Friday, 14 May 2010 19:19
I first coined the term "reluctant mother" when, as a carefree and outgoing 18-year-old college student, my pregnancy test came back positive. Up until this life-changing discovery, I never felt meant for motherhood. I often declared, "If I need something to mother, I'll rescue a dog."
Faced with a new reality, Brandon and I threw together a wedding ceremony in under six weeks. We honeymooned for two short days in a tiny cabin in the frozen north and headed quickly home. Our goal was to work as many hours as possible to be ready, in just over six months, for parenthood.
Living in a blissful state of denial, I didn't tell my boss about the pregnancy until two months before I had my son Christian. I believed that by paying as little attention to the upcoming birth as possible, I wouldn't have to face the reality of the situation.
But like it or not—prepared or not—I would be a mother.
Humility haunted me. I struggled with the sin that had been revealed for all to see. The weight I carried was profound. We both knew we weren't supposed to have sex before marriage, now everyone knew that we had. My impending motherhood felt tainted and stained.
Christian was born after 36 hours of labor into a room full of friends and family who already desperately loved him. Reluctant, however, I remained.
Sure, I was obsessed with my newborn son, but I also feared for his life. How was I going to balance my dreams and aspirations with spit-up and dirty diapers? And, as I dropped out of college to support my new husband in his educational pursuits, I became more certain that I wasn't cut from a mothering cloth.
That first year was full of hard lessons.
The freedom to do as I wished was gone. It was a disaster when we tried to drag our newborn out for 50-cent taco night at our favorite, very crowded Mexican restaurant at 8 p.m. My previous love of road trips disappeared rapidly as we made a 600-mile trek for my sister's wedding. It was complete with diaper blow-outs and high decibel screams. And, as our college friends slowly found other single, childless friends, we became a bit reclusive and lonely.
Reluctant, I remained.
For the first few years after Christian was born, I continued to refer to myself as a "reluctant mother" to everyone I met. I adored my son, loved watching Brandon bond with him, and enjoyed see him grow and learn. But I easily tired of the "momversations" at the park about diapers and breastfeeding. I wanted something of substance. I needed to matter—to mean something.
It wasn't until almost four years later that I finally gave up the moniker. I spent the morning painting t-shirts with Christian and his two-year-old brother Roman.
Partly inspired by The Last Lecture and Professor Randy Pausch's request to allow children to paint whatever they want on their walls, and partly because I've always loved coloring outside the lines myself, I let them design and paint freely. Christian did his best impression of a buffalo, and then a shark—his current educational obsession. The shark, he decided, looked more like a "scary fish" and that's how I captioned it. Roman used sponges and cut outs at first, creating dinosaur shapes across his blue shirt. Then, in a stroke of genius, he smeared it all together. "Fireworks," he declared. And fireworks they were.
As I embraced their individuality and delighted in their creativity, I found my fears of motherhood subsiding. I was a mother and doing well in that role.
Dwight Eisenhower spoke of freedom and said this, "Freedom has its life in the hearts, the actions, the spirit of men and so it must be daily earned and refreshed—else like a flower cut from its life-giving roots, it will wither and die." Because I chose for years to see my current situation as demanding, unchosen, and unfulfilling, I allowed my love of freedom to wither and die. I needed to stop allowing my perceived failures at achieving other dreams to prohibit my enjoyment of the here and now.
Last year, I vividly remember hiking in the glorious fall up a trail in the hills that surround our city, my youngest son cradled in his sling against my chest. I followed Christian, wondering aloud at all of his observations. As I echoed his delight, reaching down to hold Roman's tiny hand, I realized my footsteps were following his. And it hit me: I'm raising a leader; someone who could potentially impact people for Jesus. At that moment I realized that what I did as mother to him and his brothers was of monumental importance.
From that outdoor moment of realization much has changed. My outlook, though still oriented at times towards personal achievements and goals, is focused primarily on my greatest creation—my children. I delight in their discoveries. My dining room table is stained by markers and pencils, their unconstrained creativity.
How freeing it is to recognize that this job of parenting God's given me is exactly the place I needed to be most. How freeing it is to realize that He has orchestrated pieces of my life to reflect His glory. And oh, the wonder of realizing that I'm uniquely free to be the mother He has made me to be—very imperfect, often carefree, and sometimes still in my pajamas at noon.
Galatians 5:1 says, "Christ has set us free to live a free life" (The Message). I am finally living that life. I'm no longer a reluctant mom—but rather a redeemed one. One who is free to exist solely in the identity that God has given me.
Very free indeed.
