As a young child it was my most dreaded job and unfortunately one of my mothers most popular hobbies was to create elaborate English herb gardens and flowerbeds that grew weeds in abundance. Secretly I believed that she gave birth to three strong children simply to use them as serf labor in her grandiose schemes of turning the Montana wilderness into something tamed and "civilized". Which of course in her defense, as an adult, I do understand was not the case.
Weeding is just so un-pleasant. It's boring for one, and infuriating for another, there is nothing more frustrating then laboring hard over a bed of dirt to turn around two days later and have it all for nought. There is something awful about getting dirt jammed under your fingernails, and the feeling of dry dusty dirt drying on your hands is not high on my favorite sensations. Yes, I truly dislike weeding, which may explain why I haven't even attempted a garden in my adult life, which is also because I seem to have a cursed brown thumb that could kill even plastic plants. I have never been successful, not even once. In keeping a small green thing alive. I've even killed African Violets, which my mother assures me is the most hardy and un-killable plant there is, as they are in fact..from Africa and do survive in some of the most inhospitable conditions possible. But that is no match for my plant killing skill apparently. There are no African violets in my house at the moment, if that tells you anything.
So yes, I'm not great at growing things, and I hate weeding. Which is ironic, because in the development of character as a garden plot...I am in great need. More then the average person out there I think. I have always considered myself selfish. More then most. I have had a great knack of getting what a wanted through-out my life for which I am not proud. As well as sometimes being a bit of a bulldozer when I have something in my sights and ashamedly at times have left the wreckage of the ends justifying the means in my wake. Again, I am not proud of this. I could go on with other arguments to substantiate my claims of being more selfish then most, but am also guilty of a fair bit of pride so will stop before it is to embarrassing.But motherhood, doesn't allow much room for selfishness it appears...or if it does, I haven't found out how. I know this because motherhood hurts. It hurts in the selfishness department and by this I know I've got to weed.
I have always feared that somewhere I've missed some "goodness" gene, or at least a natural mothering gene. I felt this first during pregnancy when, I heard other expecting mothers profess love for their unborn children in glowing terms of endearment and express that whatever discomfort they may be experiencing, be it vomiting, back pain, leg cramps, loss of sanity, loss of sleep, loss of memory...whatever it was, would in fact all be worth it once they saw that little child. I'll be honest, I wasn't so sure. I felt like a host planet to aliens and resented the invasion of my body. Which of course I felt guilty about. And I feel guilty now, when young new mothers talk about the joys of motherhood and how life is so much better now that they came along, and how did they ever live with out them. I'll be honest, I remember how I did. Life was easier then...Dustan and I actually knew how to communicate fairly well, I got a lot more sleep, I didn't feel like I was on a hair trigger of insanity, and it was fairly easy to complete everyday tasks. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing most days, and was a dependable, reliable, on time kind of person, who's house was respectable at most points, and appearance was mostly professional. Not any more! And guess what, it hurts a bit. It hurts to be knocked down to size, actually to feel like you've been knocked down to miro-size. It's painful to feel like you are divided and lacking on all fronts and failing miserably in some. I hate to say this because I don't hear it often from other mothers so I feel a bit like a chicken with its neck out...but I've got to say it just in case there is a mother anywhere in the world who feels like me and needs to know she isn't insane. Or if she is, that she isn't the only one.
And to encourage her to hang on, just do the next thing, keep working hard, and praying harder...and to hold so tight, to the precious little moments that slip in during those insane days. The moments of a little hand squeezing your finger, the calm that ensues in a hysterical child from your touch and yours alone, for the little imp smile that makes them so hard to be mad at when you find them putting all their toys in the toilet bowl, and for the beautiful face that is a part of you. These are God's gift to remind you, you were in fact...made to be a mother.
