Dear Mama Friends,
This is what I would like to say to
you, and perhaps you need to hear it. It's what I would like someone
to say to me, although it's easier to say than to believe.
You are not a terrible person. I know
sometimes it seems like children bring out the absolute worst in you
– all the frustration and anger and selfishness. But you are
actually the same person you used to be; it's just harder now to kid
yourself about how awesomely kind and loving you are. Think about
how much patience practice you have gotten over the years. Even if
your patience is still not enough to last the 24 hours a day that you
need it, you are more patient now than ever before.
You are not doing it wrong. There is
that baby who sleeps all night from 2 weeks old. There is that
toddler who potty trains in 2 hours. There is that child who teaches
herself to read at 2 years. That is not your child. That is not
most people's child. It's completely normal for babies to
wake up during the night, and to start waking up again once they've
stopped. Yours is not the only toddler to poop anywhere but the
potty. And it's supper frustrating. But it's not because you have
missed the Perfect Window or the Vital Step or the One True Way.
It's because every child is different and life is just messy
(literally) and much more complex than we'd like it to be. It's not
you.
You remember the moments when you
snapped and acted like a sleep deprived two year old. And your kids
might too. (Let's be honest, they'll grow up and blame you for
everything no matter what. That's what therapy is for.) Those are
such big moments right now, moments that seem to define everything.
But in ten or twenty years your kids will mostly remember sandwich
triangles and silly songs at bedtime and all the little moments
colored by security, trust, and someone there who cared.
You are not failing. It sure looks
like it sometimes. You cannot possibly stay on top the mess. You
don't cook enough vegetables. You did not create magical memories
for the first or hundredth or last day of school. Some days (years?)
your children will invariably act horrible and you will be certain
you are raising them to be terrors. They don't sleep. They won't
focus on school. They won't calm down for two blessed seconds.
They are far from perfect, and you are far from perfect, but you are
far from a failure. You battle frustration and lack of
accomplishment and invisible progress every single day and what do
you do? You get back up again the next day (or every few hours all
night long) and start it all over again! Day after day after day
after year. If that's not success, I don't know what is.
Those dark circles are beautiful. They
tell of so many nights of self denial and caring for others. That
saggy stomach sheltered a tiny human being or three or four. Those
stretch marks show how you literally stretched yourself to the limit
for the sake of new life. Your hair is turning gray before your eyes
– because even your hair has worked so hard at this business
of life. Your whole body is showing how you have lived and how you
have given. All those imperfections whisper of the tears and losses
and anger and disappointment that you don't like to let show; they
give away how hard this has been. They show how strong you are. The
mirror might show something that seems worse than before, but you are
a wonder.
What you are doing matters. All those
menial, meaningless loads of laundry and trips to the potty and time
outs and cleaning up markers off the floor and washing snotty noses
and helping focus on another math problem and quieting the screaming
and making another dinner. You are providing your children with food
and clothes and keeping them safe and helping them to learn some
kindness and responsibility and math, and where would they be without
that? Human children are pretty helpless. They need you. They
follow you around everywhere you go talking incessantly because they
want to be with you.
What you are doing matters. In
itself, by itself, this is incredible spiritual work. You are
literally feeding and clothing the least of these. You are washing
feet and showing the extent of your love. You put others' needs
before your own day and night. You hear your baby cry, and you
answer him. You lift him out of darkness and draw him into your arms,
giving comfort. You offer your physical body as a sacrifice.
You are weary and discouraged and
wonder if you will ever again do something that feels meaningful,
something that you can finish. But this right here, this is
IT. This is life. You were made for this life, for this every day,
and you are doing it so well. Let us raise our coffee mugs together
in solidarity. We are doing this. Carry on.
Ruth
