When You Forget Why You Walked into a Room

"I've got to go the bathroom," an everyday mom explained to her two kids. She tried to ease the bewilderment on their faces. "It'll only be for like thirty seconds. You can do this." She held her breath, turned up Sesame Street, and began to walk backwards. 

"Finally," she whispered as she occasionally looked over her shoulder to see if she was being followed. She eventually made her way into the bathroom, her break room. But before she could enjoy her two minutes of me time, there was an intruder. She saw that there, in all their glory, was a perfectly fine pair of Lightning McQueen underwear in the trash. "What in the world..." she mumbled under her breath as she made her way to the laundry room. 

There she was greeted by a mountain of clean clothes. "I might as well start folding these while I'm in here." She began to pile all the socks into her lap, but there was an intruder. There in the laundry basket she found a sippy cup wrapped inside a Paw Patrol shirt. "Yeesh," she gagged as she quickly screwed the top back on. "Son! I told you to quit hiding these chocolate milk cups! It's not funny, you know! How hard is it to just put them in the sink?"

The mom rushed to the sink to escape the putrid odor all while leaving a trail of mateless socks in her wake. 

She rinsed the cup out and sat it to the side to soak. "Might as well start loading the dish washer while I'm standing here," she muttered quietly to an audience of Minnie Mouse plates and an embarrassingly large number of coffee cups. 

Before she could place the first Minion spoon into the silverware receptacle, she heard her daughter's blood-curdling scream. 

Our dear old mom dropped the spoon, turned on her heel, and picked up her other foot only to have it catch on the dishwasher door. 

Mom down. 

She scrambled to the living room. Frantic, heart racing, gasping for air, she somehow managed to blurt out, "What is it?" 

Her kids were laughing. "What are you talking about, Mama?" She looked back and forth to both kids. No one seemed to have a broken limb. No one was hurt. She shrugged. 

Mom hobbled back to the dishes only to find a trail of blood from where she had come. "Great," she muttered. "Maybe we've got some bandages somewhere." 

Mom grabbed a roll of paper towels, limped to the medicine cabinet, and opened the door. "What in the world?" Everything was sticky...like a thin layer of something oily had made its way onto each and every item. "Gross." She found no bandages, but she did find an intruder: a tube of Neosporin from 2008 that was apparently missing a lid. "These need to be thrown away," she thought while she gripped a few expired items in her hand, but they slipped from her grip, knocking over the paper towels, sending the towels into a beautiful cascade across her kitchen floor. "Great."

Mom walked to the trash to rid herself of the aged salve and to roll up the paper towels. The trash was full. No, it was milk-jug-sitting-on-top-overflowing full. "Oh, well. I'm standing here. I'll just take it out." 

Mom hobbled to the door with the trash bag only to find that her dear child, clad in only a pair of Thomas the Tank Engine underwear, was being greeted by the precious mail lady. OUTSIDE. She bolted out the door, leaving the untied trash bag by the door. 

Mom blushed. "Oh, I'll just take the package, ma'am. I'm sorry. I didn't know someone was out here." She turned to her son. "And how did you get out here!?" 

"There's my tractor!" the little boy declared, beaming with pride.  

"I see that," the nice lady replied. 

"Son, get in the house. I really don't know how he slipped out like this. He does this sometimes." Mom giggled nervously while the sweat poured down her temples. 

"Ma'am, your toe. You're bleeding." 

"Oh, that's right. Thank you. I forgot. It just slipped my mind. Have a nice day." Mom gave the best smile she could muster. This is where our mom gave the "look" to her son...the look that implied cloudy skies and danger were coming if he didn't get his backside inside the house.

Mom trudged back to the front door and stared. She couldn't believe what she saw. 

Trash was scattered across the floor. A completely unraveled roll of paper towels were becoming her son's newfound form of entertainment. Socks littered the hallway. Dishes were everywhere. Blood was all over the floor. And what was that awful smell? 

"Kids, if y'all don't stop making all these messes, I'm going to go crazy!"

She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. "Now let's see...why did I come in here again?" She had been asking herself that a lot lately. "Oh, I've got to go to the bathroom! I'll just..."

"Moooooommmmmm!!!!!"

Have a nice weekend, mamas! 

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When You Forget Why You Walked into a Room

What I Hope You Remember

Before I had kids, I new exactly what kind of mom I was going to be. My kids were going to be polite, sit quietly at church because I told them to, be clean when we went out somewhere, and they were going to make good grades--just because I said. I was going to be a whiz in the kitchen, making fresh, wholesome, healthy meals all members of the family would enjoy. Everything would always be tidy because I was going to be organized. We would sit at the table and eat supper every night while we chatted about our day. The kids would never get sick because I was going to take care of them and make sure of it. I was going to do the absolute best for my kids, and because I was in control of them, I knew in my head I could make it happen. 

