The Baby Ache

Our baby year is almost up. Approximately eleven months, twenty days, and two hours have passed since my second babe got her first glimpse of the world. I can't quite wrap my mind around the reality that she is about to be one. I mean, I'm happy about it and excited that she's doing that whole growing thing, but I'm also feeling a teensy bit forlorn about the fact that her age is about to be calculated in year(s) and not months.

And this, my friends, is why I need to discuss The Baby Ache with you. Currently, every single Instagram or Facebook photo of a new babe literally makes my eyes water and my insides do a somersault. The baby doesn't even have to be cute for this to happen. It's becoming a problem. Some days I even think I might need to save all the baby stuff and do this whole deal over again. And yet, this is a bad idea on most fronts. I'm 36. I've had two c-sections. And twins run in my family like you would not believe (i.e. my dad, grandma, first cousin, etc.) Plus, I am not a very good pregnant person. It makes me sad and gives me heartburn and makes me want to shoot things. Basically, I am a citizen of crazytown when I'm gestating a small human.

BUT, new babies are THE BEST. I love their teeny tiny everything and their smell and their tiny newborn-sized diapers and their mini sneezes and their dazed and confused stares. I LOVE it. To be clear, I do not love the weirdness that is the aftermath of giving birth. But, all that sort of melts away in the haze of new-babyness. And, one year later, it's getting dangerously hazy and so I can start to think that doing the whole pregnancy/birthing thing is not that big of a deal and having a new baby again would be totally worth it.

And maybe it would.

But, I've had an epiphany of sorts recently. I've come to the realization that no matter how many new babies I gave birth to and brought home to sweet little nurseries and sniffed the heck out of their tiny little bald heads, I would still want more. Every time the one year mark rolled around, I'm pretty sure I'd start getting teary over people's Instagram shots of their new babies and the need for "just one more" would come rushing back. And so, I'm starting to understand how the Duggars became The-Duggars-Have-Twenty-Seven-Kids. I'm pretty sure they must be addicted to that new baby stage and so they just gave in and became baby hoarders. I get it.

My friend Amanda told me recently that, now that her youngest are getting close to five, she's moving past the need for a new baby. Sure, she can appreciate the cuteness and the perfection of an infant, but she doesn't feel herself wanting to steal that baby and make it her own anymore. (Not that she ever did, really. Maybe that was just me). So, perhaps there's hope for this baby addiction I seem to have developed in recent years.

For now, there aren't going to be anymore babies cooked up in this house (though adoption's a very real possibility.) But, as my friend Jake so aptly put it a few years back when he and his wife got pregnant a few months after getting married, "Sometimes babies find you." So, we'll see.

Here's to one year of Baby Mae and that crazy hairdo she showed up with.
She's pretty much the best thing since sliced bread.

Reminders

And just like that (snaps her fingers), summer was over. We swam and played and traveled and built Lego worlds and ate ice cream and saw old friends. And we have sunny, freckled shoulders for souvenirs. Now it's time for early mornings and pencils and backpacks and school friends again. I'm ready. Maybe more than I should be?

Sam went to school this week and now there are hours in the day when I can have thoughts. REAL, LIVE THOUGHTS. It's nice. I miss him. But, well, I get to have thoughts again! I'm just hoping I still know how to do that.

This morning, as I drove the winding, country roads to Sam's school, we talked about the weather and the fog and he pointed out a tiny crack in the cloud cover where a bit of bright orange sun was breaking through. I, like all mothers probably do, explained how the sun is always there, behind the clouds, even when we can't see it. I told him what it was like to fly in a plane and how a plane can push through the clouds and make it to the other side where the sun is still shining and the sky is still blue. (And in true, four-year-old fashion, he asked if you could touch the sun once you were above the clouds. Um, no, son, you can't. And don't stare at it either.) So, I went on to tell Sam that the sun is 93 million miles away from the earth, which I'm pretty confident didn't really sink in. But then, even my 36-year old brain has a hard time comprehending 93 million miles.

