This calling of motherhood is a service unlike anything else, where the privilege of giving life is tempered by a daily dying to self.
Somewhere, in a house with walls and a roof very similar to the place you and I call home, there is a mother who wonders if she’s seen.
She wakes to a squalling baby, crying to nurse, or an older child (or two or four) demanding breakfast. She’s barely wiped the sleep from her eyes and has yet to pour a cup of coffee before diapers need to be changed and the dog must be let out.
Her job, nay her calling, begins before her feet even hit the floor. There is no commute to the office, no clocking in for motherhood. There is breakfast to tend, lunch boxes to pack, backpacks to gather. Urine-soaked sheets need stripping; there are dishes in the sink, and a pile of laundry litters the closet floor.
This isn’t a glamorous role, and no one is applauding her this morning.
This is a…
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