(Originally published December 23, 2011. Almost a year after writing this, I still feel the same way…)
I confess…. I like my kids. I do. I. Like. My. Kids.
There. I said it.
I have spent a fair amount of time here opening up about the difficulties of motherhood.
I mean, kids are work.
Not just physical, but who knew how much of an EMOTIONAL toll motherhood would take.
I don’t just worry about the here and now, but I spend a lot of time worrying about the days to come.
WHO KNEW that in nearly every discipline decision I would not only weigh the present, but also THE ENTIRETY OF THEIR FUTURE.
Dramatic much?
Perhaps.
But here’s the thing… with all the messes, and reasonable level of disobedience (who doesn’t disobey, right?), the inconvenient potty trips, the misplacing of shoes and coats, and did I mention the messes???…
I really like my kids.
And as soon as I hit publish I am sure there will be reason for me to log back in and just line-through this entire post.
{Ahhhh… the nature of children and their mothers}
But I want to share a sweet story that I not only want to remember, but also to offer as hope to those moms who are in the thick of life with a 2-3 year old boy.
Because, mamas of little boys, I know you need some hope.
My boy never stopped. He was utterly physically exhausting to keep up with, and there was the one time he bit a kid on the face. And countless other times he hit/kicked/screamed his way into unwanted infamy. My dear friend gave him his first haircut when he was two. He kicked her in her stomach.
Never before or since has a client kicked her in the stomach. And she is still my friend. Bless you, Sara…
But the hope.
My son is 12. I am in no way claiming he is good at choosing an inside voice (EVER), nor always listens in class, nor never ever rolls his eyes when given a chore to do…
However. He doesn’t kick the barber anymore. He hasn’t bitten another kid on the face. Nor does he kick, scream, spit and hit when we try to leave the toy store.
*cue GLORY music here*
Recently, one evening, we, just him and me, hit the mall for some holiday-related errand running. He had the option to invite a friend over instead. He chose to hang with me. His Mama.
*passes tissue*
We hit the mall, looked at shoes, shopped for gifts for his dad and sisters. We laughed, talked, ate fast food, got turned away by a closing-too-early-5-days-before-Christmas-Starbucks, then came home. He turned on jazzy Christmas music (the boy loves him some Bing Crosby) and we got our present wrapping on.
Just my boy and me.
If anyone had suggested such a scene between my boy and me 10 years ago, I would have called them a liar.
A pants on fire LIAR.
The first 4-5 years parenting that boy were TOUGH.
And I feel the need to add, I have no idea what mothering a teen will hold.
Prayers welcome.
//
Recently, I have been working hard to be more intentional with my kids. Even just taking the time stop and watch. As I have been taking this time, I have realized something…
Oh my gosh – I LIKE MY KIDS.
I think you (moms… dads…) know what I’m talking about.
I LOVE my kids, but the biggest surprise in motherhood has been learning this lesson: just because I love my kids, it doesn’t mean I like them all the time.
The same may or may not be said for husbands.
All that to say, I know not what the future holds (remember: teens years ahead!), but I am so thankful for where we are now and who I see my children becoming. I am proud to be their Mama and I like them.
A lot.
Let’s see how I feel the day after Christmas…