We drove in quiet for a moment and then I told him how God put the sun exactly the right distance away from Earth so that it wouldn't be too hot or too cold for us to live here. And how, if the sun were any closer, close enough to touch per se, that we would all be toast. I'm not even sure Sam heard me. But, as that simplistic, partial explanation of our solar system came out of my mouth, I couldn't help but pause for a moment and let that fact sink in. And, I was reminded that there are no accidents, no coincidences and no random acts with God. He is always intentional.

A summer of fun and crazy little people and traveling and friends and pool time has left little time for reflection or quiet and I realize that as summer ends (as far as the school year is concerned, because it's still 92 degrees of summer up in here), I have been just about to sputter out emotionally and spiritually. Parenting small people from daybreak to late evening (and sometimes the middle of the night) leaves little time for things like introspection and heart thoughts or even just moments to breathe deep. It's more like a roller coaster ride that doesn't allow getting off or bathroom breaks or showers. And so, even though I miss my firstborn now that the school year has begun, I'm more than a little thankful for some quiet moments to pause and reflect and take deep breaths (at least until the baby wakes up...).

I needed to be reminded today, even through my own feeble explanations of the solar system, that God is intentional and is working out the details of our lives, the big and the small ones. He knows just how far away the sun should be but also the seemingly lesser details like how close my parents should live to us or how far Sam's school should be from our house. And what jobs are best for us and how much money we should have. And the friendships that will give us hope and the life events that will make us brave. All the little details that make up our lives and order the days and the weeks and the years and become the fabric of our stories. He knows. And He is intentional with us.

So often I lose a sense of what's outside of my house - the bigger narrative, the world that is happening outside of these rooms that I am raising children in, the sun that is just above those clouds that, on some days, feel so dark and heavy and foreboding. I forget that He is not far. And that He is working out details that I am unaware of, because He knows what is needed.

And so, this school year begins for me with a small reminder of His goodness on the car ride to school and the promise of more reminders to come.

How To Deal When the Young Adult Novel You Just Read Ended Badly

It's a normal Thursday and Sam's at school for the moment, so I'm just going to spend a little time blog/journaling about the literary trauma that just occurred here recently.

I just finished reading a popular young adult novel last night. We'll call it "People Living In A Dystopian Future Try To Figure Out What the Deal Is." Maybe you can guess what series I'm subtly hinting at. And, if you can, just imagine that the book I'm referring to is the last book of the series. But, maybe don't imagine that if you haven't read it yet.

OK, now that we're semi-crystal clear on the book I just read, let's talk about the bloody aftermath that is surely happening in the hearts of all young adults/and young-at-heart adults who read this book and currently want to seriously un-read that book. Or at least re-write portions of it in our leisure time so that it can end the way it was obviously meant to.

I read the last book of this unnamed series over the last 48 hours. This means I snuck reading time in to places I shouldn't have, such as hiding it in my lap while I spoon fed my baby applesauce. And while "watching" a mind-numbing episode of the Care Bears with my four-year-old. And while I should have been cooking dinner or taking a shower or cleaning out the fridge or calling my grandmother.

I NEEDED to know what happened to the two main characters for whom I had developed a reader's affection that can sometimes lead to possible subconscious prayers being said for the welfare of those characters. (Side note: Where do prayers for non-existent people go? Discuss.)

Then the book ended. And, let's just say someone important died. Like DIED.

What? No, wait. I just read like 980 pages of words about these people and now I care about them in a weird, hard to explain, non-three-dimensional way and one of them just DIED?

Ok, so, it's been approximately 12 hours since finishing the book and I'm still feeling a little ticked off at this total curveball I just got thrown and my inner 15-year-old self is planning to pen a draft of a possibly strongly worded letter to the author in my red, leather-bound diary with the heart lock on the front. Well, that's not really going to happen, mainly because I haven't seen that diary in twenty or so years. Also, because it would be weird and considered possibly emotionally unstable. Similar to this blog post.

