Heaven Help Me!

This was passed on to me, so I’m passing it along. To mothers, everywhere, who feel completely at their capacity, I salute you! (And to those mothers who embark on the exhilarating adventure of having a large family: chin up & persevere!)

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People can—and will—say the darndest things.

Out loud, even.

I was at the Y yesterday, signing Oliver and Manolin out of childcare just after my 45 minute biking marathon with Jo. It’s a wonderful Mother-Daughter bonding time; if you’ve got the means to work out with your daughter, I highly, highly recommend it. The conversations we’ve had in those 45 minutes have been some of the ones I know I will cherish thirty years from now. The big boys are in Karate at that time, the little guys are in childcare and it’s just Jo and me, racking up miles on those stationary bikes while everyone around us wonders what in the world we’re finding so stinking hilarious.

But I digress.

As I said, I was at the Y. Manolin had already been handed over the counter and was grinding his face into my collarbone with every ounce of his being. Oliver was being led—in protest, mind you—away from the playdough table and towards the little green exit gate. I wrote my name on the register with a flourish, and turned my attention to signing dramatically so that Oliver knew it was time to head home.

“You’ve got, what? Three boys? Holy cow,” said the worker, a woman about my age.

“You missed one,” I offered helpfully, taking a step to the side. Sure enough, Atticus was hidden just behind me in the tight reception area.

“Four boys? I couldn’t do that. No way. They would drive me nuts.”

I smiled broadly and nodded. This woman, after all, goes to my church. And you know … she really ought to know better.

“I like raising boys,” I said. “These guys are awesome. I can’t imagine how boring life would be without every single one of them.”

You think that’s it, don’t you? You’re saying to yourself—”This is a post about how people are always bashing on little boys.” Well, it could be. But no. This woman just didn’t know how to quit when she was ahead. Just then, Jo came through the door carrying our workout gear in our oversized blue duffel.

“Oh my gosh, I totally forgot! You have, like, five kids. All those boys and a girl.”

Great math skills, I thought. You must be so proud. My sunshiney thoughts had turned decidedly sour. Because at this point, let’s face it: the woman has already basically told my sons that they are a burden to their mother. Now she’s going to harp on our family size. This keeps getting better!

The woman then shook her head and delivered the jewel:

“I couldn’t have that many kids. There’s no way. I just couldn’t be the mother I want to be with that many of them.”

And you know what? I told her she was absolutely right.

“I can’t either!” I admitted. “And I’m so thankful!”

Now before you look at me like I’ve grown ten heads (which is precisely the look she delivered, by the way) let me tell you why I feel the way I do.

I am not the mother I wanted to be with these children. Can’t be. It’s not possible. There’s only one of me … and five of them. Do the math. I can not be all things to every child.

The world says I am failing. I have chosen quantity over quality. I can’t possibly be a good enough mother. Needs will not be met. There are just too many kids.

Praise God, I say.

Because I have come to realize that the things I want to do and be for my children are not necessarily the best for them.

I want to kiss every boo-boo. Fawn over every picture. Brush every head of hair. Trim every finger nail. Hold the back of each bike seat as the training wheels come off. Stop the hurts before they come. Be the ear for every heartache. Bake every afternoon snack. Cheer at every game. Warn of every danger. Read every book. Watch every impromptu performance. Be a part of every game. Lead every troop. Sing every song. I want to right the wrongs. Hold off the enemies.

I want to be their world.

With one child, I could do that. No problem. With two, I think I could manage pretty nicely. But with three, five, seven? No way.

Instead, what my kids get is something different. Maybe not better—the Lord’s plans are different for each family, and I respect that. But at the very least, what my children have is equal. It’s not some lesser thing. It’s not worthy of pity. It’s just different.

It’s not about me, The Perfect Mother, this growing up thing. No matter how much I always dreamed it would be, it just isn’t. It’s about God and the family He provided to meet every need.

