I’d found myself there on that couch a couple hours prior. The two oldest were still at school, the barely-a-baby-anymore was napping. There was an hour, at best, before the noise would drown out the quiet again. So I plopped myself on the couch with my laptop. The screen was blank. Time stood still. I looked up, around, pondered many things. Deep questions about the meaning of life surfaced in those moments of quiet. What is the purpose of my life? How can I strip away the excess, the clutter, the unnecessary? How do I go about freeing space and time to make room for the filling of my soul? Why have I been given all this while others live in pieced-together mud, metal and sticks? My eyes were open as wide as they’d been, and I knew, it’s possible to live fully alive, receive without question every beautiful thing under the big, bright sun.

Two hours later, sunlight streamed in on that same spot. The 11-year-old tween played Minecraft to my left, the 8-year-old had gone to play with a friend, which left me and barely-a-baby-anymore with nothing to do but listen to her favorite song, “Mahna Mahna,” on my iPhone.

I sat her in my lap sideways so I could see her still-baby face. Sun came through the window behind her. Her hair glistened, glowed. Snot ran down her button nose and I could see every fuzzy baby hair on her face.

I looked down. Her baby feet were right at my hands. I grabbed them one at a time, one for each hand. She didn’t seem to notice, she didn’t seem to mind. I kissed those still-baby toes, breathed in the unforgettable fragrance of baby feet that’d been in socks all day. A tiny chip of pink nail polish on her big toe reminded me she’s not going to be this little for long. A mama of three knows truth the third time around.

I watched her push the buttons, she’d found a new song. Away went the phone, hidden forever behind my back.

I lifted her in one little swoop and laid her on my legs. Her whole baby body still fit comfortably between my knees and my waist. She bent at the hips, lifted her legs like an infant-baby, and there at my hands were her feet. I grabbed those feet, used them to cover my face, and peered through to the sliver of her baby face that remained. My eye met hers. I broke her feet open wide and we played peek-a-boo many times ’round. A mama of three knows peek-a-boo feet is for babies, babies alone.

We giggled and wiggled in joy and delight. I had triple my fair share of kissing baby toes in the sunlight.

I knew this game would only last so long. So I turned her again, cradled her tight like a baby, tickled up her belly, all the way to her neck. She giggled. I rocked her in tight. It was a beautiful dance, this tickling, giggling, rocking, tightening all close.

Before I released her baby body, I cradled her tight, rocked her like I did 12-15-18-24 months ago. And I saw the baby, the toddler, the big girl. I saw myself, my husband, I saw the woman she’ll be. I took it all in, this holding tight, cradling my barely-a-baby-anymore girl. Because a mama of three knows, it won’t be long before that baby body’ll turn big – the lifting, carrying, cradling will be all but a memory captured in the recesses of her heart.

Six hours later, I find myself on that same spot on the couch, alone. The questions, the ponderings about life remain. The light no longer shines in. The night is dark and the wind howls in the polar vortex of the outdoors. But this mama of three knows – kissing baby toes in the sunlight was a gift, a moment received by her soul, given to be shared, so ALL would know – life is fleeting, grab the moment, every moment, the purpose of your life is here, now.

Amy

After we folded and set out a couple hundred place cards in preparation for the wedding, Jerry, father of the bride, overheard my son ask me for money from the ATM. My son had seen all the video games upstairs and wanted money to play them at the reception later that night. I explained we were going to have to find an ATM that was affiliated with our bank because there was no way I was paying all those ATM fees!

Great uncle Jerry came to the rescue.

He pulled two $10 bills out of his wallet, one for my son and one for my daughter. They could use the money for video games if they promised one thing – that they’d never smoke tobacco. Jerry extended the deal – if they haven’t smoked AT ALL by the time they’re 21 years old, he will pay them $100 each.

So the kids took their $10 and looked forward with anticipation to the night ahead.

But here’s what Jerry didn’t know – that $10 offering of his extended joy to more than just my son and daughter.

You see, my son? He’s not much of a social butterfly. Mingling, conversation? It’s not his gig. So those dollars were actually pretty crucial to him having an enjoyable evening at the reception, crucial to getting him engaged with others in a way that made him most comfortable.

We changed that $10 bill in for $1 bills, changed those $1 bills into quarters, and played bubble hockey most of the night.

He invited me first. I was a little reluctant as I was enjoying myself already in adult conversation with people I hadn’t seen in a long time. But when this little boy invites you to do something, you better do it. So I took him up on his offer and played my first ever round of bubble hockey!

Then he invited daddy and uncle Steve to play. I’m not sure daddy had ever played either, but uncle Steve? He’s a pro at these kind of things. Everyone had fun, and it was a perfect way to engage in something other than conversation.

