When my soul is heavy...

It's slowly hitting me that I am actually home with my babies. After all, it's only been 7 months. You would think it would have already sunk in.

All I ever wanted, and all I ever dreamed about has happened. Yet I still find myself weary.

Weary from staying up late because it's my only alone time all day. Frustrated that storytime at the library turns into tumbling/rolling and tantrum time. Disgusted that some days we stay in our pjs until bedtime. And exhausted because everyone has boycotted naps- except me. That the clean laundry sits in piles for days on end. I was sure my house would never have a pile of laundry. And that we would all be dressed by 8am. And that storytime would be blissful happy time where my children fell in love with books. And I'd have at least one break during the day. Even if it just meant going to the bathroom by myself.

Isn't it funny that no matter how bad we want something it never goes like we thought it would? Ever.

And I'm not even sure why I set certain expectations? Is it because the grass is always greener? That ANYTHING had to be better than where I was? Probably.

And this is better. Way better. I just have to keep that perspective. Remember, the glass really is half full.

I get to sit at the kitchen table with my children for three meals a day. And kiss those boo boos that I used to miss and wonder how they got there. I got to teach him Jesus Love Me. I get to listen to the endless stories about dragons and what color fire they breathe. I got to see her first smile. And her first roll over, and coo, and now laugh. And sit and read book after book that we checked out at the library. And although we may not have the fanciest things, that's ok. Because we really do have each other.

In certain ways working was easier. I could go to the bathroom alone. And get a shower before the demands of hungry tummies began. I could carry on an adult conversation with other adults.

Yet my heart yearned at those times to be having three year old conversations. I'm coming to terms with not caring about my appearance first thing in the morning. Because they don't care how I'm dressed when I hand over that sippy cup of milk or what direction my hair is sticking while we bond over a bottle.

Being a mother is amazing and mind-boggling all at the same time. How can two tiny little humans make my heart overflow with such love, yet break it into pieces? How can I be so thankful for the important things? Like our health, and family, and being able to be present... yet roll my eyes, stomp and whine when I have to pull myself out of bed to replace a paci at 4am?

It's because I'm not perfect. And I never will be. There is no such thing as a perfect mother; the one who always gets it right the first time, and always has the right words to say. But we are made perfectly for our children. Our presence is enough for them. Our touch is critical for their development. Our smell is pacifying. We are enough.

If I'm able to teach my children anything I want them to know that I will always care. Even the seemingly insignificant. You know- the things no one else cares about. The "why" questions that go on and on. And asking what e.v.e.r.y sign says on the road. And having that little kid wonder about what makes our heart beat, or where rain comes from.

I know that school is going to start, and activities, and birthday parties. I know that they'll be too cool for me. They'll ride away with friends and be too busy to talk. And then they'll realize that they still need me. I'll look back and wonder what happened? When did they actually grow up? Was it one moment or a series of moments put together like a flip book I made in third grade? Regardless, I want to make these moments matter. I want to spend these seemingly never ending days with them. Wiping boogers and changing diapers. Brushing teeth and playing peek-a-boo. Because moments will turn into seasons. Seasons into years.

And this season that I thought I wanted, that proves trying and gratifying all at the same time will be the basis for the rest of their lives. Excuse the dark under eye circles, and the tummy fat that I was sure would be gone by now, my non-manicured fingers, and my chipping toenail polish. There really are things that are just more important. Like being their snugglebug and drawing letters with a stick in the dirt. I want to stop and give hugs. Play with hair. Rub backs and step on crunchy leaves.

I read an article recently about a dad who was dying of cancer. His only wish? To walk his daughters down the aisle. So he did. His 2 unmarried notevenplanningongettingmarriedsoon daughters. That's some serious perspective.

And a blog I follow where her husband died unexpectedly in a car accident leaving her with 2 children under 3.

And a little boy who's world was turned upside down by a falling tree branch.

Sometimes I feel like I just waste time. It's so easy to get caught up in life. And hot topics. And pinterest. And sports. But what if we saw our life as a clock running out? That we only have so many minutes, and days, and years with those that we love. Would I spend these days differently? And would I care so much about things that don't really matter?

There have been so many people on my mind lately. My heart hurts for them and I just can't get these precious faces out of my head. My burden for their life events more than I can comprehend.

A mom and dad who lost a fourteen month old baby girl. A friend who lost both grandfathers in the same week. A neighbor/friend/father/son/husband battling cancer. A disease that ravages bodies and weakens resolve. Friends waiting for their positive pregnancy test. Another family who lost twin babies, born too early. A mother whose baby was due this week, but met Jesus too soon for our liking. I pray they are surrounded by the only true Peace there will ever be- the Peace that passes all understanding. All this the week after Thanksgiving. The time when we are supposed to be thankful for all we have. 

I am thankful. I feel thankful to know (or know of) these people. Thankful because their courage makes me stronger. I'm thankful because Sweet Lilly got her donor liver. Friends have welcomed new life; new babies. Thankful to celebrate another year of Luke's life. 

When you stop and think about the sheer number of people rejoicing when at the exact same moment there are millions grieving over something else. How can one baby lose the fight and another be given the chance at life?

I feel so silly for getting caught up with the ridiculousness of life when there are people whose hearts are literally exploding. Hurting. Grieving. My faith is so futile in comparison. I have faith that our house contract will go through. I pray that my child will sleep through the night. But how shallow is that? How non-lifealtering are those things? As we plan to move all our earthly possessions yet again, and fall into another routine, and hustle around with the festivities of this season, I want to stop. Stop and talk to each other. Pray for these sweet families as we journey into a season exciting for some, yet so unbelievably heart-wrenching for others. We'll read the Word and make sure we remember The Story. And while I do believe in preserving childhood innocence (Santa and Elf are topics of discussion for another day) they will know the true reason we celebrate this season. 

That God became man. On a holy night, that we will never fully fathom, he became flesh.

I just love that the Bible doesn't give us a lot of Jesus' childhood background. You don't hear anything from Mary and Joseph between the birth/His presentation at the Temple (most likely within His first two months) and the Temple when He was twelve. When He was presented at the Temple somewhere around 6 weeks old, Mary and Joseph had to bring a sacrifice. They brought two turtledoves- a dead giveaway of their financial situation. The family raising the Lamb of God couldn't afford a lamb to bring for a sacrifice. Fascinating. I'm sure God could have found a more well-to-do family to raise His son. A family who had no worries or heartache. One that had an easy life. Instead God hand picked Mary for this task.

The fact that there are 11+ years of silence speaks volumes. It shows me the kind of mother Mary was. She was busy raising a Savior. Not just any Savior, but her Savior. Mind blown.

Mary gently reminds me that there was no pomp and circumstance surrounding His toddler years. His "preschool" years. I'm sure she was kept awake at night and had to soothe tired eyes to sleep. I'm sure He screamed, and threw tantrums. Yes, He was God, but He was also human. Sinless, yet still human. She was weary and I'm sure she questioned her ability to mother. I like to imagine that she rocked a sick baby much like I have. And He depended on His parents to meet His needs. He had to eat. He needed clean water to drink. He had to learn how to support Himself. And He relied on others' experiences to help mold and shape Him into the man He would eventually become.

Most importantly Mary reminds me to stop trying to be the mom I think my children want and be the mom that I was created to be. That the mundane really is extraordinary.

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