but i peed in a diaper, and that has to count for something

We should have left five minutes ago. Hopefully traffic won’t be bad. 

“Hurry up,” I call out to the kids. “You don’t need coats. You won’t even get out of the car.”

“Milo doesn’t have shoes on,” Charlotte points out as I hunt for my purse and keys. 

“That’s fine. He’s not gettin’ outta the car either! But hurry, we gotta go!”

“It’s snowing!” I hear all three children yell as they shuffle out to the van parked in the driveway—a driveway that just fifteen minutes ago was black pavement but is now dusted with fat, icy flakes. 

Snow? I didn’t know it was going to snow. Oof. Now we’ll definitely be late.

We have twenty minutes to drive to the Hamilton County Job and Family Services office where our one-year-old foster daughter has weekly visits with her mother. We’ve made this trip many times for her visits, and on a sunny day without traffic it is a twenty-three minute commute, but the roads in our neighborhood are just slick enough that I can’t take my hands off the wheel to fiddle with my phone for the updated estimated time of arrival. I know it will be past 4:00. 

My brain searches for alternative options. It will take at least an hour of white knuckles to get us to downtown Cincinnati, but as the van slides along, maxing out at 10 mph, I know there are no other options. These aren’t plans I can cancel. We are new to the foster parent world, but I’m pretty sure it goes against protocol to ask the caseworker to take our foster daughter home with him for the night and offer to pick her up once the roads are clear. 

Nevertheless, I call the caseworker to give him the heads up that we’ll be late, secretly hoping he’ll have a genius plan B that involves me turning this Honda Odyssey around and heading back home. 

“Like, how late do you think you’ll be?” he asks. 

Words frantically fall out of my mouth. “I’m guessing it will be another hour. I`m so sorry. The roads are terrible, and it’s bumper-to-bumper traffic. I didn't even know it was going to snow today.” Please offer to drive her to my house. Please offer to take her home. Please have a plan B. 

“OK…well, be safe, and call me when you get here.” He hangs up.

Alright. I guess we’re doing this. I stare at a minefield of red tail lights in front of me and want to cry, but instead, I start doing what I always do in moments of panic—an incessant amount of rambling self-talk in hopes that my rational words might convince everyone, primarily myself, that indeed it is true—we will be OK. 

“OK. This is OK. We’re going to be OK.” Has anyone ever strung those two letters together so many times in a row? “We have gas. Almost a full tank, in fact. Thank you, Lord. I have my phone. I have a charger. I should plug that in.” A smile forces its way across my face as I peek into the rearview mirror. Surely the three kids know I'm faking it. Please don’t call my bluff.

My rambling continues as I detail the items we are missing. Coats for one thing, but we have blankets and heat. Milo has no shoes, but the three-year-old probably won’t be doing much walking. Shoot. I didn’t have him—or anyone— use the bathroom before we left. He will likely wet his pants, but that’s manageable. 

But while on the subject of going to the bathroom, I need to pee. Getting off on an exit to find a gas station will add an hour to the trip. I can hold it. I think. The lane lines have disappeared and the highway feels like a giant game of tetris. Google Maps shows nothing but red lines, and the travel time is increasing as we sit motionless for long stretches before creeping a few feet at a time. I remind my shoulders to lower back into place, and decide I should call my husband. 

After explaining the panic of my current situation to Stephen—in a contrived calm voice so my children think I’m adventurous—we are left at a stalemate. There really is no solution but to keep going. Speaking of going, I really do need to go to the bathroom. Soon. 

“You can do this, Joy,” Stephen tells me. “Just take it slow. You’ll get there when you get there. And try to have fun.”

Have fun. That is such a Stephen thing to say. I dream of being the type of person who could laugh at this situation and have fun. 

“Can we play music?” Andrew yells from the back. 

Play music? Are you kidding me? I need to concentrate. I need to plan how to handle my rapidly filling bladder. Stephen would play music, probably Hamilton. He’d be rapping and dancing and assigning each child a different part of My Shot to memorize. But I don't want music. I want to keep rambling my pep-talks and prayers. 

Stephen calls back a few minutes later. “I found a hotel near the Child and Family Services building. You can check in there for the night or at least for a few hours before driving back home. I explained the situation; they know you’ll be alone with 4 coatless children.” 

Exhale. Bless him. 

But I still don’t want to play music. And I still need to pee. Bad. I read an essay once about a mom peeing in a diaper, and I remember thinking that it wouldn't be so bad if the situation was dire. This was definitely feeling dire.

