I see you there, Momma.
I see you sitting in your van outside the Super Walmart, with the WeeSing Bible cd playing just loud enough to keep your 6- and 4-year olds happily singing, but not so loud as to wake up the 2-year old who somehow fell asleep in the four minutes it took to drive over from the library, or the 3-month old who has been raring to go since 4:15 this morning. I see you scrolling through Facebook on your phone, looking at all the photos of your friends who have real jobs, all your cousins who are on vacation in Hawaii, your sister who just remodeled her entire family room in white, white, and white.
I see you again in the store. The baby is awake now and hungry, pawing at your chest in the ergo as you try, desperately, to squeak just a few minutes of scream-free shopping out of the toddler, who was never going to be satisfied with a twenty minutes nap in the car but hey, you tried. I see you reminding the 4 year-old in the back of the cart to use his inside voice when he starts to scream at his big sister for touching his side of the buggy. I see you buying frozen, pre-cut veggies and feeling guilty because really, you’re a stay-at-home mom and those are luxuries for women who don’t have time. And you? All you have is time, right? Plenty of time to cut your own carrots, plenty of time to not need a meal shortcut in a bag. Sure.
I see you again outside, approaching your van and wondering, “How do I unload today?” I see you calculating: leave baby in ergo, move cart to side door, buckle in all kids, empty cart into back? Or leave all kids out, where you can see them, while unloading the groceries, then put them all into their seats? Either way still begs the question of what to do with the cart. After all, you’re not one of those people! You don’t just sneak a cart to a hidden slot between your car and the next and hope for the best. That’s a poor example to your kids, and you don’t want to do that. Any once you get all the bags home, what are you going to do then?
I see you there, Momma. And I remember that season well. I remember all those little bodies and just my own two hands. I remember when a 6-year old seemed like a grown kid, because she could at least reach the faucet to get her own water. I remember leaning my pregnant belly over a row of car seats to try to get to the buckle of the kid in the last row. I remember endless hours of Raffi and a diaper bag that weighed twenty pounds because no one could be trusted to not wet their pants at the park.
The sweet, wise ladies who smiled at me in the aisles of the Walmart assured me that this season would “go by so quickly.” Everyone at church was quick to remind me that it wouldn’t last, this crazy time of so many small people needing so much and being able to do so little.
And of course, they were right. I knew they were, even then. I didn’t appreciate their saying it most days, because who wants to hear how one day you will look back on sleepless nights and family dinners where you can’t even speak to your husband because you must keep up a running commentary of “please don’t touch the food on your sister’s plate,” and “did you ask to be excused? No? Then sit down, please.” What you want to hear as the sun goes down on those endless days is not just that you will survive it, or even some day long for it, but that this thing you are pouring the precious hours of your limited existence here on earth into is worth it.
So, pause for a moment and listen:
The exhaustion that saps the very strength of your bones? Worth it.
The hours of chatter that wash over you in waves? Worth it.
The busy that is so complete and yet, so without any semblance of fruit? Worth it.
The crazy, the fear, the tears, the hardships?
So, so worth it.
I say this as I see you there, trying your best to live up to the high calling of motherhood. I say it because I am there, too, praying every moment that God will strengthen my arms for the task and my heart for the battle. Oh, it looks different now, this parenting of littles. Having older kids makes the practical side that much easier, it’s true. But having the gift of perspective makes even the mindless, mundane work of the job at hand that much more of a blessing. Yes, I know for firsthand how brief these years are, and yes, I want to savor every second of them. But even more so, I know that all this effort, all this sacrifice, all this dying to self … it’s worth it.
It’s worth walking away from whatever career path you intended to follow before motherhood came knocking. It’s worth forgoing long girls-only weekends in exchange for quick phone chats with friends. It’s worth every ache and pain and inconvenience. Because this job? You are the only person on the entire planet God chose to do it. And that honor comes with rewards too sweet to even measure. You already know some of them. The fuzzy newborn head resting on your shoulder. The sticky, spent toddler you spy passed out in the rearview mirror on the way home from the zoo. The fact that you’ve seen every first: the first peek of tooth above the gum, the first step, the first time she wrote her name. This is just the beginning, Momma. It only gets better.
You’ll just have to trust me on this, o.k.? But I’ll let you in on a secret: the stuff that’s coming down the pike is like nothing you’ve imagined. Seeing your child showing the kindness you’ve nurtured in them to someone struggling. Hearing your son tell his baby sister about Jesus. Finding out that one of your kids stood strong in the face of temptation. Coming downstairs to a meal your child made after you were sick all morning. Knowing that you can trust that what you’re hearing is the truth. Those aren’t small things. Not small things at all. They’re the amazing fruit of diligence, hard work, and the Holy Spirit working in you, and in your child.
These brief years of raising children give way to a lifetime of relationship. The little boy who comes to you for ten bandaids today, the little girl who tattles on her sister every chance she gets… these are the people who will hold your hand as the older generation passes away, who will comfort you as your own days come to a close and Jesus is nearer than ever before. That investment will be returned, Momma. Every diaper changed, every meal served, every scraped knee kissed. Take heart. It’s worth it. You are not raising children, you are raising people. And that is so very worth it, indeed.