“You seem like a pretty calm mother to me.”
Who? Me? You mean the one who spent all morning trying to make one (1) meal without losing her sanity?
I have a friend who has a houseful of young boys. Her attitude has always impressed me—she always seems collected and unstressed.
I hold her up in my mind as the sort of mom I want to be—never frustrated or angry when my children are being little nuisances.
But more often, my days consist of distracting a toddler from a potential tantrum, disciplining when the tantrum happens, trying to not get frustrated when instructions aren’t being followed, disciplining again for a refusal to follow instructions, holding back the over-eager hand with a too-full teaspoon of baking soda, watching the flour poof out when added too quickly to beaters moving too fast, wiping up the mess while gritting teeth, trying to sneakily put the laundry in the dryer, having an exuberant “helper” remove the lint from the dryer screen while I’m attempting to put laundry in the dryer, trying to remember that the sippy cup of milk should be popped into the fridge, disciplining again because there was a fit raised when the milk was returned to the fridge even though there was no intention of drinking it, asking about the primal urges of a toddler ad nauseam, and trying to count to ten—or one hundred?—while rinsing out another pair of miniature underwear.
All this while a baby howls in the background and there is a distant whine of sirens.
So yes, most days, I feel anything but calm.
And between my hormonal, sometimes sleep-deprived self, Little Z’s hormonal toddler self, and Baby B’s cries for attention, love, and diaper changes, most of the time I feel anything but calm.
That’s why my sister’s words were such a balm to my spirit. I may not feel calm, but maybe my friend doesn’t either when she’s alone with her boys. Maybe she too barks at them when they spill dirty dishwater down the cupboard front and seem unrepentant (nay, even excited). Maybe I’m not alone when I feel the frustration building at yet another outfit change and mopping job because someone refused to tell Mommy that he had an urge to go.
Maybe my lack of calm is *gasp* normal.
Ironically, that thought is somehow calming.
Maybe I don’t have to completely have my act together to still be a good mom.
There are days when the only accomplishment that I can claim is that the boys are both alive, fed, and in clean diapers/underwear (and sometime the last one is negotiable). And maybe those sort of days are okay too. Maybe those days are good in the way that they strip me of all the superfluous and teach me what is important—being a mother to two precious future men and a wife to one present man.
As an enneagram 3, those days are hard for me. I love nothing better than to dig into a task and check things off my to do list. A nice hard task completed is more energizing to me than responding calmly to a whiny voice at my elbow.
But my wifehood and motherhood is more important than my list.
My son’s heart is more important than the fact that I’m having to clean up another mess of the unmentionable sort. My baby’s heart is more important than his settling for a nap on schedule. My husband’s heart is more important than having a perfect Sunday lunch ready for him.
I have the power to create an atmosphere that helps everyone’s hearts to thrive.
So if I cross off my to-do list and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.
And once again, I find that God says it best.
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