On Motherhood

For me, being a mother doesn't come naturally. Let me explain; loving and enjoying my children is to me the same as breathing. And, experiencing the blessing that they are is also easy. It's the hard stuff that gets me. The activities I've always hated. I am sure you hate them too. You just probably don't think about it. I think about everything. Constantly. I analyize and debate and think during the day. I count the songs until my dishwasher is unloaded. (two songs if Molly is occupied, 25 or more if she is not). Sometimes, I just wish I could turn it off. Emptying the dishwasher, cooking dinner, picking up toys, teaching my kids to pick up toys. It is the mundane monotony that my friends who are moms have always embraced, even before their were children. It is this very stuff I tried my best to eschew. I hate to cook, sew, decorate, vacuum, mop, wash laundry, fill the dog's water bowl, ect. So, in that respect, being home with the kids during the day is something of a chore. I would like to read a good book and think about it. Debate in my mind the finer points of dogma and interpretations. Examine texts and find themes that run through them. Look for typos in a paper. Think of a more articulate way to communicate my ideas. But, I tried working, and all I could think about was my son in the care of someone else. Someone, a stranger who doesn't love him, providing him with food, clean diapers, comfort when he was sad, reading a book to him, explaining why we don't bite or hit. Telling him that the only being who loves him more than me is God. Discussing God's goodness with him. Thanking God for a beautiful rainbow, or a flower, or a cool breeze or the rain shower that just popped up in spite of an awful drought. These things I adore. I treasure his smile and the sweet rubs on the arms I get during the day. I treasure his arguments with me, his debates, his breath which smells slightly of last night's sleep. I enjoy watching Molly have the last word on the discussion of which is more appropriate for milk, a sippy cup or a bottle. I love to watch her busy legs; they never stop. I love to see her whispy hair that is coming in tufty and uneven on the top of her head. I love to hold her and pat her back when she has fallen for the fourteenth time, and feels like giving up on walking, running and jumping. So, I stay home. I do the laundry (sometimes). I pick up trains, paper, markers, paint, play dough. I wash bottles filled with chunky whole milk that is separated by chocolate syrup and curds. I give Matty a drink when she is thristy. I turn telemarketers down. I vacuum more than I ever have in my life. I clean sheets and diapers. I believe in my heart that on earth, every good thing costs something. For me (and I believe for many mothers) we put our wants, hopes, and desires on hold to focus on pressing needs like finding a race car, or showing our children dragonflies, or laughing uncontrollable when exhaustion and frustration attempt to interrupt our domestic utopian experience. I am thankful for the chance to know my children, to hold them and smell their sweaty necks and hold their dirty hands. Soon, their necks will be powdered or cologned and their hands will be manicured. What a day of weeping; for joy and for loss. One truth about motherhood is this. Although I believe I am but a wraith of what I was before, a shadow passing by the house waiting on my children, when their brief childhood is over, I will be better than I ever was. I will notice small things that eluded me before. I will notice when a pair of shoes are on the floor and should be in a closet. I will appreciate the sly smiles of children, when they look at their moms to see if their mom's notice a slight of hand. I will notice the brush of a hand on hand, the slightest change in my child's facial expression and what it means and what caused it. And when they are old, and don't notice me much any more, I will cling to the memory of an inarticulate voice shouting mommy while I try to pee. I will notice their kindnesses, their hopes, their love for people and God. I will remember countless versions of Jesus loves the little Children. And someday, when I am alone with a good book, able to think and reason and notice patterns in sublime silence, my memories will interrupt and I'll only be able to think about motherhood, and what a blessing it is.