Tag Archives: motherhood

I’m a superhero mom

I’m a superhero mom.

I don’t wear a cape or unitard, have a mask, or knee-high leather boots.
Most days it’s jeans and sweaters, often with holes. It’s yoga pants stretched past their prime, stained t-shirts, and comfy shoes — always comfy shoes. But these clothes allow me to get dressed quickly so I can respond to your needs. They allow me to bend and reach and cradle, and snuggle without worrying about wrinkles. They allow me to climb and chase, to walk grocery aisles and pace hallways.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I don’t own an invisible jet or Bat-mobile, nor can I fly, or leap tall buildings in a single bound.
Instead I drive a van or a station wagon, definitely something with four doors and lots of storage. I transport book bags, diaper bags, sports bags, and grocery bags. I transport you – my most precious cargo. I map out my route each day, plan outings and errands around nap times, school days, and dance classes. I drive countless miles without leaving our home town.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I don’t have super-human strength and my body doesn’t regenerate or instantly heal from cuts and bruises.
But I feel everything you feel. When that boy broke your heart, mine shattered into a million pieces. When you made that basket after sitting on the sidelines all season I felt your joy overflowing out of me and running down my cheeks. When you were scared about the first day of school and worried no one would like you, your fear and uncertainty ran through my veins and tightened my lungs.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I can’t climb walls, spin webs or stay young forever.
Instead I climb mountains and obstacles fighting for you, advocating for you, making sure you get a fair shot, and every chance to be your best self. I spin tales of imaginary adventures and silly, made-up songs to help you sleep, to help you laugh, to help you heal. And while my body ages, my heart grows larger each day.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I can’t travel in time, see the future, or make time stand still.
But I can live in the moment, enjoying each day with you, seeking joy and contentment instead of perfection and affluence. I can see glimpses of the adult you are growing into and I can help prepare you for tomorrow by recognizing your gifts and talents. I can be present, be available, be encouraging and forgiving, and always, always tell you how much you are loved.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I don’t always win the battle, defeat the villain, or claim victory.
Instead I arm myself with the armor of God, battle hate with love, and claim victory in my inheritance as a child of God. Each day I try to show you how to do the same, by speaking truth and love into your life, and leading by example.

Because I’m a superhero mom.

I'm a superhero mom

Image Copyright: wavebreakmediamicro / 123RF Stock Photo

The Ugly Truth of an Overwhelmed Mom and Resentful Wife

It’s 10:30 p.m. and I’m exhausted.

The kids have been in bed for an hour, and my husband is asleep on the couch next to me. I shut down the laptop, turn off the TV, and pick up the cordless house phone to put in the charger. I am aware that if I don’t remember to do this tonight we won’t have use of our home phone the next day because someone has used the other handset, forgotten to put it back, and now it’s lost with a dead battery, somewhere in my house.

I pass by the dog’s food dish and see the child responsible for feeding her did not refill the water bowl, so I stop to fill it. I start to climb the steps to the upstairs, picking up a lost sock, a forgotten toy, and dirty dish towel along the way. With each step I climb, I feel the resentment growing inside of me.

Once upstairs I head to the kitchen to pick up the now cold dinner still sitting in the crockpot. As I open the fridge to find room for the container of leftovers, I see three other containers of uneaten leftovers taking up needed space because no one else will think to throw them out.

As I cross back through the living room, I pick up dirty tissues, forgotten school papers, and half-empty cups. I trip over a pair of tennis shoes left in the middle of the floor and turn off all the lights that were left ablaze after children went to bed.

And the bitterness sets in. The resentment is flaming.

Once in my bedroom I find all the items on my sink that one or more children used without asking, without putting away. I sigh, get undressed, wash my face, fill my humidifier, and think the only thing I want to do in that moment is climb into bed with my book so I can escape into another world, into someone else’s life. Because in this moment of exhaustion and raw emotion, my very real thought is, “I don’t want this anymore.”

Moments later, my husband joins me in our room, moving his sleepy body from the couch to the bed. He looks at me, hears my curt “goodnight” and asks if I’m mad at him. “No.” I reply.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks. I pause, waiting to see if common sense and decency win out over fatigue and resentment. Finally, I say, “I’m just not in a good place at the moment. I’d rather not talk about it.”

