I Didn’t Know Before I Had a Child of My Own

It was only after giving birth that I truly understood what people meant when they said, “The baby is easiest when still in the womb.” In the final days of pregnancy, even sleeping or stepping outside felt burdensome. I longed for the birth to come quickly. Yet, as if unaware of my urgency, my baby arrived ten days past the due date.

The sweetness of meeting my child was soon followed by the intensity of reality. Once I left the postpartum center and began caring for my baby at home, I met motherhood in its rawest form. Comfort became a luxury as I tried to soothe her cries and feed her every few hours. It was a life no longer my own—a life wholly rearranged around this small, fragile being.

One dawn, I awoke not to crying, but to the softest stirrings beside me. It wasn’t even a sound—just a gentle movement—and yet I heard it so clearly.

“I really am a mother now,” I thought.

And then, I remembered my own mother. Years ago, she had spent long stretches in the hospital undergoing chemotherapy. My siblings and I took turns staying by her side. Because of the harshness of the treatment, she often vomited even in the middle of the night. When that happened, she had no choice but to wake us.

She once told me, almost offhandedly, that I was always the slowest to respond, and that even after calling my name several times, I wouldn’t stir—she would have to reach over and gently stroke my hair just to rouse me. I felt so sorry to her. How long she must have endured her nausea, unwilling to wake me until she couldn’t bear it anymore.

And now here I was—waking at the faintest rustle beside me. Tears fell. I couldn’t stop them. I was a mother now . . . and only now did I understand. I thought, too, of that first night after my C-section, lying on a stiff hospital bed, unable to move for twenty-four hours. It struck me again—how much my mother must have suffered during her hospital stays. And how little I had grasped it at the time.

My thoughts drifted naturally from my mom to my Heavenly Mother. Like the lyrics of the New Song say, “She forgets rest and sleep, living only for Her children.” Even now, Her spiritual parenting continues. Surely She cannot rest—not while hearing the cries of Her children echoing from every corner of the world. She listens tirelessly to the smallest of sighs. She carries the weight of every soul. And I, standing before such love, still feel like a child, too small to repay Her.

When I watch my baby grow, lock eyes with me, roll over for the first time, I smile. I wonder how much more joy our Heavenly Mother must feel when Her children grow in spirit, fed daily with the nourishment of the Word.

I pray that I won’t remain a spiritual newborn—always needing, always receiving—but that I may grow in faith, day by day, becoming a child who brings joy to my Heavenly Parents. To Father and Mother, who lean close to hear even the smallest cry and give nothing but love, I offer my deepest thanks.