Her feet slam against the side of her crib (yes, at almost 3 years old she's still in a crib) and she cries out. I roll over and look at the clock.
2:43am. Awesome.
I shake Luke awake and ask him to go upstairs to calm Ella down.
2 minutes later he is back in bed, his breaths deep. He's back into a REM cycle.
How does he do that?
The slamming begins again so I roll out of bed and trudge to the kitchen, pour a sippy of milk, shuffle through a drawer to find a stopper for the lid and pull myself upstairs.
"Here Ella," I say as I rub wild curls off of her face and forehead, "here's some milk baby." She takes it and settles back in. I cover her up and fumble my way back to bed, reminding myself that I really should clear a path down the hallway for when people wake up at night.
An hour later, Lucas climbs into bed with us. At some point I get an elbow to the face. He gets angry when I ask him to go back to his own bed. But I manage to steal a kiss before he slips back into the darkness outside our bedroom door.
Luke and I raise our voices at each other and a kid because neither of us want to deal with a night time bed wetter and finding all new bedding.
Abigail clings to my ankles as I desperately try to make dinner. It's already 6:00pm and I'm just now getting started. It's a new recipe and that always makes me nervous. What if it flops? Then I've not only wasted food but we have nothing for dinner.
She cries out and I lift her to my hip. "Ashlee! Please come take your baby sister for a few minutes so I can put dinner in the oven!"
"Mooooom!" She yells, "I'm busy!"
"What do you think I'm doing??!! Would you like to eat tonight??!!"
She stomps into the kitchen, grins at Abigail and laughs as I pass her over.
Aaron cries because I ask him to take a bath. He ends up in bed early for the 3rd night in a row because of incessant crying.
Olivia keeps stealing toys from the other kids and then lying about it. The lying infuriates me and I snap at her.
Elizabeth is as dramatic as a 17 year old girl suffering from PMS. I roll my eyes at her and she sees me and runs off to cry in her bedroom.
I fail. Daily I fail. I wonder if I'm ruining these little people when I raise my voice, use too much sarcasm or lock the kids outside because it's the first nice day in weeks and I just need the house to be quiet for FIVE MINUTES.
I hear it often, "Oh! You are SUPERmom!"
"I could never handle that many kids! You must have the patience of Job!" (By the way, Job wasn't particularly patient. Read the book, people.)
I look at people when they say that. I'm bewildered. Because here are two truths that I know to be certain without a shadow of a doubt.
1) MOTHERHOOD IS HARD. It's hard if you have one child. It's hard if you have 10 kids. It's hard if you work outside the home. It's hard if you stay-at-home. It's hard if you homeschool. It's hard if your kids are schooled outside your home.
It's hard. And I'm going to say this as plainly as I know how.
My journey is motherhood isn't any more difficult that any other mother.
Yes, I may have more kids. Yes, they may all be younger. Yes, I'm crazy enough to homeschool. Yes, it may appear that way. But girlfriend, when you call me SuperMom you are downplaying the hardships in your own life so much. And that breaks my heart.
Do people who have fewer children get more time to themselves? Maybe. But not necessarily. Do they have more money to go on vacations and spend money on themselves? Maybe. But not necessarily.
Girls, MOTHERHOOD IS HARD. End of story.
2) And this is a soapbox issue for me.
These little people drive me crazy. They make me cuss under my breath, wonder if I've lost my mind and question if we'll add anymore. But more than any of that, I know this to be true.
Children are a blessing. Such a sweet, irreplaceable blessing. We've never had a child come into our home and thought, "Well, crap. That was a mistake."
These people are gifts. Messy, loud, selfish, totally depraved, unconditionally loving, forever forgiving, smelly, cuddly BLESSINGS.
Yes, they are a lot of work. But they are the best kind of work. They're the kind of work that women pray for every day of their lives because their arms ache. They're the kind of work worth investing in. And I think that if our society recognized this more readily, then SUPERmom wouldn't show up on my radar. Instead, BLESSEDmom would likely be my nickname.
I'm majorly flawed. I'm no where close to being a SUPERmom. I make mistakes every, single day. And then I try so hard to press into His grace, extend more love than harshness. I load up my 15 passenger van, count heads, crank up the radio above the noise and press on. Because that's what Moms do. Regular moms.
And really, that's all I am. A regular mom with a larger than average family, pressing on through the daily grind. Wondering if I've lost my mind and trying to count each blessing along the way. SUPERmom, I am not. BLESSEDmom I am certain.