Later, after dinner, he invited me to play again, not once but twice. At that point, it was a jaunt because we ate downstairs and the games were upstairs. But hey, the special time with my son was well worth the walk. When he took off his coat and wanted to try the foosball table, too, I knew this was serious business.

This business of seeing, of hearing the voice in the crowd that needs something different to be at ease, to feel better about their day – it’s what I love. And this business of playing, it’s something I really need to do more of.

So thank you, son, for inviting me to play.

And thank you, Jerry, for providing the $10 that allowed us to do so. The way you noticed my son’s need did not go unnoticed by me.

(Now let’s hope they claim their $100 deals!)

Amy

I still don’t know how she did it.

She was a mom of three and she worked full-time our entire lives. She never tried a part-time gig, never took years off to stay at home while the kids were little, and I don’t remember a single time she complained about having to work AND raise kids. She did what she did, she did it well, and it’s all she knew.

It’s quite likely that I idolized my mom when I was a kid. Her work was only a block from our house, so she’d literally RUN home from work to get dinner made and on time bake in the oven. (If you know my mom, you know I’m not exaggerating about the “literally RUN” part!) We had casseroles, whole chickens with mashed potatoes and pan-roasted gravy, pot roasts with carrots, and homemade pizzas to name just a few. Mom would complete the meal with sides and desserts and all the proper fixings. I know we had grilled cheese and tomato soup and tuna sandwiches, but let’s just say those nights were the rare occasion. And my mom would NEVER dream of serving us Hamburger Helper, Rice-A-Roni or any such thing.

In my subconscious, there are probably many days I still idolize the way my mom did “it all.”

When I’m overwhelmed with my part-time job, when I can’t keep the house clean like mom always seemed to, when I don’t serve my in-laws three square meals a day when they come visit like mom did for her in-laws, I believe I’ve fallen short.

When I throw Tyson chicken nuggets in the oven and warm up some frozen store brand peas, lies creep in that I’m not a good enough mom.

When I toss a baked potato in the oven, my son asks “why can’t you make mashed potatoes like grandma,” and he goes over to whip them up for himself, lies creep in that I’ve fallen short.

And even when my daughter comes home and says her friend’s mom “cooks different” than I do, “she makes everything homemade,” truth sets in that I’m definitely NOT doing “it all.”

I’d make more whole chickens and mashed potatoes with pan-roasted gravy and all the fixings…if only…

So I’m grateful for the moment it occurred to me, just today, that my mom is human.

The kids came grocery shopping with me last night. They wanted to buy Banquet TV dinners, specifically the $1 turkey dinner variety. I let them buy these dinners once every 3-6 months and they think it’s a treat. While I think turkey dinner is one of the most tolerable of TV dinners, they’re still not the best, so I grabbed 2 Banquet pot pies instead.

The kids ate their TV dinners for breakfast this morning (true story!), so my baby daughter and I ate pot pies for lunch.

As I took those pot pies out of the oven, flipped them over on the plate, and cut them up just the way I did when I was a little girl, I realized something.

These are Banquet. Pot. Pies.

$1. Banquet. Pot. Pies.

While they might not be the most nutritionally sound food in the world, and any foodie mom would die that I was serving Banquet Pot Pies to myself AND my child, the reason I wanted to get those pot pies last night is because I had fond memories of eating them as a child.

As obvious as it might be to you, I had to come to my own realization.

These are Banquet. Pot. Pies.

$1. Banquet. Pot. Pies.

My mom served these Banquet. Pot. Pies. To us.

That moment it occurs to you that your mom is human? It’s a beautiful thing.

So thank you mom, for serving enough Banquet Pot Pies that they formed a lasting memory in my brain. The gravy, the vegetables, the meat, the way my fork cut through that crust? All proof my memory might have failed me…just a bit.

Amy

She’s my baby.

We waited and debated for years about whether we should have another one or not. God led the way when we finally decided to bring it to Him in prayer. The answer was a clear and resounding – yes. And my answer for any mama and daddy questioning whether they should have more or not, will from here on out be – yes.

There’s a big gap between the big ones and this little one, and since she’s been here, my eyes have been opened wider to the beauty of staying home.

I’ve spent 11 years struggling to find the just-right balance between staying at home and working outside the home. Heck, I’m still in battle today. But here’s what I know for sure – you’re still working even when you’re at home.

Staying home is a work of the heart and soul. Tending, mending, bending, loving on little souls that’ll one day become big souls. Breathing in, breathing out, doing it all over again the next day. It’s taking messy, ordinary moments and choosing to see them as beautiful. It’s being quiet enough to hear and see what’s needed, moving outside of your rushed, hurried agenda and self to breathe and just be with your little one.

