What looking back at a sacrificed career can teach you about your vocation as a wife and mom.
Forget the perfect Pinterest project, by the time you change every diaper that needs changing, feed the starving animals you call your children, put the cushions back on the couch for the thousandth time, toss every LEGO block back in the bin, feed those children again, teach them their letters, feed them again, brush their teeth, tuck them in bed, tell them to get back in bed – you don’t have the energy left to stay awake until a reasonable adult bedtime, so you’re passed out in your spit-up-covered jeans on top of the bedspread at 7:59.
One of those days where nothing is really going bad, but nothing is going the way I want it to either. This day has left me feeling down. Not angry or frustrated, but unfocused, unmotivated, dissatisfied.
Sometimes I feel like quitting. It’s too hard to pray before bedtime; it’s much easier to turn on Netflix. It’s easier to press like on the latest post begging for donations to send to Haiti; it’s a lot harder to budget the money to send.too hard to speak up about controversial topics, I’d much rather just mind my own business. It’s more socially acceptable to laugh along with the gossip than to interject some blatantly kind words, or suddenly change the subject. Many times, every day, and every week, I am faced with the choice: follow Jesus, or turn away.
Today I snapped. It was the last straw. My son defied me, disobeyed me, one time too many. I could hear my mind screaming, “What punishment can I think of that will make him so miserable he will never want to act like this again?” It’s times like this that I need to step back, take a break, and work hard to be gentle and loving in my parenting.
Prepare your heart for Jesus’ coming on Christmas. This post contains Amazon Affiliate links. If you buy through these links, I make a small percentage at no extra cost to you.
I could barely see his wide eyes through the gap between his hat and scarf. They had a look that pleaded, “Please, can we get back in the car?” My three year old was bundled with so many layers he could hardly move.
No, he couldn’t move at all. Because even with all those layers, he was frozen in place.
I scooped him up and trotted to catch up with my husband. He carried the one year old who had snot covering her from her nose down to the collar of her jacket.