Dear weary mom,
I see you. And I’ve been you. Weary, drooping, and exasperated, like week-old tulip petals trying to hang on. Fading and withering, more and more … until weak, and all used-up, and falling right down.
I am you. And I know.
The Cheerios appearing on the floor without fail, every single morning. The dishes piling one on top of another … because the dishwasher’s already clean and there isn’t even one moment to unload it. The toys regenerating and scattered throughout the house. The crayon marks and drops of watermelon juice smeared all over the floor, which you only notice after stepping there. The shoe closet littered with empty water bottles, because those boys discarded them in a rush while re-packing their baseball bags. The layer of dust on the corners of each stair and the dried blue toothpaste clumps in the sink. The crumbs of goldfish decorating that carpet you just vacuumed yesterday and the papers piled all over the counter. The unmade beds and unopened mail, and empty toilet paper roll … the one changed only by you.
I see the messes you face over and over again.
Believe me, I see. And I know.
I see the craziness of your schedule as you try to survive each day.
I see how you wake to their bickering, negotiate their apologies, redirect their insults, and teach them to forgive each other over and over again. I know that process is long. I know the detour it cuts into your day. I know.
I see how you spend hours in the car. How it’s morning school drop-offs, and just hours later a Kindergarten pick-up. And without even two hours more, I see how you leave for elementary pick-up and linger around waiting for that high-schooler to be out. Multiple schools, multiple drop-off and pick up times.
I see how you drive all over town accommodating dance lessons and soccer practice, baseball games and youth group meetings, hours and hours in the car.
I see how you take all of them to the grocery store and beg them to obey. And by aisle four, two are fighting over the police-car-shopping-cart’s steering wheel, while another one’s trying to climb out of the basket altogether.
I see how you stand and cook dinner and maneuver the cranky dinnertime hour. How you answer their philosophical questions and debate their intellectual points, as you try to follow the measurements of that recipe before you.
I see how you run a marathon every single day. Multitasking, constantly thinking, and trying to plan a step ahead all along the way. The sheer physicality of it is exhausting. I know.
I see how you want to exercise but can’t. How you want quiet time but know nothing of quiet. And how you long for simpler days where you cease to run the crazed race as someone demands something at every hour.
But mostly, I see the intentions of your heart, and the desperation that resides there.
You long to be seen, and you want to be known. You want the reassurance you’re doing what matters, and in the process you’re not making too big a mess of it all.
You want to be seen for your intentions, and valued for trying … And I do see how you’re trying, yet wishing for something more, and craving the security instant success could bring.
I see how you’re stretched thin but keep hanging on.
How your doubt hovers like a cloud,
How your effectiveness seems uncertain,
And how you’re wondering if you’re cut out for this at all.
I see how you purpose to train and teach your children to become who God wants them to be. How you long to love them, but sometimes don’t really like them. And how the guilt weighs you down as a result.
I know your patience wanes and you reach your limit. I can hear the tone of your voice grow as the words you speak become arrows that pierce their hearts. Even the best of us blow it. We do. Oh how I know.
I see you. I’ve been you. And many, many days … I am you.
But the desperation of my own weary heart wants you to know we are in this together, my friend.
You are not alone.
This life as a mother is one of the hardest ones ever. Not for the faint of heart at all.
But may I whisper something to your weary heart even now?
God … loves … you.
And He chose YOU, for these dependent little moldable lives.
He picked you, amidst these adolescent years, for this. Even now.
And with His help, you really ARE enough. Because He says you are. [Tweet that]
You must know that today … YOU are seen and YOU are known. By Him and by me.
You. Are. Not. Alone.
With much love for you. And much hope for our continued time together,
I’ll be joining some beautiful women over at the new blog, Hope for the Weary Mom. Together we’re called Team Hope, and we’ll be spending time with you every Tuesday through Thursday, getting to know each other, with reassurances to your weary heart that you are not alone.
And every Thursday, starting TODAY, there will be a Dear Weary Mom link up, with mammas sharing their words of encouragement and hope.
You can visit the blog, like the Facebook page, or follow on Twitter.
Won’t you join us?
I think you’ll be so very glad you did!