Passionate About San Antonio
and the Moms Who Live Here

There Is No Finish Line

The moment she feels her baby move inside her womb, she imagines the life her child will have.
She tries to picture the precious face of her baby and what color her hair will be.
She can’t wait to give birth, to get through the pregnancy and let her new life begin.
The mother-to-be rubs her belly, sighs, and says out loud, “Mom, I just want it to be over. Am I going to be pregnant forever? I can’t wait to finally have this baby!”
Her mom takes her by the hand and gently whispers, “Slow down, sweet girl; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

She’s exhausted from long nights and short naps and can’t remember the last time she slept for more than a few hours at a time.
The laundry is piled up, and the sink is full of dishes.
She plops herself in the glider, lifts her shirt, and begins to feed her newborn.
While her baby quietly breastfeeds for the millionth time that day, she twirls one of her daughter’s curls around her finger.
She sighs and thinks, This can’t be what my life is all about. When will she sleep through the night? I can’t wait until she’s able to walk and talk!
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

Every cabinet is baby-proofed and she can’t get up her own stairs without doing an Olympic-style hurdle.
She just cleaned jelly off the living room wall and gave her daughter a bath…for the second time that day.
Her daughter’s hair is a tangled mess of curls, and she can’t remember the last time she brushed it.
Her husband works long hours, leaving her alone all day with a toddler.
She wants another adult to talk to, laugh with, or bawl her eyes out to.
She sighs and thinks to herself, Is this what it’s come down to? Am I going to be a two-year-old’s servant forever?
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she fights to keep them in.
She carefully clips the bow into place on the perfectly styled ponytail that boast the most beautiful curls.
When did she get so big? What am I going to do without her all day?
She chases her thoughts away and stares at her daughter, who beams with pride as she walks into her Kindergarten class.
She sighs and thinks to herself, I need to teach her how to get through the lunch line. I need to show her how to check out books and stand in line. What about testing and grades? I need to read to her more, dive deeper into math problems. I need to enroll her in tutoring and sports and lessons for some sort of instrument.
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

She sits on the edge of her teenager’s bed, unable to stop the crying.
Her daughter’s heart has been broken by the boy she thought she loved, and nothing she says can ease the pain.
She strokes her long hair, letting the curls lace between her fingers, and whispers her best words of comfort.
She sighs and thinks to herself, I’ll kill him. It’ll be a slow and painful death. I’m signing her up to be a nun so this never happens again. I’ll get a big bowl of ice cream, jump in her bed, and tell her to let it go, he’s not worth it, move on. She’ll decide right then and there that she’ll never date again.
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

The auditorium is full of smiles and graduation gowns.
Her heart has never been this full.
She can see her daughter’s curls peeking out of her carefully placed black cap in a sea of graduates.
She sighs and thinks to herself, Fly, sweet girl, fly. Go do big things. Change the world. I can’t wait for you to have a career and a family of your own.
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

Her husband’s voice quivers: “Her mother and I do.”
She takes a deep breath and holds it.
The handsome groom lifts the veil, pushes aside a dangling curl, and then kisses his bride.
She feels torn between losing her daughter and gaining a son.
She sighs and thinks to herself, She no longer has my last name. When am I going to see her again? I hope she calls every day. What if she needs me? Did I teach her how to cook healthy meals and only bleach the whites? Maybe I should go help her.
Then she recalls her mom’s gentle whisper: “Slow down; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

She adjusts the monitor, again.
Her daughter can’t get comfortable.
She offers her a cup of ice chips and a wet wash cloth.
A feeling of helplessness consumes her.
The mother-to-be rubs her belly, sighs, and says out loud, “Mom, I just want it to be over. Am I going to be pregnant forever? I can’t wait to finally have this baby!”

She takes her daughter by the hand, pushes aside a curl that’s fallen over her eyes, and gently whispers to her daughter, “Slow down, sweet girl; it’s not a race. There is no finish line.”

Comments are closed.