Here we present a sample chapter from the book The Mother In Me, the introduction “Beginnings” by editor Kathryn Lynard Soper.

I lazed in half-sleep, my lower half cocooned in tingling warmth, when the squeezing began—deep and strong. It spread across my abdomen and wrapped around my back, then clamped hard like a tourniquet, forcing my belly upward in a tight ball. For the first time since labor had begun, it hurt.

I rang for the nurse. “I think my epidural’s wearing off,” I said.

She appeared quickly to check my progress. After a few seconds, she looked at me with a knowing smile. “You’re complete,” she said. “Ten centimeters. You can start pushing now.”

I looked at my husband Reed, incredulous. After nine months of waiting and watching, nine months of planning and worrying and dreaming, I was surprised to find myself here, in a birthing bed, ready to deliver my firstborn child. On some irrational level, I had thought my pregnancy would never end.

The nurse helped me roll from my side to my back, then raised the head of the bed. “Hold your knees,” she said. I tried, but I was shaking with anticipation and couldn’t keep my grip. Reed stepped close to help and started cracking corny jokes, the kind that are funny only at the very end of a long night, or a long pregnancy. As my stomach muscles shook with laughter, the pressure began to build again, gathering, rising then arching to a crest.

Over the next hour, wave after powerful wave passed through me, each one pushing my daughter a little closer to earth. Finally, the birthing was complete. I stared at the baby wriggling on the sterile, blue sheeting, her skin bright and fresh and full of light. None of the birth stories I’d heard prepared me for this shocking discovery: this baby was alive. She was moving, breathing, blinking. Without batteries! Without wires or plugs! I had been so consumed with pregnancy that I hadn’t really considered the result: a tiny, miraculous human being. A new life had begun for my child. As I cradled her against my chest, I sensed a new life beginning for me as well.

The next few days and weeks proved more exhausting—and exhilarating—than I ever could have imagined. Through trial and error I learned how to breastfeed, clip itty-bitty fingernails, and shampoo a head other than my own. I proved myself capable of getting out of bed at 2 A.M., feeding someone else before I fed myself, and wiping another’s bottom without recoiling in disgust. The hours passed in a blur, supersaturated with emotion: bold pride and fierce protectiveness, fear and self-doubt, tenderness so deep it hurt. I never knew my body could give so much; I never knew my heart could feel so much. And I was awestruck by my new role. For twenty-one years I had been a child, a student; now I was a mother, a teacher. I had hopped the fence into adulthood, and I was overcome by the thrills and demands of reinventing myself, of finding the mother in me.

It was tough at first. The constant needs of my daughter pushed me to my limits physically, emotionally, and spiritually. But by the time Elizabeth had moved beyond early infancy, I found my groove. I knew what she needed and how to give it to her—and I delighted in doing so. Content and confident, I envisioned myself sailing through the coming years with ease (insert guffaws here). But before long I made another shocking discovery: Elizabeth wouldn’t remain a baby for long. She was constantly growing, changing, reaching new milestones—and I needed to keep up with her. Although I was technically an adult, I had just begun to grow up.

Sixteen months after Elizabeth’s birth, we welcomed a son into our family. Benjamin arrived on a frigid December morning. Red-faced and squalling, he quickly upended life as we knew it. I felt as if I were starting motherhood all over again, now having to figure out how to divide myself between two people who wanted all of me. And just when I thought I had things sorted out, things changed again. Potty-training and preschool. Moving from an apartment to a starter home. Welcoming a third baby, then a fourth, then a fifth. New friends. New teachers. New problems. New accomplishments. We bought a family-sized home and welcomed baby number six. In the midst of our happy-yet-crazy family life, I clung to the hope that there was a finish line somewhere, a point at which I’d have everything figured out.

But after our seventh child was diagnosed with Down Syndrome, I gave up that delusion. Motherhood, I now know, is continual rounds of beginning.

Today Elizabeth is fourteen; Thomas is two. He’ll probably be the last child to join our family. As he becomes increasingly mobile, I realize I’m experiencing yet another beginning: the beginning of the end. Not the end of growth and change—that will continue forever—but the end of this chapter in my life. The end of diapers, sippy cups, Fisher- Price. The end of tricycles and Play-Doh and a hundred other tokens of early childhood. My years of mothering young children are almost over.

I confess, there have been plenty of days I’ve wished for these years to be over. I’ve longed for solo trips to the grocery store and the bathroom, nights of unbroken sleep, and the chance to sit down and enjoy a meal from start to finish. I have already made plans for what I’ll do after dropping Thomas off for his first day of preschool. (Here’s one version: I speed back to the empty house, enter with a triumphant shout, then proceed to crank up the stereo way too loud and eat way too many Oreos. Alone.)

More than once I’ve had to restrain myself from rolling my eyes at some middle-aged grandma telling me, “Enjoy them while they’re young, dear. It goes so fast.” In those moments, standing with a baby over my elbow and a toddler tugging my arm and a preschooler whining at my heels, I’ve been tempted to hand over my brood and say, “Here. Enjoy.”

Despite my periodic fantasies of life without young children, I can say with complete sincerity that I wouldn’t trade these years for anything. Not for the PhD I once dreamed of earning. Not for the writing career that could have been mine. Not for money or travel or a stunning home or a decent wardrobe or anything else I could’ve enjoyed these past fourteen years if I hadn’t chosen to be a mother.

Yes, mothering is hard—harder than any other work I could’ve chosen. I’ve invested milk and tears, blood and muscle. Spent thousands and thousands of days feeding, cleaning, rocking, carrying, and teaching. I’ve given much. But I have received more—far more. I’ve been given a life worth living, a self worth being. And I have seven people I love more than life, more than self.

In this spirit, I’m pleased to present this volume of poetry and prose, The Mother in Me. I’m excited to introduce you to its contributing authors, a group of friends and fellow writers who value motherhood as much as I do. We work together on the staff of Segullah, a journal of writings by and for Latter-day Saint women. We believe personal writing is a powerful vehicle for growth, for writers and readers alike. In this anthology, we offer the realities of young motherhood, from pregnancy through the preschool years. Our purpose here is to celebrate this season, to illustrate its unique challenges and delights, to reveal its deep significance.

Let’s face it: on those days when we do nothing but wipe bottoms and cook Ramen noodles, significance can be hard to find.

But it’s here.

It’s here in the details of our days, and it’s here in the pages of this book. Some of these writings are humorous, some thoughtful, some poignant—yet each proves that motherhood matters. Not just in the sentimental ways we talk about on Mother’s Day, but in the gritty, lovely, everyday realities of walking this path. In these writings we look at the miracles of pregnancy, birth, and adoption; the sorrows of infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth. We smile and groan over toddler antics and preschooler adventures. We savor the delicious moments that come as we feed, bathe, play with, and read to our little ones.

And we discover the fruits which come from such struggles: insights gained, hearts expanded, faith increased. In short, we delve into the messy richness of the domestic realm and find great beauty and meaning therein.

For home is where everything begins—for children and for mothers.

We’re happy you’re here to laugh, cry, think, and rejoice with us. To fellow mothers, we offer our companionship. To future mothers, we offer a warm invitation to join us in due time. We don’t know exactly what awaits you in this wild and wondrous realm, but we can promise you this: you’ll meet unprecedented challenges and enjoy unspeakable blessings as you discover the mother in you.

Kathryn Lynard Soper
South Jordan, Utah