He pauses, trying to decide if more should be said, if he should probe. Probably waiting to see if common sense and decency win out over his own fatigue and frustration. Finally, he goes to sleep.

I’m left with my own thoughts and feelings, unable to concentrate on my book. And it is then that I realize it is not my family or my marriage or my head that is not in a good place, it’s my heart.

Because the truth is—the big-picture, unselfish truth—is that this man lying next to me had cooked that dinner I picked up off the counter. He had gone grocery shopping to buy the ingredients the day before, and helped me in the drop-off, shuttle, pick-up routine of daily life with kids. He had worked all day in a job that is physically exhausting and often emotionally draining.

The truth is, he is a true partner in this parenting gig, and shares much of the household load with me. And he never, ever expects me to do any of it alone.

The truth is those kids, asleep in their beds, they’re pretty good kids. They all have chores they do (mostly) without complaining each day and week. They have been taught that we are a family and everyone pitches in. They are responsible for their own laundry, picking up after themselves, doing homework, and taking care of pets.

The truth is they are usually gracious and thankful.

The truth is when I’m away from my family I miss them. They are what I think of most. I can’t wait to hear about their days—how did she do on that test? How did he do at the game? How did the meeting with the boss go? They are my heart walking around on four pairs of legs and I love them so much more than that word can express.

But beneath these truths, resentment bubbles to the surface and I let it sit there as I become consumed by frustration and overwhelmed by responsibility. Frustrated that they have to be asked and reminded. Overwhelmed by how much they all look to me to take the lead. I am the director, the scheduler, the planner, the seer, the doer, the organizer, and the manager.

Why don’t they remember to turn off the lights, and pick-up their shoes, and run the dishwasher, and sweep up the spilled cat food without being asked?

Why do I have to remind them to shower, and wash clothes, and feed pets, and return that phone call, and make that appointment, and walk the dog?

Why can’t they see the missing sock, the dirty tissue, the empty water bowl, the moldy leftovers and want to take care of it without my prompting?

And as these thoughts swirl through my head I know, without a doubt, it’s a heart problem. More accurately, it’s my heart problem.

Because love is patient (even when reminding a 12-year-old for the 547th time to feed the cat before school).

Because love is kind (even when discovering there are no clean dishes because my husband forgot to run the dishwasher the night before).

Because love does not envy (even when I see the young, childless married couple with their perfectly clean, Joanna and Chip Gaines-inspired home, and all their free time).

Because love does not boast or exhibit pride (even when I am the one who has washed the last 12 loads of laundry without a single thank you).

Because love is not self-seeking. And this is really what it comes down to. Am I a mother and wife because of what I expect to get out of it? Or am I a mother and a wife because of what I want to contribute to it? If it’s the latter, if I truly want to invest in these little lives, in this marriage, then I need to remember that comes with service. It comes with a willingness to give of myself and my talents to these people I love so much.

If my heart is full of love, real love (patience, kindness, without envy or pride, free from self-seeking), then there cannot be room for resentment and bitterness.

 

This post also appeared on Her View From Home.

 

Three things that having twins taught me about motherhood

See those two cuties above? Today is their 11th birthday. Eleven years ago today my husband and I went from being the parents of one sweet little girl to….

…being outnumbered.

Everything changed that day. And I wasn’t the least bit prepared for most of it.

It’s true, I cried when the OB/GYN told me I was pregnant with twins. And they weren’t tears of joy. It’s also true that their first year of life is a bit of a blur. We were in survival mode, living through what felt like one, veeeeerrrrrryyyyy long sleepless night. I nursed the twins for all of three months before I felt like Elsie the cow and started to realize I was never going to get to leave my house again.

In the early days I wore the title “mom of twins” like some kind of badge of courage or Purple Heart because parenting didn’t just seem twice as hard, or like it was twice as much work, it felt 1,000 times more difficult than life had been with just one. (and this is where I pause and tell all you moms with triplets or more that you are freakin’ rock stars).

