Once upon a time, a mother pushed her happy, giggling five month-old baby onto an elevator in a new-to-her stroller. The baby was kind of adorable, and–as I’ve already said–giggling like mad, so it was no surprise at all that he drew the attention of the smiling woman in medical scrubs who had been doing the job of pressing the buttons on the control panel.
“He’s so cute! Your first boy?” asked the woman.
“No,” answered the mother. “My sixth, actually.”
“Six boys? For real? I couldn’t do that. No way.”
“God knew how much I like raising boys,” the mother replied, happy that for once she had a decent answer real time, rather than in the moments when she mulled over the conversation post-mortem as she was falling asleep, “so He gave me a heaping helping.”
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 it isn’t.
“Six kids. That’s a lot.”
“I have three girls, too.”
There was silence as numbers were added. Then the woman in scrubs shook her head and delivered the jewel:
“My hat’s off to you for parenting that many. I know there’s no way I could be the mother I want to be with that many of them.”
The mother smiled what she hoped was an empathetic, warm smile as she admitted the truth:
“I can’t either! And I’m so thankful!”
Now before you look at me like I’ve grown ten heads (because by now you’ve figured out that I am the mom in the story, right?) 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 nine 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 probably do that. I’m not saying it wouldn’t take effort. But I might stand a chance. With two, I think I could still manage if I make the conscious effort to spread myself as thin as butter on burnt toast. But with three, seven, nine, twelve? No way.
Instead, what my kids get is something different. 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 toddler’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 Mary Hannah has turned 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 Jack, all those years ago, to balance on his big boy bike when he shed the training wheels? It was Mathaus, 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 Mary Hannah’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?
I’ve seen this played out again and again. It was Birdie who taught John Mark the “Bossy E” song to help him with his long vowels. It was Mary Hannah who did the bulk of the skin-to-skin time with Jude the first 48 hours after his birth. It is John Mark, often, who cheers Mary Hannah through her hardest days at school by sending her sweet voice messages.
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 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 or a pot of rice 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.
“It was a gorgeous moment, burned into my mind, my heart, my soul.” … you literally just squeezed a tear onto my cheek. Beautiful. And I love this: “My children have a cheering section, not a number one fan.”
~Luke
Thank you so much for this post! As a mother of 11, I have been acutely feeling that I am not the mother I planned to be, and currently want to be. But God put into my mind and heart the somewhat vague idea that being the kind of mother I want to be would have actually protected my children from too much and kept them from learning some important lessons. This post not only confirms that for me, but phrases it all so well and gives me an even better sense of what He was trying to teach me. Thank you!
thanks for sharing, it’s so hard to battle with our own (and others’) expectations as mothers. you’re the exact mother God had in mind for each of those precious kiddos. keep up the awesome work, mama!