Enjoying Today.

I got hit between the eyes this morning. Not literally, thank goodness, but with some pretty simple words I read in a devotion on motherhood that I've been trying to do. I'm terribly inconsistent, but that's not the point this time. The author, Jen Hatmaker, was starting down the path of reminding us (moms) that kids grow fast, blah blah blah, enjoy the time you have, blah, blah, blah. I've read it all before. It's very cliche, and while true, it is not always helpful to have someone (especially an older woman) to remind one to enjoy the present with the crazy little people who stretch every fiber of patience, composure, and abilities I have. You can read my favorite post ever written on that topic here. Anyway, yesterday, I read a different post on Facebook about the "real life" definition of  a mom, and it really struck me as beautiful. A perfect balance of all those emotions, experiences, and thoughts that make the job unique and the most important I will ever have. I couldn't stop thinking about it as I was up with a scared Jillian at 3 a.m. ("Something touched me". I really hope it was one of her billion stuffed animals in her bed. Just sayin'). I'm going to paste it here, so I can remember it, before I continue with my story about being hit between the eyes (I promise I'm getting somewhere. Eventually.)


The (Real Life) Definition of Motherhood--lisajobaker.com
I am stretched and tired and fearful.
I am wild and brave and broken.
My closet has a sense of humor and clothes in every size.
I’ve worn these hips three times around the labor and delivery dance and they are not ashamed. I speak three languages and that doesn’t include my ability to translate my middle son’s moods.
I have danced circles into the midnight carpet on two continents.
I have rocked restless babes, cut baby curls, snipped fingernails and served a thousand thousand bowls of Cheerios.
I can build a blanket fort, pry splinters out of fingers, and sharp words out of young hearts.
I have lost it, yelled it, fought it, cried it and apologized it all before 9am.
I have fingerpainted, caffeinated, and run out of explanations for a line of why questions that stretches around the living room, out the front door and around the block.
I have tripped on Legos, stepped on scooters, slept on bottom bunks, and strung yards of white, twinkling lights above the heads of two blonde brothers afraid of the dark and their bad dreams.
I have been woken up, shaken up, thrown up, loved up, and shut up. I have never quite, completely, ever given up.
Love sleeps in my bed. Curiosity eats at my table. Delight runs laps around my back yard. Exhaustion is a faithful friend. But so is grace.
If I started tonight and counted backwards all the gifts of the past seven and a half years of two boys and this still-smells-new baby girl I would still be counting when their grandchildren were standing tippy toes with noses pressed against these smudged windows.
So I count dimples instead.
And piles of stray socks and jeans with knees missing and shoes that only fit for a few months and hair cuts and loose teeth and how many times I look at them and say with the disbelief of the proud, “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!”
I am overwhelmed, infatuated, love struck and completely unhinged. Especially on the nights they bring in wild flowers and all the ever-loving mud in the world.
I am full and fulfilled.
I am older and comfortable in my skin.
I am about the work of raising tiny humans.
I am out of my mind and in my calling and desperate for five minutes alone and a lifetime together.
I see cherry blossom fireworks when two brothers enter school and friendship and new worlds together. Right there, just an outdoor, black top, basketball court away from me.
I want to stop time, tame my fears, bottle their dreams, live a hundred summers of dripping, sticky, caramel ice cream. And in between I hang onto my faith, my temper, and my sense of humor with my fingernails.
These are the good days, the glory days, the slow-as-molasses days. These are the fast years, the wonder years, the how-do-I-find-words years.
But we do. They usually start with “help” and end with “thank you”, and the middle?
The middle is a thick layer of one syllable wonder sometimes whispered, often shouted, always answered.
The middle is me. The middle is you. The middle is just, “mom.”

I got hit between the eyes this morning. Not literally, thank goodness, but with some pretty simple words I read in a devotion on motherhood that I've been trying to do. I'm terribly inconsistent, but that's not the point this time. The author, Jen Hatmaker, was starting down the path of reminding us (moms) that kids grow fast, blah blah blah, enjoy the time you have, blah, blah, blah. I've read it all before. It's very cliche, and while true, it is not always helpful to have someone (especially an older woman) to remind one to enjoy the present with the crazy little people who stretch every fiber of patience, composure, and abilities I have. You can read my favorite post ever written on that topic here. Anyway, yesterday, I read a different post on Facebook about the "real life" definition of  a mom, and it really struck me as beautiful. A perfect balance of all those emotions, experiences, and thoughts that make the job unique and the most important I will ever have. I couldn't stop thinking about it as I was up with a scared Jillian at 3 a.m. ("Something touched me". I really hope it was one of her billion stuffed animals in her bed. Just sayin'). I'm going to paste it here, so I can remember it, before I continue with my story about being hit between the eyes (I promise I'm getting somewhere. Eventually.)


