Rocka-My-Soul in the Bosom of Mama

by Carol Kent

All that I am, or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother. ~Abraham Lincoln

Some of my earliest memories include the joy of crawling up on my Mama’s lap, being hugged to her chest, and rocked until I was comforted, assured of her love, and unafraid.

My mother came from Dutch roots, and I loved hearing the story of how my grandfather came to the United States on a big boat from the Netherlands. He met and married a Dutch lady from New Jersey. They settled in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and raised eleven children—count them. That’s one short of a dozen! My mother was child number nine, and her name was Pauline Wielhouwer (pronounced“wheel-how-er”).

Mama had five sisters, and all of the Wielhouwer women had one thing in common—ample bosoms. My aunts had enough love to splash all over any child who came within an arm’s reach, and since there were almost fifty cousins on that side of the family, reunions always meant there would be lots of hugging. One by one, our sweet aunts would swoop us up into their arms and give us big ole bear hugs. Some of those hugs were so gigantic you could almost suffocate trying to come up for air out of the deep crevices of those well-endowed chests. However, one thing was certain: I always knew I was loved—deeply, completely, and unconditionally.

As I approached puberty, I became fixated on my lack of development in the area of carrying on the family tradition of “ample bosoms.” Mine seemed to be very lacking when compared to my female relatives, and at one time, I wondered if I had been adopted. I was definitely not developing into the image of the voluptuous woman I had hoped to become.

I was the oldest in the family, and over time, Mama gave birth to six children. During my formative years, there was almost always a baby in the house. Mama believed in breastfeeding those babies, so every time another child came along, I was keenly aware of my mother’s engorged breasts and my teeny, tiny “chest bumps.” The years were passing, and I finally became a “woman” soon after my thirteenth birthday—later than any of my friends. I thought: No wonder I’m so underdeveloped. I’m late with everything that has to do with the human body.

One afternoon, I was home alone, and I walked into my mother’s bedroom. There on the vanity table, I spotted Mama’s breast pump. It was an intriguing piece of equipment. It had a spherical ball on one end that was connected to a plastic contraption that went over the breast in order to express milk. In my well-developed imagination, I envisioned that this remarkable apparatus might have more than one purpose.

Carefully removing my blouse, I unhooked my brassiere (which was hardly necessary for support). I cautiously squeezed the ball, expelling much of the air inside, and placed the other end of the breast pump over one of my own less-than-bulging protrusions. The result was immediate and impressive. My “chest bump” appeared to be growing before my very eyes. Perhaps I was in the process of becoming one of the “Wielhouwer women” after all. I, too, would follow in the footsteps of my mother and her sisters, one day offering my bosoms of comfort to young children in need of hugs, love, and encouragement. I was becoming a real woman!

I soon discovered that in order to have both sides identical, it was important to “shift gears” and work on the other side of my chest with equal gusto. To my dismay, my “enhanced” breast quickly returned to its original size after the device was removed. I followed this procedure every day for nearly a week before I finally gave up on my “Breast Pump Experiment.”

Fortunately, when I grew up, I discovered that a woman doesn’t have to have a large bosom to become a good mother. She simply needs a big heart, a readiness to overlook faults, an ability to show genuine compassion, and a rocking chair that can hold a child and make everything “all better” on a tough day.

I’m a grown woman now, but when I’m in the middle of a personal dilemma, I still run to Mama’s arms, and she lovingly pulls me to her chest, strokes my hair, prays for me, and reminds me that love covers a multitude of transgressions. And in my heart, I know that everything will be okay.

Watch what God does, and then you do it, like children who learn proper behavior from their parents. Mostly what God does is love you. Keep company with Him and learn a life of love. Observe how Christ loved us. His love was not cautious but extravagant. He didn’t love in order to get something from us but to give everything of Himself to us. Love like that.

Ephesians 5:1-2 MSG