“What are you doing?” my oldest asks as I swing my hand behind me and reach into the seatback pocket for a diaper.

“I’m not totally sure, but I think I’m going to try and pee in this diaper.” They are stunned, not sure whether to laugh or scream with disgust. 

I unbuckle my seatbelt and finagle the diaper into place, a more difficult task than I imagined. The stopped traffic is working in my favor because I now have both hands off the wheel—one stuffing the diaper into the front of my pants and the other pulling from the back. My right foot presses down tightly on the brake pedal as I lift my booty off the seat so I can fully spread out the diaper. Maximum absorption will be necessary. I keep my eyes forward, hoping the cars next to me are so focused on the snowy road they stay oblivious to the fact that a grown woman in the next car has her hands down her pants. 

“Are you doing it? Are you peeing?” The children squeal with delight and disbelief. 

“Not yet. But stop yelling. I can’t pee if you are screaming!” A disagreement breaks out as to whether or not I am being serious, and I too begin to doubt my plan. Will I actually be able to go? How much liquid can a diaper hold? What if I miss or overflow and end up sitting in a puddle of my own urine for the next couple hours?

“I need everyone to be quiet. Here, I’ll turn on some music, but I need to pee in peace.” I spend the next thirty seconds willing myself to go, commanding my body to relax. I know my children are on the edge of their seats, waiting for an update. 

My bladder lets out a drop but immediately stops before I tell it to, as if it’s testing the waters to see if this is really allowed. Another drop. And another, until the floodgates are opened with no ability to stop. If forced to give a percentage, I’d say 80% ends up in the diaper. It was a good day to wear black jeans. 

“I did it,’ I announce as I wiggle a bloated diaper out of my pants. 

The backseat is filled with commentary. “You did it? She did it! Did you really do it? No way! That’s so gross. That’s so cool. Let me see the diaper! I want to pee in a diaper! Can I try?’

I can’t help but smile. I might not be the parent who plays car games in a blizzard, but I peed in a diaper, and that has to count for something. 

*****

It is 6:30 when we pull up to the back door of the Child and Family Services building, nearly three hours since we left home. The Hamilton soundtrack is playing at a sensible volume and a bulging diaper is rolled up and tossed on the passenger side floor. 

The caseworker hands me our foster daughter—please don’t take away our foster license—and leaves me on the deserted street, snow still falling. We drive the half mile down the road and find the hotel parking garage. If anyone comments on my coatless children or shoeless toddler, I don't hear them. I am laser focused on getting the five of us into that hotel room, a haven to regroup and plan the next step. The Disney Channel takes over childcare while I turn my attention to dinner. The first three pizza places I call cannot deliver because their workers haven’t shown up. 

“Roads are pretty bad out there,” one man says to me over the phone. I spare him the details of my last three hours and call the next pizza place.

“One medium cheese pizza. Is that all?” the man asks me. 

One pizza. No drinks. No desserts. No garlic knots. Stephen would definitely order garlic knots. But I am too anxious to eat. My mind is telling my body to relax, to celebrate, to order a 2 liter of Pepsi for goodness sake—but my body knows better. The night is far from over, and I can’t have too much fun unless I know the plan for the rest of this night. 

“Yep. That’s all.”

“We’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

I end the call and close the bathroom door. I take a deep breath, thankful to have made it safely to the hotel, but also wishing I could be more fun tonight. I am scared, flustered, and solely focused on the next step, but I want to be the parent who makes fun out of a mess rather than the one who panic-prays, pep-talks herself to death, and only orders one pizza. Maybe I should call back to order the garlic knots. Maybe I should jump into the bed and watch some tv with the. kids. That doesn’t feel like my style, but I want my kids to remember this night as a crazy adventure rather than a night with their crazy mom. 

*****

It is close to midnight when we pull the van safely back into our driveway. 

“You only ordered one pizza?” Stephen asks as I recount the details of our night after changing my pants.  “Oh babe, that’s so cute.”

“It’s not cute. It’s lame.” 

“What matters is that you’re all safe. And I bet the kids had a great night.” he tells me.

I want to believe it. 

******

Months later, long after the snow has melted and the summer has come and gone, we are driving to school, the oldest two in the far back, the toddler in his carseat, and a new foster baby buckled in behind me.

“Do you remember that time we got to stay in the hotel and eat pizza because it was snowing so bad?” Andrew calls out.

