A letter to my kids....

Dear Caleb, Ellie, William, and Tessa,

Mistakes. I make so many of them. Every single day. Even the things I tell myself I will not do today: looking at my cell phone when I should be doing the “active listening” thing we teach you is so important. Saying no to snuggles or one more book because I’m exhausted …or, let’s be honest, because I want to drink a glass of wine and watch Netflix. Planning a family movie night, but instead making you popcorn and sending you to the basement to watch while I get just one more thing done upstairs. Coming totally unglued over messy rooms, the 5 barely used towels on your bedroom floor, or all the lost things (remember when we finally found THE lost shoe – the one from your favorite pair, the expensive ones? – only to discover that it had been buried for so long in the toy bin downstairs that it was now too small to wear.) Remember when I forgot to take you to the dentist and then you ended up having to have two teeth pulled? (My guilt caused you to get a handsome payout from the tooth fairy.) The milk spills, the crumbs, the grape jelly under the drawer pulls, the melted crayons and the stickers baked onto the inside of the cupholders in the back of the van, the little surprises you leave in the toilets…or on the toilets, or around the toilets, or in places in the bathroom that would most definitely require some manner of gymnastics for it to end up there. The look I gave you when you attempted to pick me one tiny flower, and instead pulled the whole center mound out of my beautifully blooming plant. Oh, if looks could kill, all my people would have wounds the size of ocular laser beams.  I become aware of my wounded mom-ego when I beat myself up about not going on your field trips or to school skating parties, not having a regular lunch date with you, or forgetting to put a note in your homemade mailbox sitting outside your bedroom door (and let’s not get started on the forgetful tooth fairy…). When I don’t have healthy breakfast options available, or when I snooze my alarm way too many times, and then get annoyed when we have a frantic morning.

Oh, goodness. My hope is that our little victories will outweigh some of this mess.  I hope God’s grace covers my shortcomings, and that His promises prove stronger than my doubt. I hope I am teaching you that there is beauty in imperfection. And that someday you will be better because we succeeded and we failed, but we did both together. We wounded, and we healed.  We fell, and we stood back up again.  We took the narrow path, and we changed course when we needed to. I hope I am teaching you to speak the language of kindness, and that you would speak it to others, even without words.

I want to give you the best of me-- that in doing so, we can learn together that a productive life is not measured by to-do lists or calendar-keeping or how many activities we can fit into our week. I hope you remember how much we laugh.  How we dance every day in the kitchen.  How bedtime takes over an hour because of all the chats and snuggles and books and secret telling and soul bearing. How I call you “boo-boo” even in front of your friends, and you hate it, but maybe secretly love it. How I know all of your best friends’ favorite snacks, and keep them stocked in the pantry.  How we limit your screen time, and push back on things like internet use and cell phones and social media – and even though you hate it now, I hope you one day understand that it made you a better human.  How we fight for family dinners, even when we are all going in different directions. How we dare you to find a swear word we haven’t yet heard.  How we promise to answer any honest question you ask us.  How we make you wear pants with a button (gasp!) once a week to church, because it’s important to give God our best.  How we are teaching you the catechism in hopes that God’s word will be hidden in your heart. How we admire rainbows and sunsets and recognize them as evidence of God’s artistry and creativity.  I hope you have fond memories of our family vacations.  I hope you notice how much your Dad and I love and respect each other, how we disagree and we listen, and how we apologize when we hurt each other. I hope you smile when you remember how we smooched in front of you, and how you covered your face and rolled your eyes.  I hope you look back and smile at the way I LOVE birthdays, and how the birthday fairy fills your room with balloons and covers your doorway with streamers after you go to bed on your birthday eve.  How I make you whatever you want for your birthday breakfast, even if it’s chocolate chip cookies and root beer, or powdered donuts with paper umbrellas on top.  How I talk to your teachers every year at conferences and tell them that, as happy as I am that you have good grades, what I really want to know is: Is he being a good human? Is she kind and respectful, and a good friend? That is what matters. I hope you remember that we were stricter than some when it came to consequences (you deemed our house the “house of consequences” and packed your bags multiple times because you’d “rather live alone than have so many rules”, and reminded me that it is “bad parenting to make you eat this healthy food you don’t like”), but that it prepared you for adulting.  I hope you remember how much fun it is to practice generosity together, that we have been given more than we need and enjoy sharing it with others that may not have quite enough. I hope you remember how generous God is to us, no matter what the season. He certainly was generous to your Dad and I when he entrusted us with your four little lives.  

Our family is my dream come true, in ways that you will probably never understand.  It has taught me that sometimes a “no” from God, is actually a “not yet”.  That there is beauty in brokenness, and that sometimes when something is put back together again it is more beautiful and valuable than it was before. Remember how Jesus chose to keep his scars, even after His resurrection?  They are part of His perfection. Because sometimes the break is the beauty.

I am a better me because I am your mom.  
Because my flaws and shortcomings become glaringly obvious when I see them mirrored in you. 
Because I get glimpses of God’s creativity in the unique way he has created you.  
Because when I see the broken parts of my story redeemed in this chapter of my life, that chapter includes you.  
Because I want to be the healthiest and best version of myself for you.  
Because this journey presses me forward and brings me to my knees. 

Mothering you is the scariest and hardest and most important thing I’ve ever done.

I wouldn't trade it for the world. 

Xoxo,

mom