about being a mom

Today on NieNie's blog she has a post entitled, "I love being a mother today." Do you know what my first thought after reading that was? I thought "false." (Yes, not only was I being a sassy pessimist but I am turning into Dwight Schrut) Grace was up all night and then John awoke bright and early and had exploded from his diaper and my back went out... again. Don't these children realize I am in my ninth month of pregnancy and those antics are just not appreciated? Yes whine whine whine. So anyway I threw the soiled baby into the bath and he was just too cute with his singing and splashing, melting my Grinch like heart. Then both my kids really liked their scrambled eggs today and ate with gusto, a rarity for Grace. And John went into such a giggle fit that he slowly toppled over. So I decided I was in a good enough mood to read the "I love being a mother" post. In it she mentions how she likes doing housework and it reminded me of an article I read not too long ago comparing the physical work mothers do to Christ's ministry. Mothers prepare food for their children, Jesus fed the hungry the loaves and fishes. Mothers clean their children and the Savior washed his disciples feet, ect. This concept has really helped me have a more positive and grateful attitude about the seemingly mundane and repetitive chores of motherhood. I read this poem online at a room somewhere and really liked its message. I try to remind myself to slow down and relish my babies. Enjoy!

Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
hang out the washing and butter the bread,
sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.


Oh, I've grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peek-a-boo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
and out in the yard there's a hullabaloo,
but I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo).


The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
for children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep
Ruth Hulbert Hamilton