Anyway, in light of all this heart-rending disappointment brought on by the ending of this book, I feel the need to offer a few thoughts on ways to cope now that you know (If you've read it) that (SPOILER ALERT) Tris and Tobias CAN NEVER BE TOGETHER AGAIN. LIKE EVER.

Here you go:

Rewrite the last few chapters of the book to end the way you need it to.

Or maybe rewrite the whole thing because, honestly, who wasn't getting a little annoyed with how the author kept portraying Tobias as kind of a wimp. (Seriously, Veronica? He has four fears. Four. Remember?) 

Go ahead and start that Facebook support group page you've been thinking about. Just don't use the name "Tris and Tobias 4 Ever" because that might already be taken. (Did you catch the subtle way I used "4" in that title as a little reference to our favorite Dauntless character's adorable nickname?)

It might be time to get that tattoo you've been wanting. Mine's healing nicely and I'm pretty confident a turtleneck will cover up those birds in flight when I visit my parents.

Check online for info on how to get a permit to build that small bonfire in your backyard that may or may not include the book we've been talking about. I didn't have any complaints from my neighbors, despite the fact that the smell of a Kindle burning is a little less pleasant than a regular paperback. (Shout out to Leslie who let me borrow her Kindle. Sorry I had to destroy it, Leslie. I really didn't have a choice.)

Be on the lookout for the Faction Cookbook I'm putting together here in the next few weeks. Pretty sure Amazon will pick it up, but if not, I'll ship one to you for cheap. Dauntless hamburgers, Amity fruit pie, Abnegation dry bread, Tris and Tobias's favorite date-night cookie recipe, etc. all will be included.

Set up an email address such as tobias@hotmess.com or tris@hotmess.com and email them occasionally about how you're feeling.

Call me sometime if you need to talk or reminisce about Tris and Tobias and the good old days in Dauntless. I'll be here, journaling, and maybe writing the fourth installment of the series entitled "Emergent: Tris Comes Back From the Dead and Marries Tobias and They Make Babies and Live on a Farm in the Country and Live Happily Ever After." I just need to get the publishing rights worked out.


Here's to life after Allegiant. May the odds be ever in your favor. Wait. I mean, Tris and Tobias 4 Ever!

In Which I Discover the Gospel in Frozen

It's the first of the month and the usual bills are looming, the laundry is exploding out of its basket(s), the house cannot seem to go more than a minute and a half without copious amounts of Legos being spilled out onto the floor and I am constantly being reminded that seven-month-old babies require significantly more attention than newborns ever thought about needing.

She's shocked that I just hinted that she might be a teensy, tiny reason for me to be a little anxious on occasion.

I feel my chest tighten and the weight of all the things that are required to keep a family clean, fed, diapered, happy, safe, loved, etc. sits on me a little heavier than usual. And, the anxiety that seems always to be just underneath the surface threatens to pull me under. 

So, I sit down for a moment to read a few verses in the Book I neglect so often for the television or my iPhone or my pillow.

And He is before all things and in Him all things hold together. - Colossians 1:17*

All things hold together. Funny, how I'm reading those words even as I feel like I could so easily fall apart at any moment. Sometimes it just takes that sharp jab of a plastic robot in my foot as I step across a toy minefield to nearly put me over the edge and make me feel like I literally cannot handle it anymore. Whatever "it" is. (I realize how dramatic this all sounds. Maybe you can relate in a teensy way? If not, just chalk this crazy talk up to me having a a baby year.)

While we're talking about my tendency to let misplaced robots destroy my seemingly fragile sense of well-being, let's talk about other issues I have. It'll be fun.