2:43am. Awesome.
I shake Luke awake and ask him to go upstairs to calm Ella down.
2 minutes later he is back in bed, his breaths deep. He's back into a REM cycle.
How does he do that?
The slamming begins again so I roll out of bed and trudge to the kitchen, pour a sippy of milk, shuffle through a drawer to find a stopper for the lid and pull myself upstairs.
"Here Ella," I say as I rub wild curls off of her face and forehead, "here's some milk baby." She takes it and settles back in. I cover her up and fumble my way back to bed, reminding myself that I really should clear a path down the hallway for when people wake up at night.
An hour later, Lucas climbs into bed with us. At some point I get an elbow to the face. He gets angry when I ask him to go back to his own bed. But I manage to steal a kiss before he slips back into the darkness outside our bedroom door.
Luke and I raise our voices at each other and a kid because neither of us want to deal with a night time bed wetter and finding all new bedding.
Abigail clings to my ankles as I desperately try to make dinner. It's already 6:00pm and I'm just now getting started. It's a new recipe and that always makes me nervous. What if it flops? Then I've not only wasted food but we have nothing for dinner.
She cries out and I lift her to my hip. "Ashlee! Please come take your baby sister for a few minutes so I can put dinner in the oven!"
"Mooooom!" She yells, "I'm busy!"
"What do you think I'm doing??!! Would you like to eat tonight??!!"
She stomps into the kitchen, grins at Abigail and laughs as I pass her over.
Aaron cries because I ask him to take a bath. He ends up in bed early for the 3rd night in a row because of incessant crying.
Olivia keeps stealing toys from the other kids and then lying about it. The lying infuriates me and I snap at her.
Elizabeth is as dramatic as a 17 year old girl suffering from PMS. I roll my eyes at her and she sees me and runs off to cry in her bedroom.
I fail. Daily I fail. I wonder if I'm ruining these little people when I raise my voice, use too much sarcasm or lock the kids outside because it's the first nice day in weeks and I just need the house to be quiet for FIVE MINUTES.
I hear it often, "Oh! You are SUPERmom!"
"I could never handle that many kids! You must have the patience of Job!" (By the way, Job wasn't particularly patient. Read the book, people.)
I look at people when they say that. I'm bewildered. Because here are two truths that I know to be certain without a shadow of a doubt.
1) MOTHERHOOD IS HARD. It's hard if you have one child. It's hard if you have 10 kids. It's hard if you work outside the home. It's hard if you stay-at-home. It's hard if you homeschool. It's hard if your kids are schooled outside your home.
It's hard. And I'm going to say this as plainly as I know how.
My journey is motherhood isn't any more difficult that any other mother.
Yes, I may have more kids. Yes, they may all be younger. Yes, I'm crazy enough to homeschool. Yes, it may appear that way. But girlfriend, when you call me SuperMom you are downplaying the hardships in your own life so much. And that breaks my heart.
Do people who have fewer children get more time to themselves? Maybe. But not necessarily. Do they have more money to go on vacations and spend money on themselves? Maybe. But not necessarily.
Girls, MOTHERHOOD IS HARD. End of story.
2) And this is a soapbox issue for me.
These little people drive me crazy. They make me cuss under my breath, wonder if I've lost my mind and question if we'll add anymore. But more than any of that, I know this to be true.
Children are a blessing. Such a sweet, irreplaceable blessing. We've never had a child come into our home and thought, "Well, crap. That was a mistake."
These people are gifts. Messy, loud, selfish, totally depraved, unconditionally loving, forever forgiving, smelly, cuddly BLESSINGS.
Yes, they are a lot of work. But they are the best kind of work. They're the kind of work that women pray for every day of their lives because their arms ache. They're the kind of work worth investing in. And I think that if our society recognized this more readily, then SUPERmom wouldn't show up on my radar. Instead, BLESSEDmom would likely be my nickname.
I'm majorly flawed. I'm no where close to being a SUPERmom. I make mistakes every, single day. And then I try so hard to press into His grace, extend more love than harshness. I load up my 15 passenger van, count heads, crank up the radio above the noise and press on. Because that's what Moms do. Regular moms.
And really, that's all I am. A regular mom with a larger than average family, pressing on through the daily grind. Wondering if I've lost my mind and trying to count each blessing along the way. SUPERmom, I am not. BLESSEDmom I am certain.