“Oh yeah! And we got to watch Property Brothers!”

“And mom peed in her pants!”

“Correction!’ I announce. “It wasn’t in my pants. It was in a diaper. (Long pause.) Most of it.” They erupt into laughter.

“That was the best night ever.”

“Yeah. I hope we can do that again sometime.”

This Might Be A Really Big Mistake

“My name is Angie, and foster care is my jam.” I didn’t hear the next few minutes of our training course because I was so shocked that our trainer just introduced herself in this way. Foster care was her jam? I couldn’t imagine describing myself like that. Would it become my jam? Did I want that? 

Angie conducted most of her training sessions through storytelling. A social worker and mother to four adopted boys, she’d lived in the trenches of the child welfare system for nearly twenty years and had a story for every bullet point in the training manual. She talked about laminated signs, safety mantras, and floor plans with exit routes. She talked about a basket of snacks on the counter and never forcing foster children to eat “healthy, organic” food. She talked about birth fathers showing up at football games and the time she cried on the floor of her closet when it was all too much. And then she talked about not allowing anyone in someone else's bed. 

Immediately the image of my children curled up in our big bed reading books together flashed into my mind. “Like we can’t read books together in our bed?” I whispered to Stephen. 

He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes, glossing over her statement as more of a suggestion than a rule. 

Before I regained my footing from that “suggestion,” she went on to tell us it was a rule in her house that no one shared a blanket. If they watched a movie together, each person had their own blanket and all hands were kept on top of the blankets. I puffed out an audible breath and zoned out for the rest of the class, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach and Angie’s insinuation. 

“I don’t know if we should do this anymore,” I said to Stephen after we got home that night. 

“Why? Because of the blanket thing?” 

“Kind of,” was all I could say. The blanket thing might be trite, but it had really knocked me off course. 

I walked down the hallway to the threshold of Charlotte’s room. Her sleeping five-year-old body takes up a fraction of the giant bed in her room that doubles as a guest bed when family and friends come to visit. It is also the perfect bed for our family, just the right size for all of us to read books and cuddle. And goodness knows we’ve done a fair share of tickling in that bed. Angie never mentioned tickling, but I had a hunch tickling foster children was frowned upon. 

I peeked into Andrew’s room; his toddler bed crammed with cars and stuffed animals. Stepping over a fire truck, I walked to the edge of his bed. His Paw Patrol blanket was carefully spread out across his 3-year-old body, covering the entire bed and sweeping down onto the floor. It was the largest blanket in the house, the one we all fit under. I was annoyed and sad at the same time as I imagined myself telling my preschool son, “Make sure your hands are out where I can see them.” I leaned down to kiss his cheek and wondered how I’d answer him when he asked why.

The vague mental image of foster care was taking shape, and I felt my strength give way. I suddenly felt ill-equipped and unqualified for such an intense role. Will my children be ok? Will our marriage be ok? Will our home still feel like a place of rest? What did we get ourselves into? 

This might be a really big mistake. 

*****

Head on over to Coffee + Crumbs to read the full essay.

P.S. Coffee + Crumbs is my most favorite place for all things motherhood and creativity. 

she made it

I waddle across the sterile room and lower my eight-month pregnant self onto the edge of my dad’s hospital bed. Four days earlier, my mom found him on their bedroom floor, paralyzed and speechless from a massive stroke. He has made no progress since.

I lift his hand and tuck it between mine. “Stephen and I are going to drive back to Ohio tonight, Dad.” He nods in agreement.

“It’s probably best if I have this baby there rather than here in Chicago, yes?” It’s a weak attempt at a joke, anything to bring air into a room that was otherwise holding its breath as we waited for the next doctor’s opinion. Dad smiles with half his face while the other half folds and droops.

“It certainly isn’t going to go the way we planned,” I say to him. “But I’ll bring your grandbaby to Chicago as soon as I can. You get better so you can hold this baby.” It is a ridiculous thing to say. You get better. As though it were up to him.

As Stephen and I make the five-hour drive back from Chicago that night, I try to imagine how the next month will play out. Our first baby is due in three weeks, and the vision I have spent years creating is crumbling. I imagined my mom and dad sitting in the waiting room, nervously anticipating the news. I imagined Stephen dressed in hospital coveralls, just like in the movies, bursting into that waiting room to announce the arrival of a healthy baby. I imagined them cradling their new grandbaby, and then sticking around for the next week to help wash clothes, cook meals, and hold a baby when I needed to sleep.

