Back When I Was a Rookie Parent…

I have never shared this story with anyone, but it’s time….

It was the middle of the night, and Caleb was in bed with us. Perhaps, he had just finished nursing, or maybe he was having a tough night sleeping–I’m not sure–but I am very sure about the events that followed and my rookie-parent reaction.

The black of night filled our room, and the only noise was the heavy breathing of Matt as he slept. Caleb was nuzzled in close to me, resting quietly. Until, BLLAAACCH!!!

And out of nowhere, this precious little boy, around five months old at the time, threw up three times his body weight. Matt and I shot up in bed instantly. The noise–it was horrible. I swear I watched our baby’s head spin around seven times before the vomit left his mouth, gasped as I heard a splash when the throw up hit our bed.

This experience was our first with a child and vomit, and, thankfully, I had just read an article the day before from one of those parenting magazines that I won’t name (because I can’t remember). I never skipped an issue that came to my ‘Inbox’ telling me what my child should be doing at this stage in his development. I read all the articles on vaccines and child safety, and I studied which foods I could introduce to my baby when. I trusted this source. So when this magazine instructed me to have my child seen immediately if he began throwing up and was less than six months old, I took the advice seriously. And I did what any parent would do…

…I called 9-1-1.

That’s right; I hopped out of bed, handing the baby to my husband, picked up the phone in the middle of the night, and dialed the phone number reserved for emergencies. After all, this event was an emergency. My baby had thrown up, and the magazine said he needed to be seen immediately. And the only way he could be seen immediately was if I called the paramedics to rescue him.

My saving grace was that we used Vonage, an internet phone system. We had set it up when we lived in Oklahoma so that we could have free long-distance while we lived away from our family. A plus side of this service was that when we moved back to Georgia, we didn’t have to change our number. Apparently, however, our emergency services were tied to the state in which we first ordered Vonage. When I called 9-1-1, a dispatcher in Oklahoma answered.

“9-1-1, What’s your emergency (or something like that)?”

“My son just threw up, and he’s only five months old!”

Surely upon hearing my son’s age, the dispatcher would signal all the emergency personnel in the area. And in the process of explaining my emergency, we began to realize that we did not live in the same area.

During the confusion of explaining where I lived and figuring out where the dispatcher was, a cloud began to lift from my mind. I noticed the dispatcher did not seem overly concerned that my son threw up, and I decided I did not need an ambulance sent from Oklahoma. The dispatcher asked, “Is your son okay?” and through my foggy memory, I believe he offered to connect me to the correct 9-1-1 in Georgia.

I looked over at Caleb in bed with my husband, his little baby head no longer spinning, and I came to my senses: “No, we don’t need an ambulance. Thank you, Sir, but we are going to take him to get checked out.”

And, no, I did not mean in the morning. That’s right; we put on clothes, strapped that little baby in his car seat, and we drove to the emergency room in the middle of the night. After all, our baby threw up once.

Apparently, I had not yet learned about the ‘after hours’ phone line. I had never heard of such a thing, having never called my own doctor’s office after they closed. After all, if I were sick in the evening, I would just call them in the morning.

And if I were too sick to wait until the morning, I would go to the emergency room.

I didn’t realize that my child’s pediatrician had an ‘after hours’ phone line to give parent’s advice in the middle of the night. I didn’t realize they had anticipated how crazy parents, especially new parents, can act. Had I known, I probably wouldn’t have called freakin’ 9-1-1 because my son threw up once! And I probably wouldn’t have waited in the emergency room for three hours because my son threw up once…and not again the whole time we waited.

Four years later, I still don’t understand why the doctor in the ER didn’t seem more alarmed. I told him Caleb threw up at least an entire bottle’s worth of breast milk, but he didn’t believe me. He said it was probably only an ounce. I reminded him that Caleb was only five months old; he didn’t seem too concerned. But the magazine said that he needed to be seen immediately….

So we left the ER that morning with baby and anti-nausea pill in hand. But I never gave it to him. After all, he only threw up once.

Matt, Jennifer, Caleb--high school reunion night — The Rookie Parents

What’s the craziest thing you ever did as a new parent? Surely, I’m not the only freak!

And don’t forget to link up your own post tomorrow! This week’s journey is on love. Click on the ‘Journeys’ tab at the top of the page for more information. I look forward to reading your posts tomorrow!

