No Awards for Me...

It has been an overwhelming past few days. One of those Seinfeld periods of time when nothing in particular happens except somehow you just can't turn away. Partly because of Zoloft withdrawal and partly because I'm a fool, I have been consumed by the gravity of what it means to be a Mom. Let me explain how I'm a fool.

Last week in Bible Study we were studying the Holiness of God, particularly the prophet Isaiah's reaction. Basically, Isaiah sees the holiness of God and is awestruck by it and his own finitude, saying "Woe is me! For I am lost; for I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; for my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!" I commented to my small group that I'm not really undone by my shortcomings and, as a matter of fact, seem to relish them. Convicted that this is certainly sinful, I prayed to be undone by the Holiness of God and my own sin. Big mistake. Like praying for humility. What was I thinking? I quite enjoy believing everything is OK and I'm OK and I have relatively little need for redemption much less God. Ugh.

So God heard my prayer and I was undone. I realized that what has really been pissing me off these past couple of days is the simple fact that life ain't easy. Sure, this is a lesson I've learned umpteen times before. You would think that spending three months in the hospital would've gotten me used to the idea. So I've been ticked off that I'm not getting my way. That there is this little person who is so stinkin' needy all of the time. That I'll have just arrived at the good part of the book and then all of the sudden he wakes up from his nap and wants to be fed. Or I'll have just sat down to eat and he'll poop. Or finished cutting out my fabric and finally be ready to sew and he'll have turned himself over and be angry or laying in a puddle of spit up. I think it has finally clicked that Henry can't help being selfish, that he is supposed to be calling out to me, and that I am not the baby anymore. To make matters worse the mere admission of this puts to death my dreams of the kind of mom I've always imagined I'd be. The kind of Mom who bakes brownies and puts little notes in your lunch box and packs you two puddings so you have an extra to trade, who is skinny with perfect hair and a ruffled, polka dotted apron. Sort of a modern Donna Reed with a dash of Claire Huxtable. But as a mother, I feel a bit more like the father from the Berenstein bears. Constantly falling in the mud, saying, "So now you see how not to do it..."

But things are starting to change. This morning in church something clicked. We were singing the hymn "It is Well With My Soul" and in one of the verses it says "My sin, not in part but the whole, Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more." And I thought, okay, so I'm not going to be nominated for any mother of the year awards. Why am I still bearing this burden? Get over yourself. God is not going to let you screw Henry up past the point of no return. In fact, God seems to think you're the perfect Mommy for Henry. It's a bit like I've faced my finitude, been undone, and then put back together again by the fact that it is God's job to fix me, not mine. But I do so love to be in control. And I do so want to be a good Mom.

Growing up, my dad always told me that "if something is worth doing, it is worth doing well". In college, I had a professor who told me that "the best is the enemy of the good." And then in grad school, I had a teacher, Henry Simmons, who said, "Some things are so worth doing, they are worth doing poorly." At different times in my life each saying has held merit, but I think in the grand scheme of things, Henry is right. We can't be great at everything, but that shouldn't stop us from living and loving and falling on our face now and again because in the end, we are loved far more than we know, and fear should hold no place in the Christian's life.

So I am going to just love my son. I'm not going to worry that I put him in his swing a little too much. He likes his swing. I'm not going to fret that sometimes he eats less than the books say he should--the boy has so many rolls his wrists have cleavage! In fact, I think I'm going to stop reading the books all together. (Although I do reserve the right to Google things.) I'm not going to loose sleep over the fact that this afternoon I couldn't turn my son's face away from the Television set as he watched the show Las Vegas.