So, anxiety with a capital "A" gets passed down in my family like wide hips and a penchant for reading twelve books at a time. The women on my side all worry like our lives depend on it. It's the worst. Toss in a little OCD in there and you've got a Malatov cocktail of a person just waiting to have an aneurism (cue husband rolling his eyes at this statement). I've spent my whole life being somewhat tied up in a knot and unfortunately, the introduction of sweet-cheeked babies into my life ramped up the worry meter. Suddenly, it matters a hundred and fifty bajillion times more than I don't get cancer or get hit by a bus. And additionally, there are little people whose total lack of reason and common sense make it necessary for me to keep a watchful (i.e. neurotic) eye on them at all times so that they don't eat Cascade pods or walk out into traffic. It's a recipe for crazy. At least in my corner of the universe.

I realize you're probably considering un-friending me on Facebook at this juncture. Hold that thought.

In seemingly unrelated news, we've watched Frozen a few, (ok, four) times in the past few weeks. And after the fourth viewing, I found myself mulling over the connection between Elsa's fear and that fear being overcome by true love. At first, I thought that Disney was just throwing out a couple random emotions and then determining that one magically happens to be the antidote for the other. I couldn't quite make the leap between Elsa being afraid to loving someone (and being loved) enough that her fear was alleviated.

But, then it hit me. Prepare yourself for the most obvious revelation of all time that you and your small, "Let It Go"-obsessed children have probably already had without a whole lot of mental energy exerted.

Perfect love casts out fear. (1 John 4:18)

Disney kind of nailed it. Obviously, the movie's talking about an imperfect human love, but the idea there of real love essentially being the antidote to crippling fear is true. This reminds me of that quote "Every true story borrows its power from the gospel." Don't ask me who said that because I'll have to tell you Abraham Lincoln.

I think God knew He needed to use a Disney movie to speak gospel truth to me because He's aware of the fact that that's a good place to reach me these days. Either there or Curious George.

I desperately need to hear that love drives out fear. More specifically, that God's love for me drives out my fear. In the midst of my trying to hold all kinds of things together and failing miserably at even holding myself together, I need to hear that God's got things under control and that He loves me in a powerful, fear-expulsing way.

If He can keep that whole universe deal held together, I think I can feel good about His ability to keep me together.

All this fear and anxiety that keeps pushing me into a corner and giving me the occasional black eye, it's no match for God's love for me. All the fear and anxiety that motherhood or barrenness, marriage or singleness, bills, sickness, politics, or Walmart on a Saturday can conjure up in our hearts doesn't hold a candle to the love He feels for His daughters (and sons, of course).

Basically, His love for us kicks fear to the curb. And that's all kinds of reason to have hope.


And now, because why the heck not, I leave you with a few lyrics from "Let It Go."*
Enjoy having this on a loop in your subconscious for the rest of the day.

Let it go, let it go
And I'll rise like the break of dawn
Let it go, let it go
That perfect girl is gone

Here I stand
In the light of day
Let the storm rage on,
The cold never bothered me anyway.

*Obvious reference to "Frozen" and it's song "Let it Go."
*Thanks to She Reads Truth for the devo a few days ago on Col. 1:17.


 

The Stomach Bug Is the Ultimate Parental Rite of Passage

I have a small obsession with not throwing up. It's almost a hobby, really. I had a 25 year run without losing my lunch that was only broken by a rogue 24 hour bug that Matt and I shared a couple years ago. Anyway, it's important that you know this about me before you read the rest of this post. I think it will give you insight into why my child's first stomach bug qualifies me for some sort of PTSD diagnosis.

When I gave birth to my firstborn 4.3 years ago, there was a small sense of foreboding in the back of my mind regarding the possibility that this child might one day have a reason to toss his cookies. It wasn't something I thought about a lot, but whenever someone else's kid got sick or I heard about someone who knew someone who's aunt in Greenville had caught a stomach bug from her cousin, I instantly assumed that soon enough, the stomach bug would be at our doorstep. I knew that one day it would find us.

