It was right there in my inbox this morning.  A quick read and a simple enough reminder: conduct myself as one covered by grace.

Instead, today, I got to conduct myself as one covered in vomit.  Lovely.

We’ve had the stomach bug hanging around for a few days.  It lies dormant between victims giving us just enough false hope to believe it’s passed.  Oh, and about ten days ago it was masked as strep.

But nevertheless, it’s a stomach issue.  A nasty, stinky one.

Hope you’re not eating while reading.  But most of you who read this are moms with cast iron stomachs because at some point between labor and delivery (or paperwork and adoption) we become capable of actually catching the expulsion with our bare hands.

I think we got microchipped or something.

So that’s what I did today.  I did whatever it took to keep throw up off my sofa for the fourth time in three days.  Eventually, I gave into a dose of Zofran we had lying around from the earlier incident.

He’s cured!  Let’s hope.

I also did whatever it took to keep calm and direct on.  Which meant Gus went to rehearsal with me instead of Mimi’s (please don’t infect the cast!) and I put off this post until now.  (By the way, I’m failing miserably at making this a weekly link up.  But that’s another post about how I’m trying to see past pageviews and followers.)

This is about how I tried to do whatever it took today to not lose it when life didn’t follow my plan.  When Gus had throw up in his hair and eyelashes.  When  Amelia refused to wear anything other than her monkey pajama pants.  When Annabelle dissolved into hysterics as we flushed Madelynne’s pet fish.

Whatever it takes.

For me it was finally cleaning this glass door.  A simple mundane task to remind me that life goes on and eventually everything gets done.  Even in the midst of a manic Monday.

He’s almost one.  Five days more days will pass on by and as much as I’d like to stop time and freeze the moment, he’s going to be one year old.

365 days can go by in a blur of color and light and joy and fear.

But then it’s done. It’s over.  That first year of magical moments that can never be again gets buried in the next year and the next and sometimes I’m afraid I will forget.

I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to lose the ache in my heart I feel every time I hold him when he’s sleeping or kiss the nape of his neck or tickle him to hear those gurgling squeals. It’s a good feeling. A healing ache.  A reminder that even when I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, there was One who knew infinitely better than me.

It took nine months of pregnancy and the first few stumbling weeks of motherhood times four before I recognized that ache of pure joy.  Delight.  Amazement.

And it’s too easy to forget.

I know because sometimes when he’s been up three times in one night or he’s still shrieking because he’s eaten all the meatloaf on his plate and half the portion on Amelia’s and still wants more—I forget what a pure  miracle he is.

So I’ve started a list for myself (and maybe for you) of those things about motherhood we tend to forget.  I know writing isn’t for everyone, but I promise you’ll need this.  You’ll want to remember these when that baby is a tantrum throwing preschooler and a sassy sixth grader and a capped and gowned graduate.  Write it down.

I don’t want to forget to remember…

how baby hair smells.
how tiny and yet how strong the grip of his fingers.
how he would grunt and snort and sigh when nursing.
how easily his clothes fit in the drawers.
how we could roll him up like a burrito and still he would wiggle free.
how startled he was the first time he rolled over.
how I could sit for hours and hold him and not care about dishes or laundry.
how his hair curls over his ears and down into his eyes.
how he buries his face in the hollow of my neck before he goes to sleep.
how he bounces in the arms of the nursery workers when I come to the door.
how intently his eyes follow his sisters.
how he first crawled on his belly like a one-armed wounded soldier.
how he could sit forever in front of the glass door and watch the neighbors mow their lawns.
how he says “thank you” in the clearest little lisp.
how he crawls at lightening speed to the door the moment his daddy comes home.

Linking up with some lovely ladies today…

I’m a pleaser.  I’ve written about that here.  How I follow rules sometimes for the sake of the rules and not for the sake of pleasing God, but just because I want other people to like me, enjoy my company, think I’m doing a good job.

Sooo…really I’m not doing a great job lately.  At anything.  All that people pleasing and saying yes and crunching numbers and writing posts to get pageviews and comparing myself to others has left me exhausted physically and emotionally and spiritually.

It’s make me defensive too.  And angry.  Why should  I have to justify saying no or giving up obligations or taking a rest from some commitments just because I don’t have a “job” or an at-home business?  That’s been the war-cry on my heart lately.  The pressure to give in and do it all because I stay home and “have the time” has worn me thin and broken me down.

I melted on Monday.  Super sobby chokey crying that left me with a raging headache that sent me to bed at 8 p.m.  Not so fun.

Folks, I’ve set both sides of the fence between staying home and working full-time.  I’ve told you that neither is easy, neither is better, neither makes you any better a mother than you want to be.  But I’ll tell you another truth for me: staying home racks me with more guilt than working did.

Working is easy to justify.  We need the income.  Done.  People can understand that.

But staying home when you really need another income?  People don’t understand that, so they seem to figure that if you’re not also working in some way, then you must need plenty to fill your time.

I have a three year old and a three-weeks from being one-year old.  I have an eight year old and a seven year old.  I have a husband.  I have my own little God-sized dreams.

I don’t need anything else to fill my time.

The work I commit myself to right now, outside of my commitment to being a wife and mother, needs to work that is calling my name.  It needs to be work that challenges and convicts and creates in me the glory of God so that can spill over.  It doesn’t need to be work that I’ve taken because someone else won’t or because I know I’ll be talked about because my list of church volunteer activities is less than a mile long.  It needs to be work that makes me passionate, and honestly, sometimes, it’s not the work that’s only found in the four walls of a brick building with a steeple on top.

For me, that calling is these words on this blog (and some words within the bound pages of a book).  It’s the stage at the middle school and the community theatre.  It’s the park and playdates with moms who need a little encouragement and a friend who’s going to love them like Jesus because maybe they don’t know how much He loves them.

I read this the other day.  I read it again this morning.  I just love when Beth Moore writes exactly the way she talks, all spastic and rambling and passionate.  I love this: What do you look like when you love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength?

I look like a mom who sometimes sheds the baby on her hip to love on middle school kids who want to be on a stage.  I look like a mom who’s a bit frazzled with kids in the minivan who are waiting until after we’ve delivered a needed meal to eat their own.  I look like a writer who’s open and honest and always afraid to put my words on paper and always amazed when people read them and respond to them.

Thank God He made us different, equipped us each with a gift and a passion and a desire that’s not all the same.  I’m tired of being ashamed that my calling doesn’t seem as spectacular or as important as someone else’s.

I’m tired of trying to please and be liked by everyone except Jesus.