It's no surprise to me that Ann Voskamp writes so truthfully and beautifully about Mother's Day.
I about cried reading her words, my soul needed them. This is the week that I told Matt, "If I have to listen to her cry another minute, I might hurt her." This is the week that I begged God to let my kids nap so that I could also, only to have my third born poke me endlessly in the eye. This is the week that I sautéed fava beans in their pods thinking they were just big green beans because I can't tell my beans from beans. This is the week that I drove through McDonalds again for a large chocolate chip frappe because chocolate and caffeine are the only legal drive-through fixes to another crappy parenting day. This is the week that I vowed self-discipline, to wake up before the kids for quiet time and a jog, only to curse my alarm, and stick my head back under the covers.
Ann's right. Mother's Day, it's for the birds.
My days don't make for a flowery poetic Hallmark card.
My days find me carrying around that satan soaked momma guilt as I confess to counting down the minutes, hours, days before my next break from the kids.
My days are full of less than holy words and tone, and a whole lotta grace. Grace for me. Grace for the kids. Grace for us all.
But the pendulum swings and sunshine breaks the clouds and pudgy baby toes and sweet boy laughter and girl praying precious over her macaroni brings me back to joy overflowing, immense gratitude for the three who left me stretch-marked and heart-stretched.
So to you mommas, you can't fool me. You and me both, sister, we just a broken hallelujah.
You never thought it would be this hard, did you? You never thought you'd swallow your pride like you do?
Me neither.
And I bet you never thought you could love like this? That breathless lump in your throat when you think about just how much you love the ones who graced you into motherhood.
Bless it. Bless you.
