Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well/ My mother.

Thank you, pretty cow, that made Pleasant milk to soak my bread.

There is none, In all this cold and hollow world, no fount Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother's heart.

All these people keep waxing sentimental about how fabulously well I am doing as a mother, how competent I am, but I feel inside like when you're first learning to put nail polish on your right hand with your left. You can do it, but it doesn't look all that great around the cuticles.

So how on earth can I bring a child into the world, knowing that such sorrow lies ahead, that it is such a large part of what it means to be human?
I'm not sure. That's my answer: I'm not sure.

A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive.