Sometimes, all this sacrifice is unbearable. Sometimes, I feel used. Sometimes, I want a permanent coffee break. Iím starting to believe the hardships of motherhood are because Eve messed up in the garden. The labor pains were the easy part. When I meet her one day, we need to talk. I wonder if heaven has lawyers.
Mothers are not supposed to be real people. We all know that. Theyíre supposed to wear a cape and fly. See through buildings and read minds. Rescue their children from all evil and harm and do so with pompous for the front page of the New York Times. Heaven forbid they should ever sin or indulge their flesh or be hungry or irritable. Thatís not allowed.
If we do all things perfectly, but have one flaw, it gets magnified. Then itís fertilized with criticism and will grow. It grows into a besetting sin and we blame Mom forever for our own shortcomings, because we know had she been perfect, then we would all be whole.
Yes, I am angry which proves my point. The expectations we have put on our mothers and those expectations our own children in turn put on us, makes this job undoable.
Can we somehow lighten the load here and stop the madness? I want to shoot whoever came up with the term ďsupermom.Ē They need to be duct-taped.
I am real. I bleed, cry, breathe, trip over my own feet and sometimes run into doors. I forget where I put my keys, sometimes curse on the freeway at the other idiotic drivers, and occasionally hate my sweet husband. If you preach "submission" to me I want to throw things. If it hits you, sue me.
My mom was real. My daughter as a mom is now real. And my grand-daughter is proving how real she is.
She bites her brothers.
Please hear me. Somehow , somewhere, sometime we need to give ourselves permission to fail. Permission to be human. Permission to fumble around in the dark and royally mess up. Permission to drop the ball sometimes and be selfish. Which leads me to the point.
I desperately need to point you to Jesus because I cannot do His job, play His part, fulfill all your needs, or love you unconditionally all the time. Period. I wasnít meant to. Letís kill this myth. Let Him do His job.
My biggest mistake was that I was determined to ďnot be like her.Ē Refusing to acknowledge that she had any redeeming qualities, I focused on all the raw , issues that caused her to be a mess. I refused for years to believe she did the best she could, because it was easier to blame her for my shortcomings.
I could go through life the victim of a damaged mom and use it as an excuse for all my failures. Now if I sense my daughter thinking that way, I am resentful because my goal was to stop the madness of dysfunction.
Now I know that attempting to be perfect was the craziest of all dysfunctions. Truth is, I am scarred, marred, unfinished, messy, sometimes rebellious, lazy, and at times more full of fear than faith. Truth is, I am sometimes so full of self, that it makes even me want to throw up. Truth is I sometimes lose sight of my need for God and instead of yielding to Him, I become a controlling fishwife. Truth is, I want the love and patience from others that I neglect to give out to them.
And yet, somewhere, somehow, in all this chaos, I can truthfully say I have no regrets. I would do it all over again. Iíd have even more children and praise God for His gifts to me.
I Ďm a work in progress, starting to find joy unspeakable, grateful praise, and a lasting peace that all is well. God knew it all along.
This job is impossible without Him. He isnít going to ever fire me, except in His oven of sanctification. He is changing me, molding me, making me into His image and frankly it hurts. Iíd like a little pity, please, for Motherís day.
I do see the exit. Thereís always a way out. But I choose to sit tight to experience the whole ride. I want to cross that finish line.
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