The days are numbered. I’m not fooling myself anymore.

So instead of shucking the corn on the counter, I bring it to the ground. Before this moment, she didn’t even know there’s a cob of corn hidden in that green. So I take her hand and help her pull down, like this, with just the right angle and tension. And begins the shucking of her first piece of corn. We put each piece in the pot when we’re done, and white stringy things are everywhere. When I’m not looking, she grabs one of those raw, uncooked corn cobs – and starts eating.

It’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

When we walk, we linger. I take her out of the stroller and she walks, she leads. We’re not in any hurry. There’s no reason to rush. We stop and look at dragonflies perched on dead weeds. We don’t look once and move on. We take it all in. We soak it in from all angles. And when we’re done, we start slowly back towards home. She finds a curb, and I could push her on. There’s no reason we need to stop again. But we stop, and she learns. She goes up and down that little curb four, five, six times. She’s doing it on her own, and it’s her first time mounting a curb by herself. There are weeds in the way, and we could be getting home much faster than this.

But it’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

She wants those Lucky Charms, that little stinker. Daddy brought them home, and I get it, all she wants are the colored marshmallows. She climbed up on the folding stool in the pantry all by herself to get those Lucky Charms, and mounted another stool to sit down and eat. Her smile is so big and her delight so evident. I break out the iPod and we listen to Stephen Curtis Chapman’s “Cinderella” and Sara Grove’s “It’s Gunna Be Alright.” My eyes are filled with tears, but I’m smiling too. It’s just the two of us, eating Lucky Charms at the kitchen countertop.

It’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

We went to Subway for lunch. She didn’t drink much milk, so we brought it home. I sat her down like a big girl at the granite countertop. The lesson? Try, try again. She opens the cap, puts it back on, opens it again. She puts her whole mouth over the lid and I try showing her it’d work much better if you do it this way. And she learns. She’s a baby big girl in her Elmo bib and purple tutu dress, and eventually becomes a milky mess.

But it’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

Daddy bought candy corns and pumpkins. She loved them to pieces, even though we only gave her five. So I brought this sugary treat outside for a little snack while we sat on the porch one afternoon after nap. I gave her ten, and that’s all she got. She stuffed her cheeks full when I let her, and she meandered a bit, up, down, and all around in-between each bite. I ate a few too, and did nothing but enjoy the moment, just me and her, snacking on candy corns on our porch. A bee came so we learned “no bee, go away,” her shirt and mouth full of candy corn juice.

It’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

The big ones came home. We needed pumpkins and they wanted to bring friends, so we brought two neighbor kids and all six of us headed to the apple orchard. We could’ve bought the already-picked pumpkins, but why? Part of the fun is picking your own. So with one in a wagon and four walking, we headed to the pumpkin patch in search of a just-right pumpkin for each. We basked in the glory of this pumpkin patch just for us. The sun was shining, the weather just perfect. With several BIG pumpkins and a baby in the wagon, we made our way back through the pumpkin patch. It was heavy and a little awkward…

But it’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her babies.

We were the first to wake. Just me and baby. I plopped her in the bathroom where we’d disturb no one else. I could have gotten ready right away, the day ahead was planned full. But it was better to sit right down on that bathroom floor. She played. We played. The people got on the bus. They went in and out, the door was open, then shut. The horn honked and the bus played “The Wheels on the Bus.” When she tired of it all, she sat down on my lap. I held her whole green frog feet in my hands, and was grateful I’d taken the moment.

Ya, it’s all good. This is the work of a mom who’s at home with her baby.

Amy

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.  Colossians 3:23-24

I’ve held one belief close for years.

{{Moms, lean in, this is for you.}}

We’re far too isolated in America.

Few have heard me mention my ideal alternative as if I’m joking, but truth is, I’m not joking at all.

On my worst of days, my most stressful days as an American mom, this is my desire. I’d like to be transported to another time, another civilization, where modern day expectations are blown to shreds, where I can live a simple life and it’s never questioned, not once. I’d like my husband to wake up and head out for a long day with the tribesmen. They hunt and gather, and as the day draws to an end, they come back with dinner in hand. While the men are gone, the women gather – weaving and braiding, cooking and preparing household things – together. We wear babes on cloth slings and the kids play all day. There’s no fighting, no comparing and no tattle-tale word slinging, just playing and running, singing and dancing. We gather over women as they labor, sing and love on them when they’ve lost their way. And we’re all dirty, like dirty beyond anything you ever see in America, and we don’t even care. Grandpas and grandmas, great aunts and great uncles, they’re wise constant-present council, and there aren’t cliques but community. There’s no comparing mini-mansions and mobile homes because we all live in huts so it really doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, there’s a fire where stories of old are told, the passing of one generation’s best to the next.

