Today was a less-than-dreamy, oh-good-lord-how-are-we-supposed-to-go-on-like-this sort of day. And before you go all “oh hang in there! it’ll get better!” on me in your sweetest most consoling voice, let me just say that I KNOW. And you know what, it doesn’t change the fact that today was just not any fun. Not fun for baby. Not fun for me. I’m trying to keep it real here people.
What was it that slowly robbed me of that motherly joy I’m “supposed” to experience every waking moment that I am honored to spend with my baby? (which by the way, if my sarcasm didn’t just accomplish my expression of it, then let me be frank - is a completely INSANE expectation to put on a woman, because really people, moms have bad days too, even when they’re staring right in the of face of a freakin’ squishy little angel. This does not mean that said-angel is less squishy or less angelic, just that mom is indeed a human being.)…
I should probably just remove the parentheses around that last statement because I feel like this post is steadily becoming a raging rant against the grandiose amount of guilt I feel about having a bad day. COMPLETELY uncool that when people ask how it’s going I feel like I have to say things like “oh I’m enjoying every second of her sweet little life” or oblige their reminiscent bliss rather than express the truth of what this experience has been like:
Beautiful, awe-inspiring, the most insane all-consuming kind of love AND ridiculous, draining, impossibly hard self-denial.
Actually, let’s just leave it there. Guilt is evil! I won’t spend anymore time tonight (this morning?) humoring it, and worrying about very Christian-y things like being “robbed of my joy.”
So the life and light and truth I need right now is this: Jesus loves me in my joylessness. He sees my love for my baby, my dying to myself even if/especially when it’s not fun. I don’t have to clean it up and act like it is super-duper fulfilling or play the martyr and “whoa is me” all day to make it meaningful. He sees me. He gets me. Yeah, he could restore my joy if I let him, but the pressure to “do better” in that phrase alone is enough to make me squirm. And anyway, just being reminded of His with-me-ness makes the “blah” days of mommy-hood a whole lot more bearable. I’m so not into doing the impossibly hard alone (at all honestly). But Jesus? He’s pretty good at that kind of thing. And I am certainly not going to arm-wrestle with him over who can handle this baby. Go for it, Lord. Show me how it’s done.