Feeling Lost

Yesterday, I took my son to the library in the midst of a day full of errands that didn’t get completed on Saturday. While his sisters and, eventually, Daddy napped in the car, we returned a stack of children’s books and made our way to the back of the library to replenish the load we had brought with us.

Caleb had said he would help me pick out some books, but once his eyes caught the empty computers, he zoomed to fill in one of the vacated seats. I hate those computers. Educational games or not, I wish they weren’t there, distracting kids from the purpose of the building. But, wanting to choose my battles wisely, I surrendered to this issue, and began a search on the computer catalog system behind where Caleb sat.

Knowing my past luck, I wrote down the titles and call numbers of about seven Valentine’s Day books that were supposedly located in this library, hoping to walk away with at least one. I stooped down next to Caleb and told him I was going over by the children’s books. He answered me with a non-answer, the zombie, tunnel-vision look that he gets once entranced in an Elmo game had taken hold.

I walked through the open area to the book aisles, directly across from where Caleb was sitting. I looked at my list and quickly alphabetized it in my head, hoping to make fast work of book selection. As I worked my way through Z and W, I realized right away that my luck had not improved, not finding either of the first two books. I popped up from where I was crouching to look at Caleb, still making words on the Elmo game.

I moved on to the next aisle. More scratching off books on the list. I had started to suspect that perhaps I am incompetent on computer searches, or maybe I didn’t know how to alphabetize author’s last names, but I decided, no–the library’s computers are never right. At the end of the aisle, I looked up again at Caleb and continued on with my search.

As I had walked through the aisles, I managed to snag a couple books that looked cute, even though they weren’t on my list. I decided if I didn’t find any of the Valentine’s Day books on my list, I didn’t want to leave the aisles empty-handed. So, as I popped up for the last time, my crouching and searching through books not revealing one of the titles on my list, my eyes immediately zeroed in on the computer table where Caleb was sitting. Except he wasn’t there.

My heart skipped a beat, and a slight panic set in, but I walked toward the computer desk. Surely he was nearby, perhaps in one of the juvenile fiction aisles next to him. As I neared the desk, I noticed him walking away from me slowly, toward the front of the library. And then he turned around, and I saw the tears streaming down his face.

“Caleb!” I called, moving to him. “I’m right here, sweetie. Did you think I left you?”

He nodded, crying. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“I was right over there, looking for books,” I said, pointing to the book aisles. “I would never leave you, sweetie.”

And with my arm around him, I reminded him of what to do if he ever gets lost. I told him to stay put and wait for Mommy or for one of the library workers to walk by. If he walks away, then Mommy won’t know where he is, either.

While we were talking, I felt horrible. I remember getting momentarily separated from my own mother in the grocery store or a department store–I was never lost, but I thought I was–and my heart filled with guilt at causing my own little boy to feel helpless.

I should’ve made him walk the aisles with me. No more playing the computers unless I’m standing right behind him! I was only a few feet away, and I kept checking on him–he wasn’t even lost. But what if he kept walking, and I didn’t see him? What if the wrong person tried to help him?

As I have a tendency to do, I played out the mental boxing match in my brain, getting in a few jabs before I moved on to the next thing. The boxing match continued in the background while Caleb and I searched for a superhero chapter book, as Caleb wasn’t excited with the selections I had made. And he left the library happy, his mother’s arm around his shoulders, a Superman book in his hands.

But I wasn’t. I was dealing with my own feelings of being lost, not knowing what direction I should head next. The weekend ended on such a negative note for me, and I imagine I feel a little like Caleb felt for those few moments in the library–helpless. But as I type, I wonder if, perhaps, I should remember what I told Caleb: sit and wait. Sometimes the act of searching can make one even more lost than when one began. And, sometimes, one wasn’t even lost to begin with.

*********************************************************************

Without meaning to, I had picked two fruits of the Spirit for our first two weeks in Journeys. While I deviated from that theme over the last two weeks, I thought that perhaps we could revisit the idea:

²² But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis added

For this week’s journey, we will explore love. Next week, we will pick up with forbearance and move in order until the end. Be ready to share your post on love this Friday!

If you are new to Journeys, click on the tab at the top of the page for more information. I’d love for you to participate!