But I’m bound to my American life, and let’s be honest moms. This other world civilization isn’t happening anytime soon, unless, that is, we’re willing to sell everything, move to a deserted island and start our own tribe.

In the meantime, I’ve opened my eyes to this isolated American mom phenomenon…

Young mom, I saw her at Taco Bell. It was early for lunch, anyone would admit, but hey, when you’re mom it’s never too early for lunch and I had my three there too. She had two tinies in tow, a toddler and preschooler, and I couldn’t get over how angry she looked. While tinies babbled and chatted, she sat, fist balled up under her chin, looking out the window, eating her taco. Truth be told, it seemed she just wanted them out of the way. She just wanted to get this meal thing done, she was passing time. Her mind was somewhere else, and wherever that angry place was, it never let her go.

Then there was mom after swimming lessons. I saw a bag on the ground, just outside the exit to the parking lot, and wondered whose it was. A moment later, I heard this mom yelling “3-2-1 if you don’t pick up your stuff and come I’m gunna leave and go to the car.” Her anger escalated quickly, and I’m talking very quickly. I listened in discreetly as I walked with the kids to the car and got them in their seat belts. Mom managed to get her kid to the car, but by that time, she was beyond angry, at her wits end, raging. Kid was crying, mom yelled “If you don’t stop crying, I swear to God I’m gunna spank you.” And all of this in a parking lot. She was beyond caring what anyone thought.

Last was mom in Office Max. I was next in line behind her, she was hard to ignore. Mom questioned the $91 charge that remained after her $10 coupon. She was arguing with the cashier, but something was off, she was despondent, far off. Her responses were delayed, the cashier did a double take because mom wasn’t responding the way she should. Baby was in the cart calling “mama mama mama mama” repeatedly while the other three stood, waiting politely. I thought she might smile as she bid the cashier farewell, or maybe she’d even crack a smile when she realized her baby was still calling “mama mama mama” But no. She remained emotionless. She picked up her tiny bag, turned away, and abruptly told her children “go, go.” I smiled gently and looked into her eyes as she passed, but still, no response.

Do I share these stories because I like to hyper-analyze, criticize fellow moms, and point out their worst moments? Not so much.

You see, I’m no different.**

In my over-busy, beyond-stressed and way-too-isolated American life, I’ve had my own fair share of moments. Not exactly like hers nor exactly like yours, but uniquely mine.

Catch me any given day, and you might just find me stressed out. I’m talking the house is a mess and daddy left for work kind of Saturday. The sink is piled high with dishes, the TV’s on loud, and all I know is the kids need to eat something for breakfast. I break out the “good mom breakfast” of eggs, whole wheat toast, and milk, and the sink’s just piling higher. Kids are complaining that I’m taking too long, and the piled-high stack of mail and to-dos by the stove reminds me I’m inadequate to keep up with it all. One doesn’t have enough toast, the other needs more eggs, and the third’s got her sippy cup tipped over and she’s watching it drip all over the floor. By the time they all finish, I wipe baby’s hands, and sit down to my own breakfast, it’s time for more mess. Baby’s next to me on the floor, finger painting with the milk she dumped during breakfast.

Before I know it, they’re all three loving on each other in the chair. I breathe and I feel blessed, I’m grateful.

But then baby’s screaming, and they’re all over her, and she’s screaming even more.

And in that moment, I wish grandma or great auntie was upstairs or next door, I wish mamas were all around to wash up the mess so I could just eat, or maybe we could be transported to the hut with the dirt floor where the mess could just disappear deeper into the dirt.

I don’t have any great single solution to the isolation, anger, frustration, despondency, sadness, stress, or anxiety we sometimes face as moms, but here’s what I know.

This other-world community I long for has nothing to do with little, big or clean houses. It has nothing to do with being a stay-at-home mom or working mom. It’s not about doing life just right all on my own, and it’s not about proving I have it all together at all times.

It’s about community, it’s about grace, it’s about knowing beyond a doubt that this quote is true…

Be kind. Everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

Let’s stand together as moms, for moms. Tend to others. Offer a helping hand. Give grace freely. Smile. Bend down low. Have faith that God’s in control and works all things together for your good. And breathe.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”  Matthew 11:28-30

Amy

 

**I do not approve of nor condone the behaviors of mothers I observed in this post. Mothering is hard business, and I do my very best to reserve judgement unless I know another woman’s situation intimately. I am simply observing and suggesting that mothers are far too isolated in our culture. Further, I am not suggesting the American mothering experience is all negative. There are, of course, many reasons why the positive aspects of parenting outweigh the negative. I am simply offering a glimpse of the other side of mothering that often goes ignored.