So when I found out I was expecting, I read blog after blog, book after book, and researched every website dealing with birth/postpartum/newborns etc. that I could find. I had chapters marked on birth information and bookmarked websites. I knew birth and nursing down to a science. I wanted to be a good mom, so I had to figure out what that was. Right? Isn't that how everyone had to learn? 

Fast forward a few years, and things have taken on quite a different angle. 

I have had an epidural and a natural birth. I nursed some and mostly formula fed. I've made my own baby food and bought the rest. I wore my baby a few times until it wasn't our jam any more. I tried sleeping with my kiddos once or twice, and well, they're like their mama. Neither of us got much sleep. The kids eat completely different things than I cook half the time, and organization? If it wasn't for my husband, I wouldn't know what day it was half the time. 

And that's ok. What does it matter anyway? 

What does it matter to the woman who has zapped every physical, mental, and emotional resource she has in order to conceive a child? 

What does it matter to the mother whose premature infant lost his life before she even got to take him home from the hospital?

What does it matter to the mom whose never heard her child speak? 

What does it matter to the mom who will never see her child run and jump or sing and dance? 

Sometimes I think my generation just makes up things to worry about since we have so many resources of information available to us. It's like a preprogrammed thing in our DNA that we got from our ancestors who had to worry about some pretty important things like food, shelter, and survival. If we aren't worrying, do we really love our kids? 

The devil tries to make us believe that. But Matthew lays it all out there quite plainly.  

“Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment? Behold* the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature? And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith? Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." (6: 25-34)

Being a mom is about the tiny, mundane moments we tend to take for granted. They're actually little building blocks that the Lord will use to create something strong and amazing. We can't look at the big picture and worry about it constantly because it's going to look scary sometimes...like we're never going to get there. I have to remember to let God carry the blueprints around. He knows my plans. (Jer. 29:11)

So here's my picture of me feeding my little girl what might possibly be one of her last bottles. Just a small moment...just another building block in our lives. It is a sentimental time, and she is growing faster than I want her to. I didn't see it for what it was with my first baby, but I want to remember the bonding we shared when I fed her. I want to remember the way she always put her hand on my face and how she always scratched her ear as she fell asleep. I want to remember feeling her weight in my lap and smell her sweet, clean, fresh-from-the-bath smell. I want to remember looking into those blue depths of her eyes. No one, no website, no book, no blog, no devil is going to tell me that I didn't give her and my son 100%, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with this picture. After all, it's just a picture of a slightly tired mom in a porch swing, feeding her baby on a hot June day. 

Kiddos, I know you won't remember the way I fed you when you were a baby. By the time you were walking, you were licking the toilet bowl when I wasn't looking, eating rocks, and nibbling on a lost, half-eaten, week old chicken nugget found between the couch cushions anyway, so what does it matter?

I know you won't remember that I let you sleep in your crib in your own room or that I bought your baby food or blended up cans of fruit instead of preparing you fresh. Are you going to let that bother you?

I know you won't remember what kind of clothes I put you in because half the time you didn't want to wear any at all anyway. 

I know you won't care how I finally got you to sleep all night in your own crib because well...sleep is the greatest gift of all, and giving it to you was a gift to me, too.  

I know you won't remember all the tears I've cried over you and the countless nights I worried if I was doing everything right, and for that I'm glad. 

But what I do hope you remember is simple. 

Did I make time for you? Did I believe in you? Did I teach you where you were, not where the world told me you should be? Did I challenge you and make you discover who you were? Did I give you new experiences that taught you more than a book ever could? Did I show you a godly love evocative of the Father's? Was I patient with you? Did I listen? Did I let you be silly and creative? Did I teach you how to be strong and determined? Did I teach you about faith and prayer? Did I teach you compassion?

Ladies, our babies are so much MORE than some experiences on a developmental checklist; they're people. And we are much more than just ordinary moms who can't possibly measure up to society's standards. 

Coming from a mom with two kiddos who are completely different, I can honestly tell you that since I've begun this motherhood journey, I've realized one thing: Giving God control is being in control. And as lost as we may feel sometimes, that's God calling on us, telling us that there's a story in what we're doing and he's the author if we allow him to be...a message and he's the narrator...an edifice of love and strength and power, and he's the architect, contractor, and construction crew, shaping us and creating a life worth living for him. 

One of my aunts who has lost a child told me the other day, "This is nothing. If I could go back to when they were little, I would in a heartbeat. These are the best years of your life."

You know, she's right? 

So when your little one is demanding to be picked up for the 100th time, keeps you up all night, throws up all over your car, spills a container of chocolate milk mix all over himself in your vehicle while you're on vacation and driving down the road, or runs off in one direction while your other one goes the other direction, GOD IS THERE. He's the only thing that will allow us to see the beauty through all the exhausted nights and busy days. 

To quote Wilson Phillips, "Hold on for one more day," mamas, because you're doing a good job. And your mothering style might not always look like the books' ideal version of a mother in 2017, but that's ok. 

It's all going to be alright. 

 

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What I Hope You Remember