And if you have a topic that you’d like to submit, feel free to e-mail me anytime: jennifer at matt dash davis dot com

The Boy in Front of Me

Everyone says that I will miss the time when you were small. And sure, there will be those days when I miss squeezing that bouncing little boy–who wouldn’t? You were so cute and cuddly!

Yet, as I watched you take your bat in hand and walk in front of the row of coaches looking on from the outfield, my heart raced a little in excitement. We have entered a new phase of life. No longer are you my little baby, but you have grown into a little boy who makes me proud.

Perhaps Play-doh and preschool didn’t come as naturally for us, but Tee Ball we can do. We can play catch and practice and cheer from the sidelines. We can eagerly anticipate every game with you and assure you when you’re nervous. We can celebrate with you when you win and remind you to be a good sport when you don’t.

Yes, we can do Tee Ball, and we can do ‘Go Fish.’ We can do ‘Go Fish’ and puzzles and put on little plays. We can practice reading stories and writing our own ones (with illustrations!), too.

People said that I would miss those days when you were a baby, but I don’t know. I’m pretty excited about that big boy who is in front of me now.

Did you have a favorite phase in your child’s life? When was it?

And don’t forget about Journeys this Friday! The topic for the week is forgiveness. Don’t really understand Journeys? Check out the new tab at the top of the page, and tell me what you think!

The Journey to Iceland

“We’re going to see Iceland.”

I looked up from the mess I was clearing away at the table to see my daughter, dressed in a cowboy hat, coat, and little pink backpack filled to the brim.

“Iceland?” I questioned. I was certain I had never told my three-year-old about Iceland, as geography is not my thing, and I was curious as to where she learned of the place.

“Yes, Iceland. We need to go.”

I could hear my son in the playroom, clamoring to fill his own bag with necessities for the trip.

I was instantly concerned. When my son emerged, he was wearing a blue vest and a baseball cap. I wasn’t sure that they were dressed appropriately for the journey, and I feared that they would need more than the bags on their backs for this kind of adventure.

But they were ready to go, and my questions about the weather and where they would stay once they arrived did not deter them from taking that first step out the back door.

As I grabbed my camera and coat (wouldn’t you take a camera if you were heading to Iceland?), I couldn’t help but wonder where this journey would end and what I would find. I wanted to act in my kids’ play, but I needed to understand my character’s motivation first.

Unfortunately, it’s not unlike me to focus on the destination instead of the journey in more than just my children’s play. When I feel God’s leading, I want to know all of the details immediately before I begin. If I am going through a trial, I know God will use it for good, but I want to know what that ‘good’ is while I struggle. If God calls me to Iceland, I want to know how to pack.

During the Christmas season, it’s easy for me to sing about Emmanuel and nod my head and smile as I think of the baby in the manger. I can proclaim that God is with us as I recall the story of the virgin birth and a newborn whose arrival caused the heavens to break open in songs of praise while a group of shepherds shook in awe and fear.

I know Emmanuel, yet I forget what His name means. I forget that not only does God orchestrate the journey with an end that fits perfectly in the giant puzzle of the universe but that He also takes the trip with me, offering to carry my pink backpack when the load becomes too heavy or take my hands in His when I’ve forgotten my gloves.

Emmanuel. God With Us.

Even on trips to Iceland.

I watched as Hannah Grace led the way through the yard, determined that we make it to Iceland in time for dinner. We were to have Taco Bell. And suddenly, I heard an important piece of information:

“Hurry! Iceland is waiting for us, and he’s going to take us to Taco Bell.” He. Iceland is a person. The story began to make sense (well, sort of).

So we journeyed on to the place in our yard where a beautiful summer garden once bloomed, and we ate Taco Bell with Iceland. And I learned that I didn’t need to worry at all; we had exactly what we needed for the journey.

If you haven’t already, check out yesterday’s post to see what’s starting new this Friday!

A Week of Tender Blessings

Sometimes writing a ‘Focus on it Friday’ post is difficult as I try to pinpoint one specific experience during the week for which I am thankful. It’s not that I can’t think of a moment, but I’m not sure how to capture the experience through my writing or convey it in a way that sounds eloquent and thoughtful. As I was struggling for ideas and words this morning, the thought hit me that the point of this exercise is not to improve my writing or write an awe-inspiring post but to cause me to reflect and bend my knees in thanks. And if that’s the point of this post, I have no problem writing today, whether or not my words reach anyone else.

