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The MOST EFFECTIVE Thing You Can Say to Another Mom

A few weeks ago, one of my dearest friends lost her 21-month-old child forever when the nice baby woman died unexpectedly and all of a sudden. My friend and I live on reverse edges of the nationwide country, so a vacation was taken by me to go to her because of this former weekend. Admittedly, I used to be an anxious wreck in what I would tell her and her hubby. How was I heading to get the expressed words to comfort them? How would I avoid saying the wrong things? I wanted to find perfect words, and, as I am a writer, words happen to be one of the few ways I truly know how to communicate myself.

 

Except I had been at a complete loss over her loss. Having two healthy children at home, I experienced I couldn’t truly relate to her pain, so how on earth was I going to be able to comfort her during a situation that I have very little experience in? Armed with a pocket full of Bible verses and a slough of rehearsed things to say, I walked into her home and could never in a million years have foreseen the life-altering and powerful words that would be spoken between us during our time collectively. Except the words came from her, to me.

From her. To me.

 

That’s right. My friend, who at this true point is showing to be one of the strongest people I understand, said something during her time of grief that will keep an area in my own heart forever. It had been an expression so simple, yet a chord has been strike because of it deep within me personally. As she was describing the occasions resulting in the loss of life of her little girl up, she tried expressing if you ask me her complete heartbreak as she kept her sugary child in a healthcare facility through the minutes and hours after she died. Describing enough time only as her worst headache, she said to me with tears rolling down her face,”You’re a mom, you know.”

 

You’re a mom, you know.

 

This phrase took my breath away – as well as any composure that I had managed to keep together up until then. Because it was at that point, with that phrase, that I could start to understand the magnitude of her sorrow. Sure, I had been completely heartbroken for her before, as death is difficult for anyone. But I’ll confess that I didn’t fully understand my role as her friend or as a fellow mom. See, all this time I had been looking in the incorrect places for the perfect thing to state to her while I will have just viewed our simplest connection: motherhood. Even though I’ve not experienced the pain that comes along with shedding a kid, The joy is understood by me that she once experienced from keeping her child. And to lose that? There are no expressed words

 

Except maybe “I’m a mom, I understand.”

 

Losing a kid is every mom’s worst type of dread – no matter who you are or the type of mom you decide to be. In the times since, I am keeping this simple thought at heart when relating myself to other mommies. Sure, most of us have our various ways of mothering and increasing our family members, but we do have a very important factor in keeping: our hearts are straight hooked up to your children. It creates the complete mommy wars thing appear, well, ridiculous totally.

 

You’re a mother, you know.

 

In order I went with my very own mother, that has been identified as having breasts tumor lately, to her rays treatment, I glanced at the young mom of a little son in the waiting around room. He was maybe three years old (though it’s hard to inform because he was so small). He sported a colourful Superman cape and a bland medical center mask as he sat cradled in his mom’s arms. She said something quietly to him. My heart stopped. This mom ached for that mom. And the tears started to fall from my eyes despite me not knowing her one bit. Despite me only sitting in the waiting room for maybe 30 seconds. Despite my own mom sitting next to me about to have her own radiation treatment. This is crazy, I thought. I don’t even know this woman.

 

But what I do know is that I’m a mom.

 

And later I was getting dinner at a takeout restaurant, and one of the employees was on the phone in the restroom. She was struggling to find a babysitter for her child while she finished her late shift. She was frantic. She was upset. She was mad. My heart skipped another beat, and the tears welled up in my eyes once again.

 

I know, I’m a mom.

 

As I went back to my mom’s house, heartbroken over my friend’s loss, my mom was looking to comfort me personally. Asking easily was Alright. Me! She was the main one going through rays, I will be comforting her. And it dawned on me as to the reasons she was so concerned about how precisely I had been doing.

 

She knows, she’s a mother.

 

And on the aircraft on the trip home there is a new mother standing up with her baby son practically the complete four-and-a-half-hour trip because if she attempted to sit back, he wailed. She looked frustrated and exhausted. She frequently examined her watch, but she also continued job all while kissing on his little bald head.

 

I understand, I’m a mother.

 

See, it’s a thread that unites people. Helicopter mothers. Free-range mothers. Breastfeeding moms. Formula-feeding moms. Rich moms. Poor moms. Moms of sick kids. Moms of healthy kids. Moms. The crazy, heart-stopping love that we feel for our children runs deep through each and every one of us as moms.

 

And this knowledge is painful at times. It’s why every sappy commercial brings us to tears. It’s why we can’t watch the news. It’s why we get in the car and cry after we drop our kids off to their first day of school. It’s why food allergies are terrifying. It’s why our hearts ache when we hear about miscarriage or fertility problems. It’s why we are up during the night fretting about our teens. It’s why the idea of our kids eventually departing the nest makes us weep into our espresso. It’s why the loss of life of another mother’s child is so utterly heartbreaking . . .

 

It’s also why we should always provide a blanket of support to all fellow moms. Not only to those who are suffering through the unimaginable pain of losing a child, but also to those mamas going through plain ol’ rough times . . . and the ones mothers who are just having one particular days even. Hug her, and if you are desperate for the right words, whatever you might need to say is actually, “I understand, I’m a mother.”

 

Nevertheless, you probably know this already. In the end, you’re a mother.

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