The "Blessing" of Motherhood

It doesn't mean what we thought, but the real thing might be even better

I’ve been reading The Princess Bride to my daughter; it’s one of my favorite books and movies from when I was her age. To be honest though, I think she’s just humoring me. Every two and a half pages she asks if we can take a break.

Despite her lack of enthusiasm, I still love coming across the most memorable moments again.

Like when poor Inigo Montoya stands by, wavy black hair flowing to his shoulders, and watches as his buddy Vizzini exclaims,

“Inconceivable!”

Their ship is being followed…

“Inconceivable!”

The other ship is gaining on them…

“Inconceivable!” he lisps again with eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and balding forehead wrinkles scrunched.

Finally, when the fact that the Man in Black doesn’t fall off the cliff is met with the same response, our friend Inigo couldn’t keep quiet any longer,

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

He may have been a simple Spaniard bent on avenging his father’s death, but it was clear to him, something wasn’t right here.

And I think we run into the same erroneous interpretation as moms when we hear the Word say that children are a “blessing” from the Lord and then look at our real, very messy lives and think…

Something isn’t adding up here.

I don’t know about you, but the “blessing” of motherhood doesn’t look anything like what I thought it would.

I sometimes find myself thinking there must’ve been some mistake. These are not the children I signed up for!

I took for granted that I’d have happy, well-regulated children. As babies, they’d sleep through the night.

Their cries would be soothed the moment their dimpled little hands reached for me, and I’d snuggle them to my chest.

In the rare moments when they’d be sick, I’d take their temperature while they’d smile and with a couple of blinks of heavy eyelids drift off to sleep in the warm glow of their night light.

I was supposed to have kids who’d sit for hours and listen to my favorite classic read-alouds (without interrupting). We would joyfully homeschool and learn together at the kitchen table. Of course, they’d excel and grasp every concept right away with a grin and light shining on their baby-angel faces.

They’d be best friends, never fight, and always put the needs of the other first.

I would delight to watch how they take care of and dote on one another.

And I would be the best mom.

I’d love to be with them every minute of every day (who wouldn’t, since they’d be so perfect?) I’d never need a break.

I’d have boundless energy to cook healthy meals from scratch 100% of the time and somehow my immaculate counters would always sparkle in the sunshine. (Maybe in my dream Mary Poppins and her magic were there, too?)

I’d always be calm and have a serene little smile of contentment on my face. I would always find their jokes delightful and my house would be full of laughter and joy.

And the truth is something like that…some of the time. And sometimes, it’s just the opposite.

As I write this I hear how silly and unrealistic this is. But as moms and especially as moms of faith, somehow we get this ideal in our heads.

Norman Rockwell, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Our vision of what the “blessing” of motherhood should look like is a cross between a Norman Rockwell painting and a diaper commercial.

And then we feel endlessly discouraged that we can’t replicate the standard.

I must be doing it wrong! we think.

Maybe, I’m just not cut out for motherhood, I tell myself.

Because I am not the best mom.

I do need a break, and three evenings out of five I want to bolt out of the house, stomp on the accelerator, and not look back.

It’s too hard.

I’m not strong enough, compassionate enough, energetic enough.

Or maybe I’m just not the right mom for these children.

I went four years without more than two hours of sleep at a time. They were always sick.

And their runny noses dried up just in time for them to discover sarcasm, “whatever,” and the eye roll.

And the truth is, even in the Norman Rockwell paintings, Sister is sent to the principal’s office with a black eye, Dad’s there in his bathrobe and slippers while mom and the kids march off to church, the baby is inconsolable, and the baseball game gets rained out.

It’s just that the volume on it all is turned way down, so all we can see is the warmth and nostalgia of each scene.

But in my very real household, the volume is loud — real loud.

Family life is more like the McCallisters at the beginning of Home Alone trying to get 17 people ready to fly overseas at Christmas.

There’s no end to the whining and bickering, someone spilled milk all over the passports and plane tickets, you just know someone is going to wet the bed, and there might be a hairy tarantula running loose somewhere near your bare toes.

Recently we had this picturesque snow day.

School was canceled.

The neighborhood kids all went sledding through the downy white powder.

But soon it was the sound of garbled quarreling that resonates over the hillside. One kid stomps home mad, cheeks red, complaining that no one gave them a turn with the sled.

When they come in, I make soothing dairy-free hot chocolate to warm their frozen fingers. But rather than sipping it sweetly, one spills it all over the computer.

