I recently wrote about how grateful I am for the freedom to be at home with the kids instead of feeling compelled to drop them at daycare and go make a few extra bucks that we really don’t need to spend. That is true. Also true: I’m occasionally bewildered to find myself here at home with the kids. Four years into my default appointment as Minister of the Interior, the role still sometimes fits like new running shoes that weren’t broken in before a long workout. There’s a considerable amount of chafing, maybe even some blisters, and not a few raw spots—this, as I contemplate the marathon ahead.
My reaction to an innocently-emailed remark reminded me of how unlikely a candidate I still am for this job. A newish acquaintance wrote, “You must really love being a mom!”
Wait, what? With that, I suddenly realized that I can’t recall ever thinking, “I really love being a mom!” Now, I have thought about how much I love my husband and children. I’ve thought about how amazing it is to watch these little creatures grow and develop. I’ve thought about the ways God uses the raging purifying fires aka my offspring to purge the dross from my life. Believe it or not, I’ve actually thought a lot of positive things about motherhood :P. I’ve been overwhelmed to think that God would entrust us with these lives. (And, of course, I’ve been just plain overwhelmed.)
But I’m pretty sure that the precise exclamation “I really love being a mom!” has never spontaneously welled up within me. Maybe I just express differently what other people mean when they use that phrase. Or maybe I need to be more intentional about trying that phrase on for size—breaking it in for the miles ahead.