I’m not very good at writing just to write. I actually hate it. If I’m not forced to for an assignment, inspired by something ridiculous my kids have done, or filled with emotion, I’ll question every word I type. This is only the third sentence and I’ve backspaced 100 times already. But maybe there’s some worth in this. I’m going to give it a go. I'm not very disciplined and often only care about something until the novelty of it wears off and then it slides onto the never ending heap of "When I Have Time."
John tells me I should write, because he is inspired by my words. I don’t think I’m out of words, but as my kids are growing my material seems somehow lamer than before. I’m no longer stuck in the thick of the diapers and nursing and very little sleeping, which gave me so much material to reflect on and, honestly, complain about.
My boys are a little older now, and less work in the physical sense. I no longer have a baby on my hip, a toddler in the basket of the cart, and a kindergartner racing about touching everything. It's different. Not easier. (Never easier.) Just different.
I feel like I am just peeking over the fence toward the next season of parenthood, into the deep molding of ethics, character, and drive. It’s way less physically exhausting, but the psychological and emotional exhaustion is unparalleled. Managing and taming that inner destructive voice these wild and handsome little men own is a huge challenge. I’m not good at demonstrating grace and patience, so I feel like I'm always hoping God and other people in my babies' lives will help fill the gap with goodness and helpful life lessons. Perhaps the angels God sends will diminish the amount of therapy my kids will need due to my own failings!
Parenthood is nothing like the brochure! There are plenty of snuggles and kisses and good teaching moments where no one is yelling or sarcastic or loudly sighing. But anywhere there are people, there is messiness and selfishness. We get tired, we get short, we get ugly sometimes. Feelings get hurt, apologies are deserved, and it becomes a whole circle tour on the struggle bus to pull those apologies out of our mouths.
No one really tells you when you're trying for kids--maybe out of a attempt to not be a naysayer, maybe because you'll never listen--that it's not the kids that are hard, it's the dying to self and growth as a parent and person that is insane. I don't think babies are hard, toddlers are hard, or even this preteen stage that my Jack is sliding one foot into. I think it's hard to feel prepared when you have no idea what's coming next. You honestly can't predict what's going to walk off that school bus and burst into the house. You don't know if you have an elated child who really connected with another kid and feels ten feet tall, or if one careless word from a classmate has made your son question their entire idea of worth. You have to be prepared to be present, whether just to listen and high-five, or to give guidance and encouragement.
I hope I'm doing better more times than not. I hope they remember the good, and pray that with perspective one day they will understand how easy it is to screw it all up, and how vital it is to keep trying. One day I pray they have beautiful squishy babes of their own and can experience all these joys and struggles. I cannot overstate the abundant joy!
Jack, Hunter, & Wyatt, I will fail you often, but I will always keep trying to give you what I believe is best for you. I work hard for you to see that I love all three of you, that I desire your company, and I am enamored with the beautiful personalities God gave you. You are so precious to me, and so markedly different from each other. I am amazed that Daddy and I could help make three vibrantly different sons with such a wide variety of interests, preferences, and perspectives. You have such worth and potential in this world, and it is my joy to live life with you while you become men.
Love, your Mama.
