“This is my body, given up for you.”
Morning sickness. Heartburn. Backache. Sciatica. Weight gain. Labor. Stretch marks. Nursing. Everything I am, given for you. Sleepless nights, given for you. Anxiety, worry, arms holding you all night in illness. Every waking moment, given for you.
My thoughts are not my own any more. My time is not my own. And my body is beyond the recognition of my childless self. Then again, so am I.
Pay attention. Soon, these days will be no more.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of surveying all that is left undone, and think: failure. Dirty dishes, laundry wrinkling in the dryer, emails to be answered. It’s easy to fall prey to the lure of the checklist: each checkmark, validation. The more checkmarks, the better – the better job I’m doing, the better mother I am. The better I am.
I am not a person who waits. I take my time to think, to research, to plan and to pray. But once I reach a decision, I do not like to delay execution. When I made the decision to enter the Catholic Church, I did not want to wait. The image I have of my excitement is Harry’s line at the end of When Harry Met Sally: “Once you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I wanted to receive Jesus in the Eucharist as soon as possible.
I am, and always have been, a good girl. I don’t break the rules. I arrive prepared. I don’t make trouble. I earn everyone’s affection, including the Lord’s (at least I like to think I do).
When I imagine myself in the story of the prodigal son, I am the older brother – the brother who is glad when his good-for-nothing sibling leaves home because it makes him look so much better by comparison.
“I can’t clean up.”
I explain to my daughter that we must clean up before we move on to the next activity.
“It’s too hard,” she whines, looking at the array of evidence we’ve left scattered in our wake. This could be anything: colorful spills from watercolor painting, a mighty block tower crashed, pieces littering the floor, or a village of little people waiting to be returned to their proper home. Really, the stuff that makes up the mess isn’t important; if the mess is big enough, my daughter’s response is the same: “It’s too hard.”
Dear Priest,
When we met, I wasn’t Catholic. I wasn’t part of the people you are called to care for. But I came to you, and you spoke with me, I suppose because “even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the Master’s table.” You did not give me the sacrament of confession. I was not prepared to receive it. Instead, you gave me the gift of your presence.
“I’m sorry, Mommy!” My toddler said these words over and over again after having shattered a teacup she’d been playing with. She was so distraught. I wanted to comfort her and tell her it was alright, that we could fix it, and more importantly, that I wasn’t upset with her. I knew the teacup might break if she played with it, and I gave it to her anyway.
If you’re anything like me, the journey into parenthood was rough. Beautiful, humbling, overwhelming, and rough. In the midst of sleep deprivation and struggling to assemble various baby contraptions, it can be difficult to remember the “why” behind parenting. It took me a while, but I remember realizing one day that I’d gotten so caught up in the minute details of daily caretaking that I had forgotten to attend to what I believe is most important: leading my kids to Jesus. I let the many tasks involved in parenting “my” kids overshadow the fact that, although God has given these beautiful little ones to me, they are not truly mine. I have the grand privilege of being invited into his work, to participate alongside him as he shapes them into what they will one day be.