I want to remember that this week I felt hope. Matt and I are attending a small group and working through Dave Ramsey’s Financial Peace University. As I sat next to Matt and watched him prepare a detailed budget on Monday night, agreed or disagreed as he input the numbers, I actually felt excited. For one of the first times in our marriage, we had a plan for the month that didn’t end in an argument or frustration. And even though I knew in my heart that life would throw us curve balls to screw up our beautiful plan for the month (three, to be exact, before we even got to October 1), I knew that we were on the right track. And finding hope after it was lost for a time is something for which to be thankful.

I want to remember that this week I felt loved by my little boy. Nothing amazing occurred yesterday, but I went to bed with a heart that was ablaze. For the whole day, Caleb went out of his way to listen, to please me. Anything I asked, he answered, “Yes, Ma’am,’ and was the most helpful four-year-old a mother could imagine. I told him how much I appreciated his help, and he hugged me multiple times throughout the day, which is rare because Caleb is not overly affectionate with hugs and kisses.

As the day went on, I noticed that Caleb felt very warm. When the thermometer flashed the numbers indicating Caleb had a fever, my first thought was “So he’s sick–no wonder he’s behaving!” But I quickly scolded myself–Caleb normally responds to sickness by acting whiney, and I was wrong to discount the effort he was making.

My children are determined to bring on winter, and they went to bed in the warmest pajamas they could find. As I finally made my way to my own bed, I tiptoed in Caleb’s room and began pulling off his warm clothes, knowing he needed to dress lightly if he had a fever. In a semi-conscious state, Caleb allowed me to lift his shirt over his head and pull his pants over his feet, and then he lay his head back on his pillow. I whispered, “Goodnight, Caleb,” expecting the grinding of teeth or smacking of lips to serve as a reply. Instead, the sweetest little voice responded, “Goodnight, Mommy.” And for some reason, when the word “Mommy” hit my ear, my heart warmed.

I know my son loves me, but I heard it in his voice last night. And feeling love, especially from one’s child, is something for which to be grateful.

For what are you thankful this Friday? Leave a comment below, or include a link to one of your own posts. Have a great weekend!

The Tea Party

As a mother, I’ve managed to heap a lot of guilt onto my shoulders. I don’t take the kids to the pool by myself, and I don’t venture out to many activities with the three of them unless I have help. While I have gotten braver this summer and attempted more, sometimes I wonder if we should’ve put more space between the kids so that they could do some of the things that others get to do with their mommies.

But sometimes I just can’t be blamed for everything….

As I listened to my two littles one finalize preparations for their tea party, my heart swelled with pride. For one of the few moments in their short time as brother and sister, they were playing together and nicely. I watched as they used their imaginations and my daughter’s Disney tea set to create the perfect event for their friends.

“Ella’s coming, and so is Gel,” Hannah Grace told her brother excitedly.

“I’ve invited Jeff,” Caleb added.

I had never heard of these kids before and was impressed at the names they were giving their guests. They allowed me to sample some tea and a cookie (which was delicious), and then they continued playing as I moved into the kitchen to clean up our real mess from that morning.

The nice sounds from the foyer continued on for a few more minutes, when all of a sudden, angry conversation ensued. I rolled my eyes thinking, “What now?” Why was it impossible for my children to complete one activity together without fighting?

Caleb and Hannah Grace both stormed into the kitchen yelling.

“What?! What?!” I asked, confused by the sudden change of events.

Caleb’s face shone with anger, and Hannah Grace’s brow was furrowed.

With arms flailing in exasperation, Caleb yelled, “Nobody showed up for our tea party!!!”

Hannah Grace folded her arms across her chest and let out a big pout.

I stared at them for a moment, shocked that one of them hadn’t hit the other or stolen a cup of tea, and then I had to look away and smile.

I knew that as a parent I would mend many broken hearts. I knew that kids can be cruel, and there would be times when they would hurt my own children’s feelings. I just hadn’t known that those kids would be imaginary.

And if my kids’ imaginary friends won’t play with them, well, there’s not a whole lot this mommy can do.

Faith Like a Child

I can’t get anything by Caleb; he is too bright. Always asking questions, he stores away the answers in his computer of a mind, a mind that does not forget. I have to make sure I answer Caleb truthfully and carefully because, chances are, we will come back to our conversation again someday.

When Caleb asked me how his baby sister got in my tummy, I was happy to give him just enough information that he needed without the extra details that his three-year-old mind at the time didn’t need to explore.

