.

Yet, as I approach the age where I’m starting to consider things like family and marriage, I’m realizing motherhood is more than just parenting. Recently in an English class, we were discussing motherhood and the topic shifted to discussing what age is best for women to have children. Most female students were arguing that they felt it was better to be older; even though their mother’s had them in their early twenties, these 20-somethings said they felt years away from being prepared to bring another human being into this world. Our professor, a mother herself, remarked, "You’re never completely prepared."

I can’t concur with this opinion from personal experience, but I believe it to be true. Because motherhood is so much more than bringing life into the world, and it lasts much longer than the eighteen years many children live at home.

I see this in my own mother. She had a life before any of my siblings came into the picture, but for my entire existence, she’s always held the role of mother. It’s hard for me to distinguish between her and motherhood, because they seem organically intertwined. I can’t picture her before marrying my dad or what she looked like at her high school prom. I know that part of her life exists, but it is not one to which I am privy. Maybe that’s how it should be; I like knowing that even though I am her own flesh and blood, there were parts that she kept to herself.

Because although motherhood is a total giving of self, especially physically, the mother doesn’t cease to exist. There is something given to the child, whether in body or spirit, yet something retained. Our DNA may be essentially similar, but we are distinct people. She has shaped me, yet she has remained an individual despite the five kids she has raised.

While every second I spend with my mom is in a mother-daughter relationship, there are times where it seems more prominent. My mom is currently singing ‘Amazing Grace’ as she walks around the house, making sure every inch is in perfect order for Easter tomorrow. All of her kids and grandkids will be under one roof, for the first time in months. I’m the fourth of five kids and I watched the older three grow older, get jobs, and slowly move away. Gradually, seats at the dinner table emptied, with kids at afterschool jobs or moved out completely. For a while, we’d place a statue or stuffed animal in the missing child’s seat, to mark their presence even if they weren’t physically eating with us. We’ve drifted away from that, with the youngest leaving for college in August, but this sentiment still remains: that we feel the absence of our siblings, and our mom doubly so.

I think this is where I see my mom’s motherhood the most. Last Easter, I was stuck on campus in quarantine housing while my family was enjoying sunshine and good food. This Easter marks not only the first Easter I’ll get to attend in-person in two years, but also a celebration where every family member will be under the same roof. I know this is what drives my mother’s spirit as she spends the day cooking and cleaning—even though she knows that no one is here just for the food and hygiene, but to come home to her. My mom feels the most whole when everyone she loves and cares for is together and under her wing of protection.

And I think this is what makes motherhood. It is not just in the creation of life, but the noticing of when life isn’t present. I know no one felt my absence from last year’s Easter dinner more than my mom, and I know no one will be happier to see every chair full tomorrow. Mothers are those who notice our absence and celebrate our presence. It is this constant and eternal care and attention that our mothers deserve endless gratitude for.

I’m glad Joe was there to prepare me for the vocation of motherhood, welcoming me into this world which seems so intimidating, and rightly so. His perspective of motherhood as something worth celebrating, even years before it is a reality, is something that propels me towards that threshold. As I watched my older sister turn into a mother herself, I know that it is an experience that marks you, but does not change the individual you already were. I still see the spunky, confident teenager she was as I watch her care for her own daughters. I know that one day my younger sister will watch that happen for me, and wonder when I stopped being the little girl she shared a bedroom with. And even though I don’t know who my mother was before my oldest brother came into this world, I know those parts of her exist; I’ve just always called them ‘mom’.

Read other articles by Emmy Jansen

Read Past Editions of Four Years at the Mount