The (Real Life) Definition of Motherhood--lisajobaker.com
I am stretched and tired and fearful.
I am wild and brave and broken.
My closet has a sense of humor and clothes in every size.
I’ve worn these hips three times around the labor and delivery dance and they are not ashamed. I speak three languages and that doesn’t include my ability to translate my middle son’s moods.
I have danced circles into the midnight carpet on two continents.
I have rocked restless babes, cut baby curls, snipped fingernails and served a thousand thousand bowls of Cheerios.
I can build a blanket fort, pry splinters out of fingers, and sharp words out of young hearts.
I have lost it, yelled it, fought it, cried it and apologized it all before 9am.
I have fingerpainted, caffeinated, and run out of explanations for a line of why questions that stretches around the living room, out the front door and around the block.
I have tripped on Legos, stepped on scooters, slept on bottom bunks, and strung yards of white, twinkling lights above the heads of two blonde brothers afraid of the dark and their bad dreams.
I have been woken up, shaken up, thrown up, loved up, and shut up. I have never quite, completely, ever given up.
Love sleeps in my bed. Curiosity eats at my table. Delight runs laps around my back yard. Exhaustion is a faithful friend. But so is grace.
If I started tonight and counted backwards all the gifts of the past seven and a half years of two boys and this still-smells-new baby girl I would still be counting when their grandchildren were standing tippy toes with noses pressed against these smudged windows.
So I count dimples instead.
And piles of stray socks and jeans with knees missing and shoes that only fit for a few months and hair cuts and loose teeth and how many times I look at them and say with the disbelief of the proud, “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown!”
I am overwhelmed, infatuated, love struck and completely unhinged. Especially on the nights they bring in wild flowers and all the ever-loving mud in the world.
I am full and fulfilled.
I am older and comfortable in my skin.
I am about the work of raising tiny humans.
I am out of my mind and in my calling and desperate for five minutes alone and a lifetime together.
I see cherry blossom fireworks when two brothers enter school and friendship and new worlds together. Right there, just an outdoor, black top, basketball court away from me.
I want to stop time, tame my fears, bottle their dreams, live a hundred summers of dripping, sticky, caramel ice cream. And in between I hang onto my faith, my temper, and my sense of humor with my fingernails.
These are the good days, the glory days, the slow-as-molasses days. These are the fast years, the wonder years, the how-do-I-find-words years.
But we do. They usually start with “help” and end with “thank you”, and the middle?
The middle is a thick layer of one syllable wonder sometimes whispered, often shouted, always answered.
The middle is me. The middle is you. The middle is just, “mom.”


So, as I was saying before the rather lengthy digression, Jen Hatmaker was rambling slightly about enjoying the moments with your children. OK, I get it. But then, she just summed it up nicely with a big bang: "Enjoy it today, or enjoy it never". Did you catch that? NEVER. I thought about that for a minute, and while it is so simple, it is so true and so profound. I have one chance to enjoy this day with my children. I can either choose to enjoy it today, or I never will enjoy it. I can't decide today that I enjoyed yesterday. I either did or I didn't. Looking back on a period of time with fondness isn't the same as enjoying it in the moment. It's a message we've all heard before, but somehow her spin on it made me reconsider it with fresh perspective. I have a lot of regrets. A lot of days have passed where I didn't enjoy my girls. Girls, I know you will read this someday and I don't want you to misunderstand the difference between loving you and enjoying you. I love you with a fierceness I can't explain, but I am human and I don't always enjoy the moments. I have been like this my whole life, and it is part of my goal-oriented personality. It's not an excuse, it's part of me, and one I am learning to examine as it affects my perspective on mothering. The stage we are in together right now is a tough one, and it is testing me in ways I haven't yet been tested. That will surely continue. But I have a choice--I can either trudge along wishing away today so that we can get to some unspecified "easier" stage that I will promise to enjoy when it arrives (and then just look ahead to what might be better), or I can just look for the good stuff in every day. I bet I'd see more of it if I just started looking. It's time to open my eyes.