“Mommy and Daddy wanted and prayed for a baby, so God put her there.”

That answer seemed to suffice. However, Caleb did not find that answer sufficient for how his sister came out of my tummy.

“God got her out.”

“But HOW?”

“Umm…I’m not exactly sure how; the doctor did something…”

“But you were THERE!!!”

“Yes, but I had my eyes closed. Why don’t you ask your father when he gets home? He was there, too. Maybe his eyes were open.”

And we moved on from that conversation, Caleb satisfied for the moment knowing that he could ask his daddy again, later. I felt a little guilty because I never wanted to lie to my son (yes, my eyes were closed for part of the process, but I have a pretty good idea of how each of my children emerged!) or pass all the responsibility for educating him onto my husband. The truth is I just wasn’t prepared for that question, yet, so I didn’t know how to answer.

There have been other times that I haven’t been prepared for how to answer Caleb, but I knew the question was too important to find a benign answer or wait until Daddy came home.

“How did Jesus make people when he was here?”

We had just finished reading a story about Jesus in Hannah Grace’s children’s Bible when Caleb asked this question.

“I’m really not sure how Jesus makes people. He’s God and can do anything.”

I started to answer, fumbling along, wondering again how much detail Caleb would need to be happy. I really didn’t want to give a sex talk, yet, but Caleb started to shake his head, furrowed his brow, indicating I was heading down the wrong path.

“No. When he was here, how did he make people?”

I looked at him for a minute, and then it hit me what he was really asking.

“You mean, because Jesus wasn’t in heaven, he was on Earth, how was he able to make people?”

“Yes.”

Oh, brother. Caleb was essentially asking me about the Trinity. I was beginning to think the sex talk would have been a little more straightforward, and nervousness began to grip me. I didn’t even understand the Trinity–it’s one of the mysteries of the Christian faith–so how would I explain something so complex in language that a three-year-old could digest?

What if I actually said something heretical when trying to explain this concept to Caleb? What if I influenced Caleb to believe something incorrect? Or worse, what if Caleb thought everything I was trying to explain just sounded crazy, and he didn’t want to believe?

I had this same fear when Caleb asked me about the crucifixion earlier in the year. Jesus dying, Jesus rising from the dead, an angel appearing to the women–how could I expect Caleb to believe the things that I believed when they sounded so outlandish?

And I remembered two verses: “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is written: ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise; the intelligence of the intelligent I will frustrate'” (I Corinthians 1: 18-19). Yes, the message can sound foolish, far-fetched to our human minds, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

And then God comforted me: “But Jesus called the children to him and said, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it'” (Luke 18: 16-17). Caleb had everything he needed to believe; he had the innocence and faith that we adults sometimes lose.

Having faith like a child doesn’t mean becoming unintelligent; God created the little mind that is always working in Caleb and wants it to grow. Instead, having this faith means learning how to trust. Caleb could believe what I was trying to teach him because he trusts me, that I love him and will teach him what is right. Likewise, I can have faith in God because of what I trust about His character–He is good, He is love, He is holy. As Caleb grows and learns about the character of God, he will no longer need to rely on his faith in me to believe; he will develop his own faith in God.

More important than the doctrine I try to teach is the life I actually live. And while our conversations are important, Caleb will learn more from my example. Am I loving as God commanded, serving others before myself, trying to model the life of Jesus and follow His will? These questions are the ones that I need to know how to answer. My hope is that if I can answer them in the affirmative, Caleb won’t find having faith like a child quite as difficult when he’s an adult.

Mama’s Boy

I know exactly where he gets it from.

When I was six years old, my dad got a job transfer from New Jersey to Georgia. We left behind all of our extended family and our tiny dollhouse in Woodbridge to venture to this land called “the South.” As part of the preparation for our move, my parents informed me that I would need to learn to talk Southern. I was six. How would I learn a foreign language that quickly?!

I have heard the story many times (and if you hang around my family, you’ve probably heard the story many times, too. Sorry.), how Mom and Dad were interrupted by this meek, little girl coming out of her room late at night.

“Jennifer, what’s wrong?” one of them asked.

Huge tears began to run down my face.

“I don’t know how to talk Southern,” I cried.