But now, eleven years later, it’s hard to even imagine a life without our three kids. And somehow over the years I transitioned from being the “mom of twins” to just simply being Daniel and Olivia’s mom. (And, of course, also Hannah’s mom, but she’s now a teenager so that’s a whole new badge of courage I’m sporting these days.)

Most importantly, though, I realize that having twins made me a better mom. It forced me to let go of a lot of things (showering daily is overrated) and focus on what was really important (getting two babies to sleep at the same time for more than 4 hours). It allowed me to discover the kind of mom I really wanted to be, and I’m so grateful for that.

So, here it is, three things (because ain’t nobody got time for anything longer than that) having twins taught me about motherhood.

  1. How your child acts in public is not always a direct reflection of your parenting. Oh, the ignorant blissful days of having just one child. One easy, slept through the night, smiled at everyone, loved school, easy child. Or maybe more accurately titled, my Judgy McJudgerson days. My first daughter was a breeze and, for the most part, very well behaved in public. Of course it helped that there were two of us to take turns holding her hand, entertaining her, watching her, re-directing her, etc. So it was easy for me to wonder what the other parents were doing wrong. The parents of the little boy putting mulch down his pants at the playground who told his pre-school teacher he hated her; or the parents of the little girl whose head was spinning around Exorcist-style as she screamed at the top of her lungs because her mother told her “no” to the baby she wanted at Target. Clearly those children behaved that way because their parents hadn’t taught them any better. Wrong.

    Those are all real-life examples of things my precious little cherubs did when they were toddlers ( I won’t even go into stories of things they’ve done as they’ve gotten older). All things that mortified and humbled me as a parent. But in a good way. And I think every parent who has ever looked down their nose at another should be blessed with at least one temper-tantrum throwing, mis-behaving, inappropriate word saying, call-from-the-principal kind of kid. Just to remind us that, hey — they’re kids! We can teach them right from wrong, manners, respect and kindness, but at the end of the day they are little human beings who make mistakes and will try to push the boundaries. (And just to set the record straight, my “perfect” first-born has had more than her share of cringe-worthy and embarrassing moments to last a life-time).

2. Being a “perfect mom” is highly overrated.

With my first daughter I tried to get it all right. I really did. We introduced veggies before fruits. We played classical music and read to her all the time. We loved tummy time and all the made-in-America-old-school-Melissa-and-Doug toys we could find. I went overboard with the perfectly planned, everything-is-part-of-the theme birthday parties. School snacks were home-made and holiday outfits were coordinated and chosen with care. And this was all before Pinterest was a thing!

There’s nothing wrong with any of these things, except that trying to keep up with it –times three — was exhausting and overwhelming. And worst of all, if I didn’t keep up with it I felt like I was failing at this mom gig. That is, until I finally realized that being a stressed-out, tired, “super-mom” actually made me a pretty crummy mommy. So I stopped. I threw in the towel on most of it. And surprise, surprise, my kids don’t even notice. I’m more relaxed and happier, which makes me more patient and fun to be around. And last time I checked no one has given me a citation for being the mom who phones it in on the school snacks.

3. Every child is different and needs to be parented differently.

OK, so you don’t have to have twins to learn this…anyone with 2 or more kids can probably tell you this. But the lesson was certainly magnified for me when we went from 1 to 3 kids overnight. Add to that the fact that two of them were in utero at the same time, shared clothes, toys, and a room for the first five years of life, and yet could NOT be more different if they came from separate families…who lived in separate countries, spoke different languages, and grew up in different decades.

What worked with our first born generally does not work with the other two. What works for one twin does not work for the other. And so on, and so forth. I call this out not because it’s earth-shattering news, but because once I embraced this knowledge it made a world of difference in my tolerance, patience, and flexibility as a mom.

While they’ve taught me so much more about motherhood, life, and the kind of person I want to be, those are the three that really stand-out at this moment. I’m sure in another few years I’ll have some new lessons — after all, I will have three teenagers in my house in just two years!

But for today, I just want to say: thank you God for this double blessing. For using my fear and weakness, and two little babies, to push and stretch me beyond what was comfortable and easy, so that I could become a better mother, and a better person.

Happy birthday Daniel and Olivia. You are my sunshine.