Do boo-boos get kissed? Of course! But a portion of the time, it is a big brother who kisses the baby’s head after he’s tried to fit underneath the coffee table for the fifth time in an hour. Do cookies get baked? Yes. I admit, though, that Jo is turning into quite the chef thanks to being blessed with the opportunity to experiment in the kitchen without my hovering. And do you know who taught Logan to balance on his big boy bike when he shed the training wheels? It was Atticus, running behind him and shouting, “Brother! Brother! You’re doing it!” in a voice so full of pride and utter joy that I get a catch in my throat just remembering. I cried from the curb, my hands busy plaiting Jo’s hair to fit under her helmet. It was a gorgeous moment, burned into my mind, my heart, my soul.

“Brother! Brother! You’re doing it!”

Are there sweeter words?

My children have a cheering section, not a number one fan. They have a chorus of voices that sing their praises and hands that reach out to help no matter the hour of the day. Will they walk through adulthood with this same closeness? There are no guarantees, of course. My own mother is the youngest of seven children, and I wouldn’t call their family particularly close-knit. There is no formula, no one perfect thing that will bind these little personalities into a warm quilt that they will want to stay wrapped in throughout their lives.

But there is love. Abounding love. More love than I, the mother who has been entrusted with them, could ever offer on my own.

I am not the mother I wanted to be. I do not make it to every event. I am sometimes preoccupied with a diaper or a math problem when a milestone flies past me at the speed of light. My children will not remember me in the foreground, chairing every committee, meeting every need and wiping every nose.

But I am the mother God wants me to be. I am in the background, usually. One voice among many in the sea of encouragement. Cheering. Praising. And witnessing the miracle that is our family.

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The kids and I have at least a two week break off from school for Christmas. I say “at least”, since some of them worked really hard and earned themselves a three-week break. They have been playing in the snow, playing with each other, reading The Sisters Grimm and Perelandra, enjoying “down time” so their minds can rest a bit. The curriculum we use is vigorous, sometimes too much so, I think. At the end of the school day, the kids are really tired. Me, too. We have fifteen weeks of school behind us, now just twenty left to go! But for now, I love these relaxed days when we wake up to a less structured day. Although I am no fan of structure, I see how helpful it is in getting everything done that needs to get done. Pretty soon, we’ll have to go back to it out of necessity, to study and learn, to advance, and to find that work we are called to do.

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My five year old daughter just came up to me saying she desparately needs her belly button cleaned out. Apparently, she has “years” of lint stuck in there. Do I do it? I scope out the scene. (My response: No, I have dust bunnies the size of small cats to clean under my couch right now. The navel will have to wait.)

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Being a mother for 12 years has given me more job experience than I have on my ‘ol resume. Here is a list of things my children have taught me over the course of my career:

1. It’s a very bad idea to forget to add water to ramen noodles and try to cook them in the microwave.

2. Children who don’t feel like waiting until dinnertime will attempt to do the above.

3. Children will make a slide out of the bathtub if you let them.

4. “Food fight” has a whole new meaning when you leave children unattended to answer a phone call.

5. Babies love to play with water…A LOT. As a matter of fact, babies like to play with milk and kool-aid, too.

6. Young children don’t care if they are nudists. After bathtime, they would rather sit on their bed and play with Barbie’s for two hours than get dressed. They must have a high metabolism.

7. The only thing that motivates children to move faster is candy.

…to be continued (due to me running out to a homeschool meeting !

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~ From the Diary of St. John Henry Newman

Everyone who breathes, high and low, educated and ignorant, young and old, man and woman, has a mission, has a work.

We are not sent into this world for nothing;

we are not born at random; we are not here, that we may go to bed at night, and get up in the morning, toil for our bread, eat and drink, laugh and joke, sin when we have a mind, and reform when we are tired of sinning, rear a family and die. God sees every one of us; He creates every soul, . . . for a purpose. He needs, He deigns to need, every one of us. He has an end for each of us; we are all equal in His sight, and we are placed in our different ranks and stations, not to get what we can out of them for ourselves, but to labor in them for Him. As Christ has His work, we too have ours; as He rejoiced to do His work, we must rejoice in ours also.

~ Sermon: “God’s Will the End of Life,” from Discourses Addressed to Mixed Congregations, 1849, in Daniel M. O’Connell, Favorite Newman Sermons, NY: The America Press, 2nd ed., 1940, pp. 177-178

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