As a child, I carried worry around with me like my daughter carries around her baby doll, always tucked under my arm, accompanying me wherever I went. To this day, I worry; although, I am getting better. As I’ve grown in my relationship with the Lord, I’ve learned that worrying is pointless; however, it’s hard to get rid of those innate parts of me.

And, unfortunately, those innate parts of me didn’t stay with just me.

So I wasn’t surprised the other day when my son and I had an unusual conversation at the breakfast table.

“I don’t want to leave this house when I get married,” my four-year-old stated completely out of the blue.

Since our house is up for sale, I didn’t really catch the last part of Caleb’s statement. I assumed he was just telling me he didn’t want to move. As he had told me before, if we moved closer to Daddy’s work, the cute eight-year-old girl in our neighborhood wouldn’t know where to find us.

“Well, it doesn’t look like we’re going to move–wait, you don’t want to move when you get married?” I suddenly realized what my son had said.

Caleb shook his head.

“Well, I guess you’ll have to check with your new wife first,” I informed Caleb. “She might want her own house for the two of you to live in. When you grow up, you’ll probably want to get your own house so you can have a place for your own family and kids to play.”

Wrong answer. Sometimes I’m so stupid.

I continued eating my breakfast, feeding the baby, when I looked over at Caleb’s spot. His face was red, shoulders slumped forward, head hanging down. Tears were welling up in his eyes.

“Caleb?” I started. “Oh, come here, baby!”

And the tears flowed. “I don’t want to leave!” he sobbed uncontrollably.

And in that moment, I was faced with a dilemma. If I told Caleb that he never had to leave, would I end up like Cliff Huxtable from The Cosby Show? Would I forever have little children running amuck in my home while I yearned for a quiet retirement with my husband? Would Caleb remember this promise someday and really not leave, content with his mother, not needing a wife? Or worse yet–would Caleb become a professional student?!!

So I chose my words carefully.

“Caleb, it’s a long time before you’ll ever get married.”

“I don’t want to get married,” chimed in my two-year-old.

“Okay, you don’t have to get married, Hannah Grace.”

“I’m going to get big, and I’ll have my own cups made of glass, and my own big sporks, and my own plates.”

“Umm…okay,” I agreed with my daughter.

Caleb was still crying and looked more concerned. I should’ve known my little Romeo would not be content staying single. He wanted to get married; he just didn’t want to leave home.

As I rubbed Caleb’s back, I let go of my Cliff Huxtable fears.

“Caleb,” I started, “You don’t have to leave sweetheart.” The crying continued, so I went further. “You don’t ever have to move. I don’t want you to leave, either.”

Those were the magic words he needed to hear, that his mommy forever wanted him close. And truth be told, I don’t want the little guy to ever leave–as long as he learns to do his own laundry.

The Heart of the Matter

In honor of Mother’s Day, I am linking up with Lisa-Jo, a.k.a. the Gypsy Mama, to explore why moms matter. If you haven’t already, I highly encourage you to visit her website. Not only is Lisa-Jo an incredible writer, but she has wonderful insight into pursuing a relationship with God. You will be blessed by your encounter!

I know full and well the importance of Mom. When I taught high school, I watched teenaged girls crumble under the weight of their grief after the loss of their mothers, unable to focus on schoolwork, maybe just not caring. After all, how did Language Arts even compare to a day without their mothers? I remember a friend from college who went to the doctor every time he had the slightest cold; his mother had died from cancer when he was 13. And even after 16 years without my Nana, I see the longing in my own mom’s eyes when she talks of her mother.

Some friends share delightful stories of their mothers, while others are consumed with bitterness for the wounds their mothers created. No matter the story, all have a place in their hearts that wants to hold fond memories and affection for the women who bore them.

My youngest just turned one. Lately, I have spent a lot of time looking back over the past year, and I find many moments of ambivalence. In one moment I love deeply as my baby lay her head on my chest, the next I struggle to suppress the desire to yell at my children in frustration. In one moment, I thank God for the gift of my new daughter, the next I question why we ever thought having three kids in three years was a good idea. I look at my writings from the past year, many used as a method to unburden my soul and work through my own guilty feelings, equally as many filled with smiles as I laughed at the follies of myself and my children.

When I think about this past year, there is so much I want to do over. I don’t want my children to remember me losing control, not showing them tenderness and patience. I want the day I die to be filled with tears over losing the mother who created the delightful stories, not the mother who created the wounds that never healed. Yet every time I find myself dwelling too long in guilt and despair, the kindness of God softly nudges me like a cool breeze, prompting me to move away from that place that He did not create for me.

