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Monday, June 6, 2016

Good enough

I make dinners.  Lunches.  Breakfasts.  I search for socks and swim trunks and homework folders.  I wipe little bums and clean soiled sheets.  The fibers of my shirt hold tears and snot and marker stains.  My hair has been pulled and torn from its roots by little hands searching for comfort.  My arms ache from holding children well past holding age and most days my body is too tired to function past bed time.

When I think there's absolutely nothing left to give, someone wants something else.  And I give it.  When I think I can't possibly make one more dinner, someone's hungry.  And I make it.  When I think I can't walk another step, I pick up my toddler and I walk 50 more.  When I think I can't function without just a little more sleep, I get up.  And I do.

I hold little hands and kiss little faces and wipe little tears.  I laugh and I sing and I dance.  I cry and I yell and I fall on the couch and proclaim "I just can't do it anymore."  And then I get up and I do.  I high five and chase and whisper to each of my children, secretly, "You're my best friend."

I tear up at assemblies and class presentations because I'm so proud.  I tear up when I see them playing by themselves, or watch them struggle to read because I'm so scared.  I tear up when someone understands because I'm so relieved.

I wander the hallway at night, between rooms, tucking little feet under covers, stroking messy hair, smiling.  Always smiling.  Even after the hardest days.  Smiling because I feel in this quiet moment, each night, what it means to be mom.

It's work, yes.  Hard work, even.  But it's holy work.

It's a joy, even when it's a burden.   It's a privilege, even when it's a hardship.  It's grace, even when it's brought me to my knees.  Especially when it's brought me to my knees.

I've spent years trying to explain to people what I do all day.  When Aiden was a baby I'd say things like I feed him and I change his diapers and I pick him up when he cries.  And I'm sure they were thinking, and then...  But somehow that was it.  It was exhausting and exhilarating and fulfilling and unbelievably lonely, but I couldn't explain why.  These days I say things like, I go to play groups and take walks, I grocery shop and do laundry.  And I'm sure people think, and then...  But somehow that's it.  It doesn't sound like much.  But it feels like so much.  It feels like everything.

It's mundane and draining and sweet and lovely.  And it can't be explained, not fully.  But not because it's boring or meaningless.  Because it's full of more meaning than even I can understand right now, from my spot directly in the middle of it.  Because sometimes the most sacred things can't be talked about.  Sometimes the most beautiful things just can't be explained.

This morning Finn was feeling down and so I pulled him in for a good hug, and when I glanced up at our reflection in the window, I noticed Finn's small, satisfied smile.  I noticed his closed eyes and his arms wrapped tightly around my waist.  And I thought, I did that.  I don't know if good enough exists, or if I'll ever feel like I've attained it, but I know that I'm good enough for him.  Even with all my flaws, I'm enough for these three gorgeous children.  My love changes them.

And maybe that's the fascinating thing about motherhood.  That it's a small, beautiful reflection of a love much greater than this.  That even though it's laced with imperfections, it's also a piece of heaven.  A sacred glimpse into something more.

It's snot and tears and dirt-crusted fingernails.  It's smiles and laughter and chocolate-covered faces.

It's good and it's hard and it's everything in between, but it's always, irrevocably, unconditionally covered in love.