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Brittany L. Bergman

Savoring motherhood, building marriage, and living simply

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The Way She Mothered Me

May 9 14 Comments

My mom always smelled faintly of Rapture perfume and Suave hairspray. When I close my eyes and try to conjure what it felt like for my five-year-old self to hug her, I can feel the soft knit of a worn-in cardigan, pilled from a few too many trips through the washing machine and not enough money to replace it. She bends down to my level, arms enveloping me, drawing me close without crushing me. She’s always said that her greatest fear is smothering me. Quite the opposite, her embrace is oxygen—necessary, life giving.

I don’t remember a specific moment when my mom played dolls with me, but I know she did. I don’t remember the exact content of the conversations we had in my teen years, when I was lonely and depressed and longing for stable friends, but I know they happened; I can still feel the hope she gave me as she told me this phase would pass. I can’t possibly recall each tear I cried during my childhood, but I know how desperately she wanted to wipe away each one, how her heart broke every time mine did.

My mother is not the star of my childhood memories, but the setting: her presence was the solid ground I stood on; her love was the sun that warmed my skin; her words were the momentum that moved my feet and gave me the confidence to run hard after my dreams.

This woman I came from is the mom I’ve always wanted to be, and she is still the standard by which I measure my own motherhood. The closer I get to who she is, how she mothered me—how she still does—the more I feel secure in my own identity as Mommy.

As I learn how to be a mother, I’m having to relearn what it means to be my mother’s daughter. I’m having to relax into my daughterness, accessing those parts of my identity I tend to forget about as an adult woman: I am loved. I am known. I belong. I need. I receive. I’m supposed to be the mom, the wife, the friend, the responsible adult in the room. But really, I am still a child of my mother, still learning this dance from her, still in need of love and guidance and support.

When my daughter throws her sippy cup for the nine hundredth time: What words would my mom use to respond to this?

When I’m too tired to connect with my husband over dinner: What would my mom want me to remember about the importance of my marriage?

When I’m struggling to enjoy the hard seasons with my daughter, tempted to wish the days away: What would my mom tell me about savoring her?

This exercise continually points me to my daughterness in the Lord: to his sea of maternal love, his tender embrace, his steadfast presence.

My mom mothered me with great joy—laying down her own desires for the good of her daughter.

She mothered me in the middle of her own trials—storms she didn’t know how to survive but had to for my sake.

She mothered me selflessly, wholeheartedly, unreservedly—modeling God’s heart for her children before she was even a Christ-follower.

On many occasions she has told me that, knowing what she knows now—the love of the Father, the true weight of parenting—she’d go back and do a million things differently in how she raised me. If only she’d loved Jesus then, she could have prayed for me more fervently and loved me more fully. She could have raised me to be more secure in my identity as a beloved daughter of the Lord.

Each of those things is true. But beyond all the ways she could have mothered me in a more Christ-centered way, I see the faithfulness of the Lord in her life, in my life.

God’s steady hand was on her motherhood the whole time, and it is on mine, too.

Originally posted on The MOPS Blog.

What do you recall about your mom from childhood?
What has her mothering meant for you as a parent?
In what ways do you want to follow or not follow her example?

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Filed Under: Motherhood Tagged With: daughter, faith, family, God, joy, motherhood, parenting, relationships

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brittanylbergman

Brittany L. Bergman
I feel like this one deserves a permanent spot on I feel like this one deserves a permanent spot on my grid (and, by extension, in my Chatbooks). She’s been my best little buddy this summer and I’m loving it. 🥰☀️🌺
The last day of school hit different this year. 💔 My tears at kindergarten graduation were not about how my first baby is growing up too fast. They were tears of gratitude that she’s growing up at all—something that should not feel spectacular, but does.

Swipe for some first day/last day comparisons and an outtake that I adore. 💜
There was a huge, complete rainbow outside Eamon’s bedroom window after his birthday party, and I can’t think of a better celestial celebration for our rainbow baby/big boy. 🌈
Our little Eamon baby is 3! 🎉 Though he will be Our little Eamon baby is 3! 🎉 Though he will be the first to tell you that he is not a baby—he is Eamon Boy, and he is a big kid.

Eamon is sweet and wild and silly and will do anything for a laugh, instantly charming everyone he meets. He is just as likely to tackle you as he is to request a hug and a kiss.

Eamon talks all the time and stretches out the last word of every sentence like it’s a question, but he also loves to communicate with roars and growls. No surface or object is safe around him, as he climbs and jumps off everything and will declare anything from a pillow to a plate his “rock” and throw it like he’s an Earth Giant in Frozen (we’re working on it).

He is obsessed with Dan, smitten with Selah, and thinks I’m just okay, at best—but he is my best buddy if the other two are unavailable.

This past year, Eamon went to Six Flags, Lake Geneva, and Disney World, and he has mastered his balance bike. Basically, he always wants to go fast and/or get as close to flying as possible.

Eamon, you are pure joy and delight, the brightest ray of sunshine, and the dreamiest rainbow baby. Happy birthday, my sweet boy! ☀️🌈💜
Or, “What does it say about me that the first po Or, “What does it say about me that the first poem I’ve written in a year is a list of things that make up my personal hell and I actually had to cut this down because I had so many/too many thoughts on the topic?” It’s fine, everything is fine.
This year was absolutely brutal. It also facilitat This year was absolutely brutal. It also facilitated some of the best decisions of my life, many born out of deep pain. Starting a new job, because the old one no longer fit. Getting vaccinated, to protect myself and others as we muddle through another pandemic year. All but quitting writing and social media, because I simply didn’t want to do it anymore. Most importantly, starting on Zoloft, because I needed it desperately. Those tiny blue pills quite literally saved my life.

The first half of 2021 was one of my darkest seasons, and the second half—thanks to modern medicine and my own intuition and the possibility of remote work, thanks to Selah starting kindergarten and me taking care of myself and being able to look at my kids and truly delight in them for the first time in a long time—was one of my happiest ever.

Holding both halves tenderly as we cross this next threshold. 💜
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Brittany L Bergman is a for-profit blog. Any company that I collaborate with is chosen by me and fits the theme and readership of my blog. At times, posts may contain affiliate links or sponsored content, which is never at any charge to you.

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