This week, I searched my mind for why moms matter, and writing from the perspective of a daughter, I could fill pages and pages of why my mom matters to me. However, I had a much harder time writing from the perspective of the one who matters. Why do I matter? And because I couldn’t answer without falling into that place of guilt, God spent time with me so that I could answer this question.

When God chose to save humanity, He did so through His Son, Jesus. Most of what we know about Jesus is from the start of His ministry when He was around the age of 30. God’s plan could have started with this God-Man sent from heaven at age 30, dropped in the middle of the desert, suddenly appearing before John the Baptist to get baptized. Yet we know Mary carried Jesus in her womb, conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit, fulfilling numerous prophesies about the Messiah.

I don’t pretend to know the mind of God,why He chose to send Jesus as a baby, but this week I couldn’t stop thinking about Mary. Whenever I think about Mary, I think about this woman God chose to carry His Son, calm and mild, the perfect mother. But she wasn’t perfect; she was just chosen.

I wondered if she ever cried herself to sleep at night, overwhelmed by the task put before her. Did she ever cry simply because she had a bad day with her children? Did she ever wish she spent a little more time hugging and kissing and less time allowing frustration to consume her?

I picture Mary going about her daily tasks while a young Jesus looked on. He saw a hard-working mother, a mother who loved her children and wanted to please God. He was a recipient of her affection.

And as all children do, Jesus carried a special place in His heart for His mother, so much so that some of His last words on the cross were for Mary, ensuring she was cared for after His death and Resurrection: “When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, ‘Dear woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home'” (John 19: 26-27).

I have found comfort in the fact that Jesus belonged to a family. As God, He already knows everything, yet by coming to Earth and, in the great mystery of our faith, clothing Himself in humanity while not losing His divinity, He experienced the mother-son relationship. He witnessed and received the blessings of a good mother, all the while being the source from whom we receive blessings.

When I find myself discouraged and disheartened, I remember that He knows. I receive strength and comfort knowing that my Lord took on the role of a human, felt the emotions I feel, saw the struggle that mothers have, and tasted the joy–the joy that a mother brings to the heart of her child. That joy is where He wants me to focus.

I may not be perfect, but I, too, have been chosen. God chose me to be the mother of Caleb, Hannah Grace, and Chloe, a calling I do not take lightly. It is a calling I am worthy to take because I matter–I matter to God, and I matter to my children. And when it comes down to it, nothing else really matters.

Happy Mother’s Day. May God give you the strength to fulfill your calling with peace, joy, and laughter.

10 Signs That Your 4-Year-Old is Smarter Than You or Your Spouse

10. During lunch your 4-year-old informs you that the strawberries you are eating are the only fruit that has seeds on the outside, and you realize for the first time that those little things on strawberries are seeds.

9. When you tell your 4-year-old that you’re not exactly sure how the doctor got his baby sister out of your tummy, he replies exasperated, “Mom! You were there!“

8. Your 4-year-old has tested your understanding of the Trinity by asking, “How did Jesus make people when He was a baby here (as in ‘not in heaven’)?” You are tempted to just tell him about sex instead.

7. When his sister says she sees a cow as you drive by a pasture, your 4-year-old exclaims, “I see a Yak!” Your husband and you then spend five minutes debating with each other what a yak is.

6. You scold your four-year-old for disconnecting the wires from his daddy’s speakers and then watch attentively as he rewires them.

5. You didn’t know how to use the ipod on your iphone until your four-year-old showed you.

4. You thought you showed your four-year-old who’s boss by throwing out the rest of his Easter candy after he repeatedly snuck treats only to find out that he anticipated your moves and hid his own reserve stash. He’s the boss.

3. You try to avoid a temper tantrum by not telling your four-year-old that your husband and you are going to a baseball game for a date. When he asks where you are going, you reply, “It’s a surprise” to which he replies, “But I’m not going to be there! How can I be surprised?”

2. Your four-year-old still knows who ran for president from both parties in the last election; meanwhile, it takes you three chances to call your children by the correct name.

1. When your four-year-old asks his daddy if the foot he is holding up is his left foot, your husband holds up his own thumb and forefinger on each hand to see which one makes the ‘L’ shape.

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