Out of a Mother's Heart

Tonight I found myself battling a familiar anxiety. It’s been about a month with it—a lingering doubt and tug-of-war with assurance and question.  And though the plaguing uncertainty is a former, long-time acquaintance of mine, the subject to which I found it is something still yet new.

I have a five-month-old baby girl. She is my muffin, sweetie bun, and a source of complete joy. Soon after she was born, I began trekking the road of maternal cares (that’s the complex name for motherly worry).  There was a concerning day in which she chose not to eat for 8 hours straight, the night I couldn’t tell if she was holding a temp too high, the days she started crying a cry unfamiliar; I’m sure there are more moments to add in which my heart would tremor and my mind began scurrying for reassuring answers. This isn’t paranoia. It’s only the simple, crash course introduction to the world of motherhood.

Mind you, I was not an overly worried pregnant woman. I didn’t struggle much with doubt to whether my body wasn’t doing what it should do to grow and maintain my baby. I knew where she was, I knew she was being fed and cared for perfectly in the warm shelter of my womb, held and being formed by our loving God. Enter scene: birth of baby girl. Now commenced the “job” of mothering: identifying needs, responding correctly to needs, fulfilling needs. Mind you, this is a very bare bones summation of the job, but there you have it. And the challenge begins! Is she hungry? Is she teething? Is she cold? Is she hot? Is she “dot, dot, dot”? I can hear Aladdin singing “A whole new woooorld!”

But the most recent question of concern began around her four-month birthday. We were attending her routine well-check at the clinic. It’d been two months since the previous appointment, and Danny and I had jabbed guesses at her new weight; those lingered around a predictably healthy range for our petite little girl. After we laid our sweet baby gingerly on the scale, the numbers popped up, first in kilograms (virtually a foreign language to us Americans) and then came the translation. We were surprised. It seemed a bit off from our estimations, a little lower than we anticipated. The wonder continued as her provider came in and sat to review the charts. Routine questions followed and then came a vote of concern from the practitioner: she should be gaining more. My husband and I sat puzzled. Our babe was always content, happy, and kickin’ down the milestones well. Not to mention sleeping through the night for some time. We couldn’t understand the discrepancy we now seemed posed with. But we took the suggestion to try things a little differently and see how she was doing in a week.

It worked out that the follow up wouldn’t be for another two weeks instead of one. And in that time we adjusted things somewhat reluctantly due to how well she’d been doing in every other respect. By the second week, things grew exponentially more difficult. Her daytime sleep became nearly nonexistent, but rather filled with bouts of confusing fussiness. She’d then surprise us with earlier waking hours in the morning. This was not the baby we knew. I delved into a little research for some insight and it appeared that alongside the changes we had made, she was very likely undergoing a common “learning leap,” a sort of “brain” growth spurt, for her age. It would explain some of the uncharacteristic behavior we were finding. And yet we felt pretty strongly that the other suggested changes were held culprit as well. We knew things needed to change to work back towards pre-four-month check-up.

After the two weeks of craziness, the scale spoke encouragement, and we decided to readjust to what we felt would be best for her and our family. I kept a careful eye and tried to access things as accurately as possible. At night I’d set her down to bed with prayers for wisdom, that God would give her everything she needed to grow and do well. These requests were familiar throughout the course of her fifth month. And I find myself still repeating them.

Always uncertainty. We strive to do what’s best, to trust the Lord as He leads and the “motherly intuition” He does provide. And yet there seems always a shade of grey. We don’t own a good scale for monitoring our baby girl’s weight. And little things during the course of each day would cause me to wonder, “Is she getting enough? Do I not have enough? Do we need to change this? Try that?” It’d become a habit now: Googling for possible answers, reading mom forums for reassurance and insight, explaining my concerns over the phone, asking, in so many ways, “What do I do? Is everything fine?”

Tonight was filled with the “aforementioned.” But I met with the more common result: no peace. Despite what I read—many mom’s bearing testimonies of perfectly petite, healthy babies and many believed “myths” of low milk supply—my anxious heart would not settle. And my hungry gut said ditch the computer and find some dinner. So as I sat on the floor next to our coffee table with rewarmed roast beef from the night before, I finally opened my journal to do the one thing I probably should’ve done long before.

I cut to the chase; I knew God knew what was lying heavily upon my heart and running incessantly through my mind, so I laid out my cares readily (“desperately” might be a better descriptor). I wrote to Him, praying out aches for encouragement and seeking a silence to my worry and fear. I knew I ultimately needed Him for my peace of mind. I couldn’t find it on the internet or from a friend. So I ate my roast and sought Him there.

I was reminded of how small our sweet girl was at birth, ten days over due. She was small, that is, to the professionals. At the hospital, they wanted to check her blood sugar before feedings to make sure everything looked good. Then I thought of how small she would’ve been had she been born “on time.” But God knew she needed longer to grow. Longer to grow…

So then I wondered, does she just need longer to grow? Even now, months after birth, are You just taking longer, or rather, going slower?

“Do not worry”(reference to Matthew 6)…

You care for the flowers of the fields.

“Do not worry about what you eat or drink”… I remembered how Jesus spoke of the birds, how God cares for them, how much more so for us…

You care for the birds… She’s my little song bird (the meaning of her middle name!)…. Oh Jesus. You give her everything that she needs.

“He gives them their food at the proper time” (reference to Psalms)

God, I love my beautiful baby girl! She is my flower, my little bird. Please give her what she needs!

Then He flooded it to memory. The verse He had given me for Danny and I shortly after we got engaged, a promise we’ve held to these past couple years since. The whole of the verse is Psalm 37:25-26. But it was the end of verse 25, the main course, that He spoke then.

You’ll never see your children begging bread.

Having remembered, I immediately sobbed. The deepest part of me ached a different ache as I sat on the floor of my living room, tears flowing, journal open with the conversation there. I just… sobbed. Thanksgiving rushed with my tears.  And a comfort from being held close, understood, and given understanding. He spoke so perfectly and knew so well my “mother’s heart.”

He promised.

I can give my sweet girl the “bread” of my milk, but I want her further nourished on the bread of Jesus’ life, His promises, His life in me. I want to give her not just what’s good, but what’s best. He alone is best. He has what’s best. And He causes her to grow.

I love my baby girl with something at the core of me, the unfathomable love of a mother, and the perfect love of God that casts out all fear.

And just leaves me sobbing, speechless, and overwhelmed.

Thank You, God. Thank You for knowing.

Less than an hour ago, I climbed the stairs to my baby’s room, lifted her from the crib, and sat in the little wooden rocker. Her hand gripped tightly to my shirt as she sleepily nursed. My heart filled the dim room. There was peace.