Growing up, I used to imagine I’d have about six kids. Then I got older (as in college, you know, really old) and I realized that was a crazy idea. Oh, and I met and fell in love with a man who only had one brother and looked at me a little cross eyed when I mentioned having more than two because, he maintained, once your family is more than four it’s harder to find a good table at a restaurant.
Never mind that once your family is blessed with toddlers, you don’t go out to restaurants anyway. But guess what? He was right.
We’re a family of six now. Four little mini versions of the best and worst of ourselves who can’t all fit in a booth at Wendy’s. or Chic-Fil-A. or McDonald’s. We rarely try other places.
Madelynne came along in 2004 after we’d only been married two years. Now that I’m older and wiser again, I will say I wish we’d had a little more time to enjoy each other, but then we wouldn’t have her…and for awhile my husband would say, “Well, we’ll still be pretty young when they’re all out of the house.”
Eight years and three more later he says, “Think we’ll make it until then?”
Annabelle came along just eighteen months later and I called him on our third anniversary to say I was pregnant and he thought I was kidding. For a long time after her, I really thought we might be settled at two. Two was harder than one, but it was fun. The girls are close sisters and we were approaching the ages when we could take them to restaurants that didn’t have playgrounds. We even went to Disney World and had a fabulous time despite summer heat because we had reached a milestone in the lives of all parents: no more diapers.
Then on Father’s Day in 2009, we found out we were pregnant again. Amelia is our only “planned” baby, if you can plan such a thing. She came along at a time when I was really, truly ready to embrace motherhood. Finally, I felt like I had my life a bit together enough to be a parent worthy of this calling. I taught for one more year and then turned in my resignation and readied myself for a whole new world.
I could go on field trips with the elementary school. I could eat lunch with the girls anytime they asked. I could pick them up and drop them off and take them to dance or soccer or the park after school without feeling like I’d already given away my best for the day.
Well, like I said yesterday, sometimes motherhood isn’t what you expected.
On Madelynne’s seventh birthday I cried in the arms of my midwife when the pregnancy test was, in her words, “very positive.”
I really didn’t think I could do this again. I hadn’t asked for more, I had become content with what I had been given, and when people asked us didn’t we want to try for a boy, I never said yes.
I didn’t need another baby to feel complete; I just needed to know I was being the best mom I could be.
“Every good and perfect gift comes from above.”
I staked my claim in this promise of God when a sunny May morning gave me my beautiful baby boy. He is more than I’ve ever asked for or wanted or believed I could handle.
Someone said the other day (I think it was Merideth on an old Grey’s episode) that we have the children we’re supposed to have.
Thank you, Lord, I don’t have the six I asked for, not because of number, but because those perfect little children I used to imagine would be mine are pretty lifeless compared to the strong-willed four I’ve got.
I didn’t read that book. You know the one. The one every other expectant mother reads. And I didn’t follow my progress week by week and I didn’t chronicle myself in pictures and I didn’t make cute signs detailing how big baby was at week 27 and week 32 because by the time I got ready to deliver, I was pretty sure I was going to be pushing out a baby the size of a watermelon anyway.
The truth is, though, I really didn’t know what to expect. I thought I did. I’m the oldest of seven kids, so I’d been around a lot of babies. In my mind, I figured if it was good enough for my mom, it was good enough for me, and I’d watched her and bathed and rocked and fed my sisters almost as much as she had.
So I thought.
Then I became a mother on a beautiful fall afternoon in mid-September and at first I thought motherhood was everything I’d expected and more. I’d gotten my sweet baby girl with her daddy’s lashes and plenty of dark hair to hold a bow and now I was a mama and this was what I expected life to be.
Until the afternoon I sat in the floor of my bedroom and held her and she cried and I cried and I couldn’t make her content and I realized this is what motherhood really is.
I thought I was ready. I thought I knew what was coming. I had expectations.
Thank God that eight years later I’m realizing that those expectations are so much less than reality. At least, they are when I open my arms to embrace what I’ve been given.
I’m linking up with the Nester this month to write about one topic for 31 days. If you don’t want to miss any of my ramblings on motherhood, scroll down and sign up to get Grits and Grace in your email inbox. If you’re writing on one topic, comment and let me know, I’d love to venture over your way! If you’re a regular or a visitor, I’d love to hear your thoughts on motherhood or anything else.
So today when I found out about The Nester’s 31 Days project, I knew I had to get on board. I love to write. I love a plan. I scribble notes and blog ideas and story outlines and bits of bad poetry on post-its, in my agenda, throughout spiral notebooks, on backs of napkins…but I rarely make any (much less all) of those ideas happen.
Which is why I need accountability.
So I’m linking up (hopefully not too late) with the 31 Days plan to write about one topic every day for thirty-one days.
I got started this morning without even realizing it.
I also attempted to make a buttony-thingy, but I think it needs some work.
31 Days of Embracing Motherhood
All of it. Even when I don’t want to. Even when I want to escape into someone else’s words. Even when I’m tired. Even when I think I have nothing profound or funny or inspiring or interesting to say. I’ve been a long time coming to this, to settling into the idea that being a mom doesn’t mean I’ll know every answer, doesn’t mean I’ll love being with my kids all the time, doesn’t mean I’ll be able to fix every problem.
Being a mom does mean I’ll come face-to-face with my own imperfections, my own shortcoming, my own pride and I’ll lock myself in the bathroom and cry.
It means I’ll wonder every day if I’m doing anything right and I’ll pray every night that God will fix all my mistakes, so that no matter what, my kids will know I love them.
Being a mother is a journey, a marathon, a quest. Join me for 31 days?
Dear Husband Who Said My Day Didn’t Sound Too Bad,
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