It’s a Saturday morning. We are still in our pajamas, as is our wont, starting the day real slow. I glance over at Little Schrock, a cozy, little cat in his own PJs and robe, and I see that he’s munching a cookie. Huh? What? And, more specifically, who?
As Little’s father, Mr. Schrock, is the only other one stirring, I know exactly “who.” And so I say it. “We are running a loose ship here when a child can eat a chocolate chip cookie. Before breakfast.”
He grins, sheepish, looking for all the world like a schoolboy himself. Then, in a move so swift that I nearly miss it, he whips his own left cookie-swiping hand behind his back. All of this, you’ll recall, before breakfast.
Girl that I am, I took it to my friends. “…and so that Mother of the Year trophy will be traveling right on past my house,” I wailed. “You can’t win like that. You can’t!”
Sensing a need, they hopped right in. With things like, “If it has oatmeal in it, it counts as breakfast,” and, “We do that here, too,” I was back up and running in no time. Though I did (I’ll confess) hide the cookies.
Having been a mother for more than 24 years, I’ve learned this; that if there was one thing that could cause a woman to doubt herself, it was her mothering skills. For if there was one thing a woman wanted to be perfect at, it was mothering. That, at least, is how this one felt.
A mother’s love for her children was primal; was eternal. It was innate, really, to her character and nature as given to her by God. The terrible stories of maternal abuse and neglect were aberrations, perversions of what the Creator of families had intended. They did not, thank God, represent what most mothers were.