A Is For Again

"Read it again"
"Sing it again"
"Do it again"
"Can we play it again?"

Just as the sun keeps rising and setting , over and over again, day after day, so does a Mother the same thing, again and again and again.

We-
Wash the dishes and the clothes.
Buy, cook, and serve, food prepared in love.
Change the diapers.
Tie the shoes.
Get the crayons.
Adore the pictures.
Brush out her snarls.
Get some more milk.
Wipe the faces and wash the hands.
Sing sweetly the songs of childhood- Twinkle, Twinkle, the ABC's, the Itsy Bitsy Spider, Jesus Loves Me, Amazing Grace, the list goes on and grows as they do...
We do it all again and again and again.


We-
Bake the cookies.
Wipe the noses.
Tuck in the shirts.
Help ease on the socks.
Find the shoes.
Step on the legos.
Smile at another colored picture.
Make the snack.
Pull back the covers and tuck into bed.
Soothe fevered brows.
Clean up the sick.
Wash the hair.
Iron the Sunday clothes, ok, well, sometimes...
We do it all again and again and again.


We-
Dry the tears.
Apply the band-aids.
Say "don't touch", "put that down", "get off the table", and "careful!"
Hug.
Cuddle.
Carry.
Cradle.
Rock.
Hold.
We do it all again and again and again.

They grow and they flourish and we smile. It's all worth it.

Yes, some day we will miss it, all of the agains, and our hearts full of memories will need to carry us on.

May my memories be of the more joy satisfying "yes, we can do it again" and "okay, one more time..." than the disappointing "no, not right now, maybe later". Eventually, there will be no more later, that's when I'll miss it.

Tonight, I'll Mother with intention, again.

Sweet Sounds of Mercy

I love the way she says "Otay".

If I could bottle it up, to sip from, to quench my thirst for joy on a day, down the road, when my Mothering seems dry, I would fill a pantry. And then I'd bottle some more.

It's a paradox really, that our little Mercy, the child who has challenged me the most, would be the one who can melt my heart with her cuteness the fastest and the most completely.

It's a bit like how the more I realize what a challenge I must be to Him, the sweeter His love is to me. I said a bit like, because the analogy doesn't exactly work. I'm not quite sure that my cuteness melts His heart the fastest (in fact, I rather doubt it, my cuteness isn't all that cute), but I can rest in the fact that cuteness or ugliness aside (and I do have my ugly days, don't we all? I sincerely hope I'm not the only one), His heart has already melted. His love has already been given.

"For Gos so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life"
John 3:16

He loved and He gave. That's my example. I love and I need to give- give my love, my patience (and some of His, for I never seem to have enough), my time, my forgiveness, grace, and mercy. I love and I need to give of myself, knowing that part of who they become will be because of who I am, just as part (oh, I hope most!) of who I become is because of who He is.

She is a petite pumpkin and has definitely been my lightest 3 yr old (we breed 'em big here). She makes the most of her size and continues to wrap her arms around me and hang on for a ride, and I let her. I keep her close, right where she needs to be for now, so that one day when she's ready to spread her little wings and fly, she will be better equipped to handle herself as she learns to handle the world around her.

Mothering is work, and when the work is extra hard, the rewards are extra sweet. Like the way she squeezes me and the way she says "Otay".

Deep Thinking Is Not For Wimps

The problem with deep thinking is that you think deep thoughts, at least I do. Deep thoughts can be the thoughts that inspire. I love it when that happens. I wish all of my deep thoughts were like that. Other deep thoughts can unearth our deepest fears, our deepest feelings of inadequacy, and when those are the deep thoughts being thunk (I can make up words, this is my space, wait, I just looked it up, it's a word), it's so easy to be consumed with fear, anxiety, and utter hopelessness, at least it is for me.

What am I doing?

Why can't I get this right?

Are my efforts all in vain?

Are my words falling on deaf ears?

How many times am I going to make the same mistake?

What have I gotten myself into?

Am I really doing my best?

What if I'm not?

Maybe I'm really just lazy.

Maybe I don't have anything better in me to give.

Maybe it doesn't even matter.

Except, it does. It does matter. What I do matters. What I say matters. What I think matters. I am a Mother. I am shaping little lives, little hearts, little souls, all day, every day, no matter what I do. I can shape them poorly or I can shape them well. I can stand by and let the world shape them, and yet, if it happens on my watch, while they're under my roof and in my care, then it's really me shaping them, by merely allowing the world to shape them.

Passive parenting will not do.

I have never thought that it would, and yet, as I think about my days, I can find times and ways in which my actions betray a lack of purpose, a lack of intention. It's not my best, and while I know that no one can actually be their very best in every situation in every moment (I'm pretty sure the only man who ever did was Jesus, the rest of us are fallen), I still believe the best should be my goal. To do my best should still be my purpose, my intention. And it is.

Sometimes I just need to remind myself. Sometimes I just need a good cry, and then I need to pick myself up, dust myself off, maybe do a jumping jack or two to get the bloop pumping good and strong again, and then I need to get up and get back in the game, with renewed purposed, and reignited intentions. That's where I am this weekend.

I grew up always hearing that the Peace Corps was "the toughest job you'll ever love". I never volunteered with the Peace Corps, but I'm pretty sure that this job, Motherhood, is a tougher job, and no matter how much I may have loved time in the Peace Corps, I know I love Motherhood more.