All I wanted was to eat my breakfast! While it was still semi-warm. Sometimes it seemed like having time to do anything for myself, all by myself, whether it was dressing, bathing, going to the toilet, or simply eating was just too much to ask of my children!
I had just finished finally preparing my own breakfast after having spent a large amount of time making food for others. The one year old wanted scrambled eggs, but the three year old wanted french toast. Until her french toast was almost finished, and she tasted her sister’s scrambled eggs that is. Then she wanted those too.
Refills of juice and chocolate milk, or “can I have a napkin Momma” coupled with potty breaks and “can you wipe my bootie” just made sitting down to my own plate take forever.
This is a typical day, but I just wasn’t feeling it today. You know what I mean?
The three year old just kept talking. Over and over. About craziness, wanting to pretend we were puppies with Paw Patrol, and asking “can I help, can I break an egg,” but then running away in the middle of it all, on to something else, no doubt to pull all the cushions off the sofa again.
As I finally sat down to eat my breakfast (Again. I had already been interrupted to help wipe everyone down since they always choose to finish right when I start.), I was rather excited for the taste explosion soon to occur on my tongue.
As I chewed the delectable mixture of eggs, peppers, onions, and tomatoes I was stopped mid-mastication by my mommy intuition, that crazy mommy super power that tells us when we need to pay attention a little closer.
I turned and saw my one year old sitting in a pile of liquid brown. (Relax. Not poop thank God. Not this time anyway. That waited until after lunch.) She had gotten a hold of her big sister’s full cup of chocolate milk. She had removed the lid and poured it all over herself and all surrounding rugs, tapestries, and furniture items non-wipeable by a wet paper towel alone. It was like blood at work. It seemed like so much more than it was once it was spilled.
I cried out, “Noooooo!”
The three year old called out, “My milk!” and began to cry.
I returned harshly, ” What are you crying about?! I’m the one that has to clean it up?”
The baby realized at this point that she was not very fond of sitting in a cold, wet pile of milk. Splashing it across the room had lost its zeal, and she too began to cry.
As I mopped up a river of sticky milk I was struck with the complexity of the issue. And no, it wasn’t just the old saying about not crying over spilled milk.
The three year old had lost her tasty drink.
The baby was soaking wet.
There was a little bit more there than me having to wipe up a mess.
I thought of how selfish I can be, and how that can pour out and infect those around me. Sure they’re just kids, and kids are inherently selfish at that age, but they have to learn sometime. Right? Where else will they learn but from me?
While the milk issue was small and indeed nothing worth crying over, it was the point that was paramount, the lesson there to be had. They needed to know that I was also concerned with how it affected them. And then they also needed to see it wasn’t all about them. They needed to see that one problem can affect others in many ways.
But it was more than just the milk you see. It was the understanding, the realization that every single thing I do is watched. It is mimicked. It is learned from watching. I will fall short and mess up many times, but I don’t think that’s an excuse to stop trying, to stop teaching, to stop showing Christ’s selfless love in all things.
It occurred to me that my children are my gift. They have been bestowed to me by God, and like any gift, what I do with it is important. Just as weighty as my management of financial riches, the way in which I steward the gift of my children is just as important, and even more so as they have souls within their little bodies that will grow and go forth to impact those around them.
Simply put, it’s up to me to do well with the babies He’s given me. It’s up to me to give them my best resources, which in all actuality are my time, my knowledge, and my love.
I’m aware that life is not just a happenstance. We are not abandoned ships out at sea, wayward vessels tossed here and there where ever the wind takes us. I understand that every gust, every gale steers us just where we are meant to be.
This also means that the lack of wind to drive our sails is the time when we need to be still on the ocean, riding the tide until the time is right.
That being said, I am under no illusion that my life as a mother is a mundane, pointless existence made of the ups and downs, joys and disasters related to raising a family.
God gave me the specific children He did for a specific reason. The ball is in my court. How I choose to handle this responsibility placed upon me is up to me.
Be it spilled milk, the last brownie, or sharing toys, it’s a start. All things start small, like a seed planted, and the goal is that the flower will grow into something beautiful and meaningful, even if only to their Father above. Especially to Him.