Motherhood

As I pondered today which picture I could post on social media depicting the joy of motherhood and thanking the children and family who have made me a mother, I quickly realized it wasn’t as simple as finding the best recent picture of Patricia, Elliot, and myself. For one, they would not exist if it weren’t for my husband. A picture with the four of us then? Or just one with him and me to highlight the fact that he is the one who made me a mother? Still not enough. 

When I pray for my children each morning, the beginning often goes like this: “Father, I thank you for Patricia, Elliot, and the rest of my children.” The rest being mainly Noah’s Ark children, with a few other gems I have taken under my wing in one way or another over the years. 

It is a strange situation, this partial-parenting business. So many different aunties and a few uncles, each standing in the role of parent in one way or another for children who do not have their own. We all know the scenario where if Mom says no, a child can go to Dad with the same question and get a more favorable answer before Mom has any idea she has been double crossed. Now imagine that, but when you have 50 different parents to which you can go. Consistency is a challenge, to say the least. Structure is provided on an institutional level—wake up at 6:00 am, porridge at 7:00, when to bathe, what time to go to bed. 

In two months, I will have been here nine years. The baby I picked up from the police station in my first month now stands as tall as my shoulder. My namesake, “Little” Katie. Now instead of sitting on my lap and playing drums with a pan and wooden spoon, she cooks a whole meal with instructions and supervision but very little physical help. Is this parenting? Is this motherhood? 

When exactly did I become a mother? That question has been pestering me today. 

Was it when Patricia was born? On some level, yes. That was the first time Christian and I were 100 percent responsible for the survival of a breathing, crying human being. I remember the night she was born, at three in the morning when the last in-law and midwife left the apartment, and it was just us. No one left to tell us what to do. No one else to interpret our newborn’s cries or instruct us on the next step. We felt the weight of responsibility like we felt the exhilaration of first-time parenthood. Was it that night, listening to my infant suck on her own fist like her life depended on it, that I became a mother? 

Or was it earlier, when her life started growing inside of me? At the Oregon coast the first time we heard her heartbeat on a doppler, or sitting in the airplane in Dubai when I felt the first flutters of her kicks? At that point we were still calling her Norbert. It was a magical thing, having a child that we didn’t yet really know. Especially those first weeks, when we were the only two people in the world who knew of her existence. I remember feeling like it was a miraculous secret, something I was bursting to tell everyone but also treasuring in my heart just for us, for now. 

But I don’t think that was the moment I became a mother either. The problem is—okay, maybe it is not a problem, per se—the thing is, I cannot pinpoint a moment when motherhood began. 

Was it in 2013 when six-month-old Josephine curled up on my chest and fell asleep and I knew I was in love? 

Was it when nursery-school-aged Isaac ran to me with a flying hug on parent-teacher conference day and jubilantly cried, “My parent!”? 

Was it when I picked up Katie and Colin from the police station and she was named after me? 

Was it when Thomas started spending every afternoon at my house as if it was his second home? 

Was it when I read books in the children’s home with the oldest group of girls every night, or when I went room to room singing lullabies as the children went to bed? 

Was it when teenagers started confessing sins and struggles to me, asking for advice and prayer and acceptance and forgiveness? 

Was it when one by one, other aunties and staff members left Noah’s Ark, leaving only a handful of us who have been a part of the children’s lives this long? 

Does it go back even further, to LWBC and our Ellie Adventure Days and afternoons at camp with Will? 

The first children’s sleepover in my house? The first time I cried at their pain? The first time I had to discipline? The first time I had to ask a child for forgiveness? 

Where does motherhood actually start? Is there a real beginning? 

In this culture, motherhood is fluid. Aunties and grandparents are often called mothers if they have taken on a role of caring for a child. In the beginning, it confused me—a friend could tell me her mother had died years ago and then next week go for the burial of her mother. Or someone could introduce me to two different women in the same day, calling both of them her mother. It took some time before I stopped second-guessing what I had heard and realized that yes, all these women were mothers. It takes a village, doesn’t it? 

Our church service today illustrated the complexity of institutional parenthood. The CEO did not ask all mothers to stand up. That would have been a simple request, but one that would leave more than half of the adults in the church in a gray area. Biological mothers? Adoptive mothers? Mothers by profession? Instead, he asked every woman 18 years and older to stand up. He acknowledged that some of us have families in our own homes, some are aunties whose job is literally to parent these children, and some—like our grown-up teenagers—have no official parenting role or title, but have been caring for young ones for years already. Every one of us was a mother in some sense of the word. And every one deserved to be celebrated and appreciated today.

This Mother’s Day, my (biological) children and I spent some time thanking the other mother figures in their lives. Elliot spent the morning with Ruth, his favorite teenage baby-sitter. We made cards and delivered cookies to Auntie Rebecca, who runs the daycare with such love and care that we never have to worry whether our children are in good hands. After the church service I gave Priscilla, another of our teenagers and favorite baby-sitters, a quick hug and thanked her for her love for my kids. And that is barely scratching the surface. I have to say, I am a big fan of our village. 

I still need to sift through my pictures and find one that can fit with this post and this day, but I am relieving myself of the pressure of finding one perfect photo to sum up what motherhood means to me. One will not suffice. Not by a long shot. (I haven’t even mentioned the mothers it took to make me, and make me a mother!) But let me end this Mother’s Day with a heart full of gratitude for the mothers, children, and family who have made me a mother in so many different senses of the word. On this day especially, I thank God for you. 

Happy Mother’s Day.