After becoming a mother I find myself paying more attention to strangers. Though sometimes I am more suspicious of them (like the man at Russ’s grocery store who smiled at Livia and me one too many times) but overall I find myself, how can I say this?, bonding with them. The mothers, that is.
Livia had her nine month checkup with our pediatrician today. (If I haven’t said this before, let me say it now: I LOVE our pediatrician.) Sitting in the waiting room, a fellow mother struck up a conversation and before you know it, we’ve compared notes on babies chewing food, babies climbing on furniture and babies excessively wearing pink clothes. Instant bond. Our nine month old daughters, sitting peacefully in our laps, hardly looked at each other, but the moms? Well, we had a lot to talk about. Fast forward forty minutes, we’re walking down the office corridor, pass by another mama and child and Hello’s are exchanged. Warm, smiley, gracious and understanding hellos. Nice Hello’s.
A brotherhood of mothers exists. Sure, we may disagree on how to get your baby to sleep, what and when to feed your infant, and whether or not your wee one should sit through the church service with you, but still one thing in common holds us together: we are mothers. We understand what it’s like to clean up bodily fluids from the floor, high chair, and every shirt worn everyday. We know what it means to put someone else’s needs and desires above your own. We are used to cleaning the dishes, running the laundry and sending email as fast as possible during a two hour nap. And we know how disappointing it can be when the two hour nap morphs into one that’s only 45 minutes long!
No one told me about this brotherhood, but I continue to discover its importance with each passing day. Those who have mothered before me offer gracious advice and wisdom honed from years of experience. Those who mother alongside me give listening ears, shoulders to cry on and the confidence to continue on in my calling. Thank you, Mom, and thank you, moms. I do appreciate you.
This leads me to my lone modeling experience (discounting the time Charity and I performed on the catwalk in our prom dresses for the Lincoln Christian Women’s Club, that is). During my teen years I posed on my back deck for an artist. Holding corncobs and cornstalks, I wore a button-down blouse, pinafore and straw hat in imitation of a farmgirl from some day of old. My hair was long and wavy (permed) and I didn’t have to pose for long. The artist, a friend from Covenant Presbyterian, snapped photos and drew a gorgeous picture from them. I was paid around $40 for my “work”. The result, my friends, is that my face, or rather, the artist’s rendition of my face, graces an “a-maizing” corn snack called 