It is clear to me now that none of this will happen.

I don’t know where Dad will be in a month. In the hospital? In rehab? Maybe home? But I am certain he will not be in my hospital recovery room holding his grandbaby.

And as for my mom, I don’t worry much about where she will be when I have this baby. Surely she will be there with me. Moms don’t miss that kind of thing.

*****

As my due date approaches, my mom says we will play it by ear. She will do her best to get to Ohio, but it will be hard to leave Dad as long as he is in a full-time rehabilitation facility; it will be impossible if he is released to come home.

The week passes.

My due date passes.

Six more days pass.

The next morning, my mom calls as we are getting ready for church; she says she will not be coming to Ohio. Dad has been cleared to come home in a few days.

“I have so much to do to get the house ready for him,” Mom explains. Her voice breaks like she is struggling to get out each word. “Some men from church are coming over tomorrow to move the furniture. I need to find someone to install more railings, and the physical therapist needs to teach me how to help Dad bathe and climb stairs. Oh Joy, I cannot imagine how he is going to climb these stairs.” I hear the panic in her voice.

I say I understand. I say it is the best decision, and I will be ok.

It isn’t exactly a lie. I do understand. It is probably the best decision. And I will be ok. But I still hate the whole mess. Our first baby is about to be born, and we will have no family at the hospital. No family.

I finish getting ready and quietly cry as we drive to church. This damn stroke messed it all up. How did this happen? Doesn’t everyone have family come to the hospital when a baby is born?

*****

Twenty-four hours later, my water breaks. As Stephen tosses bags into the car, I call my mom hoping she might change her mind and come. She doesn’t say either way, but on the drive to the hospital when I call again, she is packing her bag.

I imagine her, alone in her room with two Vera Bradly weekender bags open on her bed. No doubt she is talking out loud, volleying between her packing checklist and prayer. Nothing about this is easy; anxiety and unknowns are stacked against her. Dad has always been the driver, not because Mom couldn’t or wouldn’t, but because when the family goes somewhere, Dad drives. Driving five hours in a car by yourself when your husband is in rehab and your daughter is in labor is bound to rattle anyone. But she is coming anyways.

Mom arrives at the hospital just after 4:00 that afternoon. Charlotte is born just after 4:35.

She made it. Our family was there.

*****

Mom sits in the delivery room as I nurse Charlotte for the first time, and she calls Dad so I can tell him about his granddaughter. She follows behind me as the nurse rolls me to the recovery room, and she takes my picture as I bite into a glorious Jimmy John’s Turkey Tom sub.

In true mom fashion, she comes bearing gifts. She pulls a dozen baby girl ensembles from a bag and even comes with gifts for me: books, lip gloss, a killer orange leather purse, and a hair dryer she claims will change my life. She listens to the fresh details of the day as she holds Charlotte, and she meets our friends as they invade the hospital room with all things pink.

Mom leaves the next day, arriving back to their home of 28 years which has now been transformed to be handicap accessible. Dad is released from rehab two days later and comes home to relearn his life. Mom is now a full-time caregiver for her husband, a man who talked her ear off for the past forty years but can now only utter strange sounds. Her life is a constant whirlwind of physical therapy, speech therapy, doctor appointments, and administering prescription medicine at just the right hour of day and night.

I think about my mom often during those early weeks of motherhood. Our day-to-day motions bear such a tiny resemblance to the lives we knew a month ago. We both care for someone at all hours of the day and night, stepping up when everything in us wants to sleep or cry or quit. Our love is pushed to its limits as someone else’s needs soar above our own. We both question God, “Am I really the best one for this job? I don’t think I can do it much longer.” Meals show up at both our doorsteps each day around 5:00. Cards flood both our mailboxes, and we both know people all over the country are praying for us as we adjust to a new normal.

But I can’t shake the guilt that even when I want to kick, scream, and whine about my new normal, I am also flooded with joy. I asked for this child, prayed for this child, and for every moment I am exhausted, there are two other moments I am smiling. I think about the future with excitement. What is in store for this child and our life together?

But not Mom. When she wants to kick, scream, and whine about her new normal, she is flooded with fear. She never asked for this stroke to paralyze dad’s body and steal his speech. She is exhausted and scared, and although she never says it, she must be mad. What about her future? What is in store for dad and their life together?