And so it did. (Cue ominous music: DUN, Dun, dun)

The Samster caught some sort of cold this last weekend and spiked a fever that was a bit concerning. Sam hasn't been sick for 12 whole months and I really thought we might just make it out of this winter without a visit to the doctor. He does an elderberry shot (as in cup, not needle) every evening and I'm not sure if the elderberry is to thank for his health or if my constant mantra of "Wash Your Hands!" is. There's also the minor factor of my love affair with Purell and all things anti-bacterial (Yes, I know that we're cultivating a resistance to the superbug by using these products and I've added that to my list of things to be occasionally freaked out about).

Anyhoo, long story short, after a fun Saturday night sleepover with the grandparents, Sam caught a stomach bug from my mom which didn't make an appearance until Monday. You don't really need a timeline, but basically the little guy ended up with a nasty respiratory infection AND a doubly nasty stomach bug as a bonus. Blergh.

And thus ensued a week of gross. And also of me having small panic attacks that I might in fact be going to throw up, too. I'm pathetic and I realize this.

Let it be known that despite my paralyzing fear of vomit, I did a pretty stand-up job at keeping things together. I Lysol-ed the ENTIRE house, washed every item of clothing and blanket that came in contact with the dreaded bug, offered every sort of remedy to help Sam feel better, and let him watch a bazillion cartoons that literally numbed my brain after a week of listening to the tinny voices of Jake and his Neverland Pirates. I must admit that once we knew the stomach bug had descended, I let Matt take one for the team by sleeping on the floor in Sam's room that night. Matt did not make it out unscathed. Luckily, I keep a large supply of Oxi-Clean in our laundry room and so Matt's pajama pants and sweatshirt will live to see another stain-free day.

It was a week. There really are no adjectives for it. Basically, we just survived the ultimate parental gauntlet that is the stomach bug. My sick-day arsenal now includes a fridge full of gatorade, a counter covered with antibiotics, anti-nausea medication, Children's Ibuprofen and a pantry full of Saltines.

I'm currently waiting for my Parents' Stomach Bug Survival badge to arrive in the mail. If one doesn't come, I may just craft one for myself or order one on Etsy.

Basically, I've scientifically determined that living through your child's stomach bug is the ultimate rite of passage for parentals. It's like The Crucible for the Marine Corps or the Ironman Challenge for athletes. It's the Mount Everest climb where you lose all your gear in an avalanche and maybe a toe or two to frostbite, but when you make it to the top you look around, plant your flag, and realize that you SURVIVED.

I realize I'm being a teensy bit dramatic. Maybe.

In related news, someone told me that drinking a glass of grape juice every day can protect you from the stomach bug. (I'm thinking similar results can be attained from a glass of wine). I've already had Matt purchase both and I'll be partaking liberally in hopes of preventing a week like this one from happening EVER AGAIN.

P.S. Sam's much better, albeit a bit thinner and a little pale. We'll remedy that soon with a batch of cookies and an afternoon in the sun. 
 

A Baby Year: A Guide to Being a Forgetful Space Cadet Who Is Late to Everything

We had a baby last year. Maybe you heard. We like her. A lot. Like, a whole, whole lot. Even when she wakes up five times in the middle of the night and then politely declines to sleep during the day, we still like her. She's cute and sweet and smells like baby. We've scientifically determined that she's very likely the most-kissed human being that ever lived. Her brother Sam is mildly (i.e. totally) obsessed with her and calls her "Babe Mae" and alerts us to the fact that she actually belongs to him, and only him. Trespassers be warned.

In light of this perfect little pink bundle of joy that's been added to our family, I need to explain some things to you in case you've had concerns or questions or felt any confusion regarding my having morphed into something of a yoga pant-wearing space cadet who shows up 15 (i.e. 20) minutes late to stuff and occasionally tells you things I told you yesterday, and maybe also the day before.

