“Children are an heritage of the Lord… Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them.” — Psalms 127:3–5

As the youngest of four, I never had a baby sibling to care for. During a few years my family spent in Asia, our expatriate life was fairly insulated—and as a result, I only babysat once before we moved back to the States.

By the time we settled into our new home, I had completely lost interest in babysitting. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I was asked to watch someone else’s kids.

Still, I looked forward to being a mother someday. According to all the lessons I’d grown up hearing in church, motherhood was supposed to be the source of my greatest joy.

I got married at twenty, and had my first baby at twenty-one. With no family nearby to help, we were basically left to navigate the wilderness of new parenthood alone—and I had no idea it would be so hard.

Naturally, I struggled. I’d barely had experience taking care of toddlers, let alone a newborn. I’m pretty sure no one in history was less prepared for motherhood than I was. Suddenly, my days revolved around someone else’s needs—every moment, around the clock, for what felt like an eternal stretch of time. I was overwhelmed. I felt like I was losing my identity.

Just as I began to feel confident with one child, along came baby number two. Every time I adjusted to a new normal, our family grew, and the chaos returned. Each child brought a new round of learning, and for about two years after each birth, life felt like mayhem—until I got the hang of it again. Then we’d have another baby.

Anyone who’s raised children—or even babysat a bunch of energetic little ones—knows that getting six kids ready for church is no small task. Especially when all of them, except the baby, are still in Primary.

One Mother’s Day stands out in my mind. The morning was especially chaotic, and I wasn’t feeling great about how things were going. I tried to keep my expectations low—after all, the kids were too young to understand that I didn’t want another picture for the fridge or a weed-flower from the yard. All I wanted was for them to do what they were supposed to do, just for one day, without me having to nag them. Was that too much to ask?

I’m sure my husband made breakfast and did his best to make the day feel special. But still, I sulked. I felt sorry for myself. I banged a few cupboard doors for effect and muttered complaints under my breath. The morning wasn’t perfect. And in my tired, discouraged state, that felt like failure.

Eventually, we all made it into the car—probably ten minutes later than we’d hoped—and as I sat there trying to breathe and reframe my mood, a tiny voice piped up from the backseat. It was our four-year-old, breaking the silence with a soft but earnest reminder:

“It’s Happy Mother’s Day, Mom… so… you have to be happy.”

That did it. My husband and I looked at each other and started to chuckle. Then came the tears.

He was right. It was Mother’s Day. And I was a mother. That sweet, hopeful reminder softened my heart and realigned me with what I already knew deep down: joy is woven into the calling itself. It doesn’t come from a spotless house or a perfect morning—it comes from moments like this.

It reminded me of a wooden sign I once saw in a friend’s house:

“Cleaning the house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk while it’s still snowing.”
(Author unknown)

And this poem, which always brings me back to center:

Mother, O Mother, come shake out your cloth,
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing, make up the bed,
Sew on a button and butter the bread.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,Lullaby, rockabye, lullaby loo.
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peek-a-boo
The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo
But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
Lullaby, rockaby lullaby loo.
The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow
But children grow up as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.
- Ruth Hulbert Hamilton

Joy in motherhood doesn’t come from control or order, but from relationships—those sweet, sacred connections with the people we’re raising. That morning, my little boy’s words reminded me that happiness and motherhood are meant to go hand-in-hand… if we can just pause long enough to notice the gifts right in front of us.

So, I let myself smell the yard-picked flowers. I smiled at the crayon art on the fridge. And I let that be enough.

For more on Rare Faith and motherhood, click here for Moms, Guilt, and Balance.

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