I held my baby to my bosom, and I inhaled the sweet angel-like fragrance of her sparse hair. I wanted to complete some mundane yet essential tasks around my home, and though a part of me wanted to become frustrated at her crankiness, instead I covered her cheek with a kiss. Then I worked my way down planting pursed lips along the sweet folds of her fat neck. It was wonderful.
I don’t do this enough.
My five year old came up to me as I typed out something on my phone. She spoke fast, excited, and eager to share with me her latest observation on life. I started to tune her out, to complete my text to an acquaintance, but instead I put my phone down knowing full well the correspondence could wait. The bright light in her eyes as she brilliantly exclaimed her hypothesis on life filled my heart with pride. She was learning so fast; I’m glad I didn’t miss it.
I don’t always do this.
My three year old came up to me frantically as I loaded the washing machine, her petite frame barely reaching my waist, and she locked her tiny arms around my waist.
“Hold me, Momma.”
Snot poured from her nose, and tears streamed down her chapped cheeks. She was my sensitive child, and her frustrated tears came as easily as breathing for the rest of us. I wanted to be perturbed, and though I honestly still was, regardless I scooped her up to console her.
I mess this up sometimes.
When you’re running fast in the Momma lane, and fighting time to get a minute, it’s so easy to lose your cool. To lose your focus. To lose the perception of what’s important.
It’s easier to focus on quantitative signs of your accomplishments, like an empty laundry basket, or getting to church on time.
It seems like it makes more sense to place importance on what gets done rather than the weight of who you’re doing it all for. I don’t know why we fall for that falsehood.
It’s almost more comfortable to become frustrated with the frustrating things, to get angry at what is in essence just mere inconvenience, although it seems dastardly important at the time.
Sometimes it takes God pulling the wool off your eyes to jolt your senses, and as you see the obituary of a friend’s child around your own daughter’s age, your surprised heart aches so bad that you really understand why it’s called a broken heart.
Your grieving, grateful emotions climb up out of your chest, taking residence in your throat, and through burning, choked-up tears you tell God you’re sorry.
I’m sorry I take them for granted.
I’m sorry my patience wears thin rather than my gladness overflowing.
I’m sorry I put my focus on the wrong thing, missing the gift in my lap.
Perception is the ultimate eye-opener, and it only makes me sad that I don’t always see.
For today my vision is clear, my heart is grateful, and my focus is on my blessing. My heart yearns to not miss the point of parenting, to not get caught up in the weeds of discontent.
I don’t measure my mothering skills by a sink of dishes done, or by another check mark placed on my list of to-do’s.
Instead I let my kisses linger. My arms become wider, more hungry for the embraces of my babies. My patience opens to these magnificent creations that the Lord has given me charge over on this earth, and today I try and get it right.