Granted, last year was a bit of a drain on the personality as well, considering my body was busy making a small person for 40 weeks. (Side note: I feel that 40 weeks should add up to 10 months while my husband very passionately disagrees with this assessment. However, I think carrying around 30 pounds of baby for what I like to call 10 months would give him a fresh perspective on how many months 40 weeks actually equal. But, I digress.) Still, I like to think I retained some semblance of myself during that season of life, if you don't count the first 17 weeks.

Flash forward to this year and it turns out that retaining any semblance of a normal self is pretty much out of the question due to sleep deprivation and the 24/7 nature of raising two small people. At times, I find that I am disappointed with myself when I can't seem to show up on time for literally anything or I haven't cleaned our bathroom in a (shockingly) long period of time or I haven't changed out of yoga pants for days on end.

On such a day when I was lamenting our late arrival to church, being approximately thirty minutes behind schedule, our friend Zach pronounced these magic words to me: "It's a Baby Year." And, there was great rejoicing (on my part, atleast) at this revelation.

Basically, "It's a Baby Year" is the answer to every question you could ask me right now:

"Are you coming to my parents' 64th anniversary cruise send-off in Panama City this spring?" Well, it's a Baby Year, so probably not.

"Would you like to become a sales rep for my pet jewelry pyramid marketing team?' It's tempting, but I'm having a Baby Year.

"Have you read that article about the most interesting thing that ever happened in the history of things happening that everyone is talking about on social media?" Hm. I don't think I've seen that yet. It's a Baby Year, so I'm not really reading words during these 12 months.

Seriously, I'm feeling all kinds of freedom now that I've accepted that it is indeed a Baby Year.

If you've had a baby recently or have a friend who's had one, you may need some help understanding the ins and outs of the 12 months of a Baby Year. Here are a few examples of things that the "I'm having a Baby Year" response covers which may shed some light on what's going on with you or that friend you have concerns about:

Awkward laughter at ill-timed moments in a conversation - It's a Baby Year and you get jokes hours after you first hear them. Also, Baby Year laughter is sometimes inexplicable. The line between sanity and insanity is startlingly closer than during a normal year.

Odd fashion statements - During a Baby Year, wearing navy and black or black and brown or purple and green together is really just par for the course. Just decide for yourself that everything matches yoga pants and getting ready in the morning will require fewer brain cells.

The inability to recognize any political figure or celebrity - A Baby Year means that anything or anyone that isn't directly related to you or your baby in some real, bring-me-a-diaper-please way is pretty much inconsequential.

Potential breakdowns over important decisions like what to cook for supper or what color to paint the garage - Breakdowns are a normal part of a Baby Year, so just accept that questions as simple as deciding whether to go to the grocery store now or not now are totally legitimate reasons for crying into a bag of chocolate chips.

Zero word choice - Basically, this means that during a Baby Year most, if not all, monosyllabic words are out. Because, does a baby really need to hear words like "hypertension" or "idiosyncratic" or "obsequious?" I think not.

Losing one's train of thought mid-sentence - Sometimes this happens multiple times in one conversation and learning how to casually walk away from a conversation is a handy tool in your Baby Year arsenal.

Total inability to show up anywhere on time. Ever. - Despite having an iPhone on your person at all times, you will inevitably have no idea what time it is throughout the day. And, even if you do, by some miracle, make it to the car with the potential of being somewhere ON TIME, someone will inevitably poop or be unable to find the only shoe in the universe that they could possibly wear to the grocery store. Also possible, mid-exit simultaneous meltdowns by all children in your charge.

And there you have it. A guide to your Baby Year. An all-encompassing answer to every question, every problem, every need to excuse your XXX large bag of chocolate chips in the pantry.

Go forth in freedom from pressure and guilt and expectation and enjoy this Baby Year with all the gusto you can possibly muster.

Or take a nap if it's humanly possible.

Happy Baby Year!

