I poured the steaming dark brown liquid into my mug. Then I stirred in cool cream until it turned caramel in color. I smiled as I sniffed the aroma of sweet cream and coffee. I lifted my favorite mug to my lips.
I quickly dropped my mug and ran toward the sound.
“Yes?!” I bellowed as my heart beat wildly half from fear half from running up the stairs.
“Can you help me brush my hair?”
A sigh escaped my lips and my mind drifted back to my coffee. “OK, but next time find me and ask me for help. I was afraid someone was hurt.”
My daughter’s green eyes grew large, “OK, mommy, I’m sorry.”
As I finished running the brush through my daughter’s hair, my son asks me to help him comb his hair.
Just then my older daughter walks in, “Mom, I have a hole in my sweater.”
I frown, but I know I have to fix it now.
I felt like the mouse from If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. The mouse eats a cookie and realizes he needs milk. After drinking his milk he looks in the mirror to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache and realizes he needs to trim his whiskers. The scissors he uses to trim his whiskers remind him of paper dolls and on and on it goes.
Mothering is that way for me. I attend to one issue, only to find four more issues need attention. By the time I find my coffee it is cold and I am worn out.
So I sling my coffee cup in the microwave and drink it warmed-up. That isn’t a trick you will find on Pinterest, but it works for me. In fact most of the way I parent, keep house, or cook you won’t find on Pinterest or in any sort of magazine at all. I am not that mom.
I cannot live up to the perfect Pinterest mom I create in my head. I may not have lunch on the table until 2 pm some days. My house is not Martha Stewart organized. I don’t do over the top birthday parties for my kids.
What I can live up to is loving my kids with a crazy kind of love that would die for them. The kind of love God has for His kids. Only mine is not near as perfect. I mess up, get angry, sometimes I even let them watch too much TV. But they are only small once. My nine-year-old is about half-way done with calling my house her home. Soon this address will only be her permanent address. My heart twists to think of all the things I want her to know before she takes flight.
As I ponder and pray about how to impart all she needs to know in only nine more years I find my coffee mug again. It’s cold, but my kids are worth it.