While the other one howls that surely no one else’s mother makes them do homework on a snow day.

It’s real.

It’s messy.

Hot pink post-its transfer their perfect rectangular imprint onto the white countertop.

The car won’t start on Monday morning because someone left the light turned on all weekend.

All they want to read are those nonsense graphic novels.

I’m always half expecting a call home from the school.

…And we all love each other more than life itself.

And sometimes, I can even see the beauty in it and realize that, yes, God chose me to be the imperfect mom of these two challenging, amazing little ones.

Nothing has gone wrong.

He has a plan and purpose for every challenge.

As a mom, I’ve been compelled to grow shoots through the stubborn concrete of my heart in ways I never could have if I didn’t have children.

From the first months of my oldest child’s life, we battled with the right timing of a surgery that we knew would someday be needed, and I had no choice but to give him into God’s hands from that moment.

I had no power or control to protect him.

All I could do was trust God and the doctors.

Eleven years in, I’ve now prayed over these two as they’ve been wheeled off to multiple surgeries and procedures.

Over abnormal EEG results and umpteen other heart-wrenching situations that were entirely out of my control when all I could do was pray.

Those big moments of battle almost seem small next to the avalanche of our unrelenting everyday struggles, but those too put me face-down in my pillow and crying out to God in my insufficiency to help my babies.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” — James 1:2-4

And trials, when you’re a mom, come in fresh supply every morning, in all shapes and sizes.

God has refined me by baby steps with unlimited “opportunities” to grow in patience and compassion because my kids demand it (and so does my love for them).

To wait for them to tie their shoes.

To pick up the food the toddler threw on the floor for the 749th time that day.

And endless chances to repent and practice asking forgiveness from little people who are always eager to reconcile. (For the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.)

To strip away even the good to focus on what really matters and my true purpose.

But most of all I’ve grown in humility as I am faced with the griminess of my sinful heart every day.

Their needs have put a spotlight on my abject need for my Savior.

I’ve been battered by sleepless nights when I could only rely on the strength of God to get me through the next day.

Motherhood has shown me what it means to be a living sacrifice, to love another as myself, and to be motivated to put the needs of another ahead of my own in a way that nothing else ever could.

Motherhood has blessed me with ample opportunity to ponder how God must feel when his children choose to disobey him, knowing it will only hurt them.

And to understand a little more about what the Father’s love for me is like.

What a sacrifice it must have been for Him to give his one and only son for us.

The experience of being driven to our knees again and again for the sake of our children as we realize our humble inadequacy in raising these little creatures…

This is the blessing of motherhood.

Sanctification.

It’s not the glossy stock photo families with their rosy cheeks and frozen smiles embracing in the sunshine.

It’s nothing like I dreamed it would be…

But these children are exactly what I needed.

It’s beautiful and painful.

God wants us to be utterly dependent and submitted to Him, and sometimes it takes the messiness and struggle of life to get us there.

I was reading Ruth, (that’s the widow who faithfully left her homeland to return to Bethlehem with her mother-in-law Naomi) and this verse stood out to me,

“…the Lord enabled her to conceive, and she gave birth to a son.” — Ruth 4:13

Yes, biology was obviously at play here, but the Lord chose that day, that husband, that wife, that day when that particular set of DNA joined to grow that particular baby boy, as a blessing to his father and mother and grandmother and community and eventually the whole world.

And somewhere deep down, I know the same is true for me, too.

And once in a while at least, I look up and I’m so grateful that God didn’t see fit to leave me where I was. I remind myself that I really am the perfect mom for these kids, and they are the perfect kids for me, too.

Not because we’re perfect but because God chose us for each other.

And the same is true for you, Mama.

As my wise friend (and supporting subscriber) Linda pointed out, Mary the mother of Jesus was called blessed among women. Yet, as we know, the arc of her story and probably her day-to-day life encompassed constant obstacles, pain, and unthinkable suffering.

As Simeon “blessed” her family in the temple (there’s that word again) he told her, “A sword will pierce your own soul too.”

Sounds like a lot of fun, right?

Yet she was also there to witness the culmination of God’s plan for all humanity from the very start to the finish.

For each one of us, we get to see the growth of our children from helpless infants into independent adults — if we’re lucky. And the maturity of our own hearts, too, in the process.

It’s messy, frustrating, and sometimes painful, and we get to be a part of God’s amazing plan for our children.

It’s just that that “blessing” may not mean what we think it means when we start the journey.