I am their Best Mom

Mother’s Day is around the corner, so I’m feeling introspective.

As my precious cherubs take their afternoon nap, I find myself reflecting on our morning together.

It’s wonderful that they are tucked safely in their beds getting rest; I almost killed them a few hours ago.

They argue-screamed the entire way to the doctor this morning while I was snorting Stress Away oils and consuming coffee intravenously.

“He’s looking out my window!”

“No – HE’S looking out MY window!”

“That’s MY window because THAT’S HOW JESUS MADE IT and he DOESN’T WANT YOU LOOKING OUT ITTTTTTTT!!!!!!”

And on and on and on.

• • •

Mother’s Day has become a tender time for me.

I feel deeply for friends longing to become mothers, for friends whose babies are in heaven, for moms who are overworked and weary, for moms who are doing it alone, for moms who are strong and mighty.

For all moms – past, current, and future – I feel deeply.

I feel deeply about my own season of motherhood, too.

It is just so….constant. Physically. It’s tangibly chaotic, visibly exhausting.

But I love this weekend. For once, the world comes together to agree on and celebrate the same thing.

M O M S.

And the longer I’m a mom (which isn’t all that long), the harder I want to celebrate.

Moms are utterly amazing. (Especially the ones who don’t think they are.)

Moms are stronger than they know. (Especially the ones on the brink of giving up.)

Moms are breathtakingly beautiful. (Especially the ones who view themselves through the lens of their children.)

In the thick of daily life, it’s easy to wonder if what we’re doing is working. It’s easy to second (and third and fourth and fifth) guess every decision.

Am I being a mom right?

• • •

My oldest child was 9 months old on my first Mother’s Day.

A few days before, I called my husband from a store to inform him that I’d found my own present. I went into great detail about what section it was in, what it looked like, and when he should go and buy it.

It was a painting of a little boy sitting on the back of a blue truck. The truck was similar to my husband’s, and the boy looked like an older version of our firstborn.

You could almost see the sparkle in the little boy’s eye, almost watch his legs swing back and forth as he laughed and told stories to the two little boys sitting next to him.

It’s hard to imagine the day when your first baby is big enough to have friends, but that’s exactly why I was drawn to this painting – it was a symbol of his future.

I dreamed of who those little friends might be and what the three of them would talk about. What would life look like when he was old enough to run and jump and play?

I got the painting for Mother’s Day, of course. (I married a smart man.)

I hung it proudly in our playroom.

Several months later, we got pregnant with our second child.

Another boy.

I would rub my belly as I looked at the painting, dreaming of that third little friend on the back of the truck. I knew who the first two boys were now – but that third. What would he be like? Who would be lucky enough to be best friends with these brothers?

I couldn’t wait to watch it all unfold.

And then we got pregnant with our third.

Another boy.

After the sonogram, I went home, stood in front of the painting, and wept.

What seemed like an insignificant, whimsical glimpse into the future had actually become our reality.

It wasn’t a painting of our firstborn with friends; it was a picture of our home. It was our three boys, our best brother friends.

The future foretold in that painting was infinitely more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

• • •

I’ve been waiting the past few years for one of two things to happen:

Taylor to get rid of his old truck, or the boys to be the same ages as the boys in the painting.

A few months ago, the two happened simultaneously.

I called my great photographer friend, asked if she could squeeze in a session, and watched her bring my heart’s years-long desire to fruition as we recreated the painting.

• • •

I’m not going to claim that God led me to a prophetic painting. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t.

It really doesn’t matter.

But here’s what does:

Every time I see this image on our wall, I am overwhelmed with a sense of purpose.

I had no idea what my family would look like 7 years ago. No idea how many kids we’d have, when we’d have them, what they’d be like, if I’d like them. No idea.

But God did.

He’s known all along.

He knows me, and he knows them.

In his great mercy, he gave our family the gift of these boys.

And in his perfect wisdom and divine sovereignty, he made me their mom.

Not someone better, not someone stronger, not someone more patient, not someone more structured, not someone with fancier cooking skills, not someone with organizational PTA abilities.

Me.

And he did the same for you.

And that is why we celebrate.

We’re honoring moms, absolutely, but we’re also celebrating tiny pictures of God’s goodness in homes all over the world.

We get to celebrate the ways he forms families of all sizes, genders, and colors; the ways he equips each mom to parent each kid at each stage of life.

• • •

Is being a mom hard? Yes.

Do I like my kids all the time? No.

Do my kids like me all the time? Absolutely not.

Do I have any idea what I’m doing? Never. (If I did, my kids might not be arguing about window rights.)

But that’s periphery.

Because I am doing the exact, perfect, right work God has called me to.

And you are doing the exact, perfect, right work God has called you to.

And we get to do that work gratefully and confidently.

I am my kids’ best mom, because I am their mom.

What an honor.

Happy Mother’s Day from one of the greats to every single other great that goes by the name “Mom”.