Twenty-three years ago today, I underwent the single most life-altering event I would ever experience. In a matter of minutes, I transitioned from girl to mother. Looking back…I was the furthest thing from an adult at 21. All of the aspects of my life that I thought made me an adult at that time proved to be nothing more than the equivalent of playing dress up in my mom’s closet. I had a full time job, I had lived on my own (although I moved back in with my parents during my pregnancy), I had saved a decent amount of money, I had graduated high school and gone to college, I paid my own bills, and I certainly looked like a young adult…but in terms of maturity…I was still a child. I was a child having a baby. A lonely, scared child. My life was full of love, support, and help from my family and my closest friends…but at the end of the day, I knew that this baby was mine. Mine alone. Mine to love. Mine to care for. Mine to provide for. Mine to mess up. Mine.
I wish I could say that in 23 years, with 4 other children added to my life, that I was no longer scared…but I can’t. 23 years later…and on a daily basis I’m still battling the fear of failure that’s tethered to motherhood.
That August night in 1994…in our first quiet moments alone in the recovery room…I held my 8lb. 11oz. newborn son in my arms, but I carried an 8-ton weight of single motherhood on my shoulders. It was just me, him, and Jesus in that room…and I was so very aware of my aloneness. I just held him and cried…for a good long time…in a deliberate, but vain effort to purge myself of all my lonely fear.
I knew I had a lot to learn. 23 years later and I’m still learning. Every single day. But this 23 year long journey of wearing the weight of motherhood has taught me some precious things about myself, about pride, and about Jesus that I never could have learned apart from raising my children.
When I was a young mom, I devoured every Christian parenting book I could get my hands on. If reading makes you an expert…I was surely an expert. The number of parenting books I’ve read has got to be well into the hundreds…and that’s no exaggeration. I was sure that knowledge from the parenting experts would make me a great mom…and I wanted so badly to be a great mom. I took in such a wealth of head knowledge about parenting that I knew all the right answers; according to and approved by the experts. For several years I even taught parenting classes. But all the while, in my zealous acquisition of head knowledge…I was oblivious to the fact that I was distancing myself further and further from the heart and soul of parenting and the hearts and souls of my children.
When my oldest children were very young they generally presented themselves as model examples of my parenting efforts, in public anyway. They would sit quietly with us in church. They would hold the sides of the grocery cart and walk along the aisles peacefully. They said please, thank you, and nice to meet you as they looked right in the eyes of adults while shaking their hands. They played their parts very well. They knew by my repetitive training what they were supposed to do to ‘appear good’. But as my children grew, they cared less and less about ‘appearing good’ for a watching world and I repeatedly found myself angry and confused that my expert parenting techniques were no longer ‘working’. About 7 years and 3 boys into motherhood…most days ended with me bitter, confused, crying and feeling like an absolute failure.
As moms we shackle ourselves with so much responsibility over the behavior, choices and heart attitudes of our children. It’s such a temptation to feel proud of ourselves when they obey or make good choices…especially when the obedience or good choices are visible to others. It gives us such a prideful sense of accomplishment when we see the fruits of our efforts manifesting in their choices. No parent is immune to this ugly truth…we all do it. We tell ourselves we’re proud of our children, but if we’re brutally honest, it’s not firstly our children we’re proud of…it’s ourselves.
WE TELL OURSELVES WE’RE PROUD OF OUR CHILDREN, BUT IF WE’RE BRUTALLY HONEST, IT’S NOT FIRSTLY OUR CHILDREN WE’RE PROUD OF…
it’s ourselves.
