I like to tell people that I was born to be a momma. I don’t mean it in the arrogant “look how amazing of a mother I am” kind of way that it sounds. I don’t think I am some Mary Poppins/Betty Crocker/June Cleaver miracle among mothers. I don’t pretend to think that I don’t mess up the Mom-gig daily. Hourly. It’s actually appalling how much I still mess up. But man do I love my kids and being their mom. Even the parts of parenting that I dislike, I actually love. Don’t ask me how that makes sense, I don’t know. But I know that every part of me loves being a momma.
A friend posted this on her Facebook last night:
I really identified with it, which made me want to write about it, since that is how I process and communicate best. Talk about “raw”, this post is going to be raw. Bear with me while I work it out, and then speak up and tell me what you think.
I am lonely. Which is strange, because I am always surrounded by people. Small, not-quite-grown people mostly, but people.
I know that human interaction does not quite fill that loneliness, no matter how hard I try, and it never will. Christ alone will completely fill that hole. But I still want the human interaction.
Okay, listen to this…
In May I broke my right pinky toe. I was in a big hurry to get some cleaning done before my brand new baby (darling Ransom, born March 4th) needed me again. I strode purposefully through my room, into my closet, and just clipped that toe on the wall on the way in. I heard it break, which, honestly, may have been the worst part.
Broken pinky toes are NO fun. They constantly remind you that you are considerably more delicate than you think. Also, three year olds do not understand, or care, maybe, what “Mommy has a broken toe” means. They think maybe it means step on it to see if Mommy screams. Or poke it 500 times while repeating, “Does this hurt?”
But, it’s not that big of a deal. They don’t require much care and they heal pretty quickly. Before I knew it, a week had gone by and I was feeling pretty normal again. I just took extra care when putting on my shoe, or walking around that darling aforementioned three-year-old (my sweet Eva).
No big deal.
Until I got a stress fracture in the middle of the same foot. How frustrating! Before the broken toe, I was trying to get into shape, and was ever so diligently working out to a Jillian Michaels video. So, as soon as I felt my toe had healed enough, I got right back on that horse. You know, two-and-a-half months after I had my (fifth!) baby. At 35 years old. While still carrying the majority of my baby weight. Right after I had broken a toe. Suddenly this is not sounding like as good an idea as it did after I got on the scale and prompted that frenzy of baby-weight-ditching exercise.