Now I don't think it's funny at all. I definitely don't find a single drop of sarcasm in it.
Ten years and two sons later, I have a sort of awe-struck admiration for mothers, particularly the ones who raised me and that overflowing-with-good-character Lover-man. I am not flattering when I say I actually don't know how they did it. How Warren's mom was a pastor's wife, homeschooling mother of four, who grew a lot of their own food, took care of a church congregation, had her kids involved in 4H and sports, and invested in her community with more energy and genuine, heartfelt care than I've known in anyone else. And my mother? With eight children in tow, she took shopping trips, and field trips, and kept up with fifty zillion loads of laundry and eight grades of school, and an acreage, a garden, a bus, and a ministry, and happens to still be breathing today. Women like that are strong and selfless and extremely mature.
When I was a kid, my only answer to the "what do you want to be when you grow up?" question was always the same: "A wife and mom." And so here I am: wife to an incredible man, and mom of two completely delightful little boys. I couldn't be happier or more content, and yet, even with all those years of single-minded vision as to how I wanted my life to be, I find that I had no idea how to actually prepare for what that life would be like.
Because, you see, I went to the local grocery store the other day and only needed one thing. I figured two minutes and a dollar-and-a-half and we'd be on our way home to make lunch. Thirty seconds after entering the customer-less store, that blessed mini shopping cart that is the toddler's favorite part of our little town met my heels at break-neck speed. I hopped around and tried not to wail in the otherwise silent store, and just then that ever-so-sorry little boy informed me he had to pee. Right now. And of course there was a "no more public restroom" sign hanging on the used-to-be-public-restroom door. So, infant carseat hanging on my elbow and toddler in tow, we abandoned our cart and hurried to the front door. I swung it open and collided with the bobbing head of that newly-potty-trained little guy who was doing the famous pee dance. Instantly, every inch of that store was filled with unabashed, painful shrieking. I apologized as profusely as he had just seconds before, and we finally made it to the van where I pulled out a newborn size diaper and let him pee in it. That was just in time for the baby to wake up and realize he was overly starving and absolutely couldn't wait one more second to eat.
And as my mood spiraled and I tried to remember the peaceful young adult years when I was only responsible for myself, and then the newlywed days when the house was quiet and life was somewhat in my control, it finally occurred to me. I know why I am bothered by scenarios like this (which seem to be repeated in all kinds of varieties daily at our house): it's because I have to grow up. That is the only option.
Not "grow up" in the way that bratty neighbor kid used to say every time she disagreed with me. No, it's time to seriously and literally grow up. I am an adult now. A full-grown, all-in, real and complete adult and I have to act like one. Actually, now that I think of it, that's not enough. Acting like an adult will still fall short. I have to act like Jesus. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control...a healthy dose of those things would sure go a long way.
You see, I could spend my days waiting for these boys to become more independent and stop creating every sort of inconvenience you can imagine. I could feel sorry for myself on the ever.so.long. nights when the newborn is hungry and the sun rises on the world when my eyes have seen less than two hours of sleep. I could lose my composure when the toddler decides the thrift store is the perfect place to make a very abnormal-for-him scene. I could decide to be grumpy all evening when my day has spiraled out of control and nothing has gone as planned. And I could let that never-ending laundry pile and the dishes that stack up faster than I can wash them make me feel overwhelmed and cheated of the time I used to have to relax.
Trust me, I've tried these things. It's awfully hard not to give in to their temptations on some days. But do you know what's worse than all of the sacrifice and exhaustion and sheer exasperation? The way it feels to go to bed and know that all of those emotions caused me to miss out on the privilege and fun of being with my very young and immature sons, who will someday be grown and gone. And especially the feeling of an evening that could be spent basking in the friendship I have with my husband, that I instead chose to spend completely overwhelmed by the children our love has given us.
It's no small thing to be the woman in all three of these guys's lives. If I want my husband to feel as loved as I dream for him, and my sons to be raised in anything resembling my idea of a home for them, I simply have to let all of the little trials push me to maturity, instead of away from it. I have to lean harder on God and less on myself.
The truth of the matter is that, in order for the occasional (and by occasional I mean constant) interruptions and chaos to seem less like interruptions and chaos, someone is going to have to grow up around here.
And, although there are some very fast-growing little boys in this house, judging from the adorably ornery grin peeking out from a blanket fort, and the shocking blast of urine that just hit my computer keyboard the instant I opened the baby's diaper, my guess is that it's not going to be them.
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