This Is Why I Love You: How to Still Love Your Kid After He Flushes Your Checkbook Down the Toilet

Some days are hard around here. Some days the craziness of small people in the house at dinnertime/naptime/bedtime/rainy day/snow day/sick day, etc. who may be feeling intermittently hungry/tired/mad/sad/confused/ornery is enough to drive a person to drink or stress-eat bagfuls of chocolate chips. Some days this mama feels like running away, particularly between the hours of 4 p.m. and 7 p.m.

But, I don't. I stay. And, inevitably there are hugs and jokes and sleepy kisses and silly faces and "I love you's" that make up for every. single. one. of those hard moments during the day.

In our four years, two months, and thirteen hours of parenting, we've seen walls covered in Sharpie art, a cellphone plunged to its death in a glass of sweet tea, copious amounts of dish liquid squirted intermittently throughout the house, odd items flushed down the toilet, and a host of other unmentionable things that I'll just leave to your imagination (hint: they usually involve poop). There have been moments where I really and truly thought one of those experiences was going to be the actual, literal end of me. Or at least the sane version of me who can carry on normal conversations and dress myself in the morning.

Those moments test the bounds of the love I have for the little people I brought into the world. But, as it turns out, the bounds of that love have yet to be reached. Pretty sure we've never even come close. It reminds me of how women forget about the pain of giving birth approximately twenty-four hours after doing so and start imagining what their next baby will look like. It's kind of amazing how mamas' hearts work.   

Sometimes, I find myself wondering what's going on in the world outside my house and so I check the news online to see if there's anything I should make myself aware of (such as Y2K or global warming or who Taylor Swift is dating or not dating or writing bitter songs about). I do this hesitantly because there never fails to be some story recounting someone's child being lost or abused or neglected and I find myself unable to think about anything else for the next 2-74 hours. I cannot handle these stories. Cannot. They make me want to burn things down.

I read a story in this vein recently, or I should clarify, I read the title of the article. Not the story, mind you. Just the title. And, I still lay awake at night thinking about the plight of the child in that story. A child the age of my littlest. It makes me want to squeeze both my children breathless and then squeeze them some more. And then maybe a little more for good measure. I find myself whispering into their hair how much I love them. So VERY, heart-breakingly much. And then I kiss their sweet little cheeks until they squirm and wiggle and announce that they seriously need some space. Those stories make me want to wrap my arms around them and never, never let go. Like, ever.

I'm a little undone sometimes by how much I love that crazy boy of mine and that sweet-cheeked baby girl. And I find myself flummoxed by how anyone could do anything BUT love their little ones. I do not understand it. Even when my children are pushing me to the absolute limits of sanity, I still love them more than I have words for. The thought that someone could ever hurt their child or neglect them or do anything but love them is hard to fathom. And yet, it happens in families all the time. What on earth makes the difference between my love for my children and the lack of it that precipitates the suffering of the ones in those news stories? What is it that we have in our family that enables us to love our babies like we do?

Grace.

I love my babies because God loved them (and me) first. He makes me able to love them with this new heart he's given me.

This thought struck me the other day when I was reminded of one of those unbearable stories of a child suffering and I ran to pick up my girl and hug my boy. I found myself flooded with thankfulness that my children were loved. By me, by Matt, by their grandparents, by friends, by our church. They don't have any concept of what it means to be anything other than loved by the people around them.

And this is how I know that we are covered by so much grace.

So, even as I find myself staggering through long days of disobedience and crying babies in the middle of the night and non-stop questions that usually start with "Why?," I'm more than a little confident that there will always be enough grace for me to love these little ones. Even when the toilet overflows with Barbie's summer wardrobe or the curtains get shanghaied into tent duty or the last shred of patience I have is just about to disappear. Even on the darkest days, when it's just all so hard. Even then. There will be enough grace for us. Enough grace for me to love my babies as fiercely as I did the day I first saw their scrunched-up little newborn faces.

And if they ever find themselves asking why I love them, I can tell them why: 
God loved you first. He loved me first. And he teaches us, in his infinite grace, to love each other. 

This is why I love you.

We love because he first loved us. -1 John 4:19