*****

I waddle across Charlotte’s bedroom floor and lower my three-weeks postpartum self into the La-Z Boy recliner. A suitcase lies open on the floor, overflowing with enough outfits for a month-long getaway even though we’ll only be gone for a weekend. I pull Charlotte close and position the Boppy as she begins to nurse.

“Well, girl. You up for your first road trip?” I whisper. “This isn’t how we planned it, but I promised your Pop Pop I’d bring you to Chicago so he can hold you."

The next morning, we make the five-hour drive; Dad is waiting in his wheelchair. We carefully place his swaddled up granddaughter in the crook of his left elbow and snap pictures as he smiles with only half his face. The day is beautiful and heartbreaking, and by 8:00 that night, we’re sitting silently in the living, too tired to speak. 

“Well, I need to get Dad ready for bed,” Mom says as she unlocks his wheelchair and lifts his feet onto the footplates. She turns him toward the hallway. “That was a big day for you, wasn’t it hun? I bet you’re exhausted.”

I catch myself before echoing her exact words to Charlotte. Instead, I lift Charlotte from the blanket on the floor and walk behind Dad’s wheelchair as we all head toward the stairs.

“You go first,” Mom says to me. “It still takes us awhile to do this.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“Nah. We’re getting the hang of it.”

I walk up the fifteen steps to the second floor. I know it is fifteen steps because I’ve counted them, dozens of times. When you’re a kid, strange things like how many steps are in your house matter, so you count and recount and ask your parents questions like if the last step up to the landing counts as an actual step. My old blue bedroom is now the guest room, still with my Kristen and Molly American Girl dolls displayed on a shelf.

Everything about this home is familiar, but nothing feels the same. I now have a daughter lying on the bed in front of me, and I can hear my mom’s voice coaching Dad with each shaky step. She reminds him which foot to lift first and where to place his hand on the railing. She counts down the stairs as they approach the landing. “Only four more to go. Three...two...one. We did it.” I hear them exhale in unison, a sound of both exhaustion and triumph.

Mom pokes her head into my room as she walks by. “Goodnight, sweet Charlotte. Thanks for coming all this way to visit your Grammy and Pop Pop. And goodnight, Joy. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.” She lifts her gaze away from her granddaughter to meet my eyes. Grief and joy hang heavy in the air between us, and we both know this isn’t how we thought it would be.

“Thanks, Mom. You too.”

---

This essay was originally published by Kindred Mom.

i'm done being a hot mess

*Author’s Note*

I started this essay in January, before life came to a shattering halt. It feels strange putting my words out into the world right now, as if any trivial offering I bring to the table can stand up to a pandemic. My mental energy is maxed out, and I need a pep talk every hour, on the hour to get through these days. I don't want to read anymore tips for “homeschooling” or lists of easy-to-assemble busy bags for my toddler. I don’t want to see any more color-coded schedules to organize my day, and I really need to take a break from opening my news app. Maybe you feel the same. So this is my offering—an essay written in January, when the new year was unfolding, feeling fresh and hopeful. The year doesn’t feel so fresh and hopeful anymore. But maybe, this essay, this mantra, that came to me so clearly two months ago was meant for right now. 

When I was preparing for our first baby, the message of motherhood that came alongside each receiving blanket, burp rag, and precious little onesie was clear: get ready to be a mess. All. The. Time. And since we’re women, let’s say “hot mess” because that sounds sexier. But either way, you will be exhausted, overwhelmed, unshowered, and barely getting by for the next eighteen years. Welcome to motherhood. 

I was 35 weeks pregnant, and sitting in our quiet condo on a summer morning. Stephen was at work, and I had a few more weeks until the school year started up again. This doom-heavy message of motherhood wasn’t sitting well with me; I took out my journal and began asking the Lord all the questions that weighed on my heart. 

Does it have to be exhausting, Lord—like always exhausting? Is it true that I won’t ever sleep again? That’s just part of it, huh? What about the overwhelming stress? Is this the life all moms are destined for or is it possible to be a mom who isn’t frazzled and tired and frustrated? Can I ask for motherhood to be enjoyable and energizing? Can I ask for my children to sleep through the night and take naps or is that taking the easy way out?

For the past seven years, that journal entry kept rolling around in my unshowered head. 

Every time another #hotmessmom meme came across my feed, I could relate. The messy bun, stained clothing, and crying children all drowning in a pile of laundry and Goldfish crackers. I would laugh, comforted by the solidarity, and little by little that mantra became my life. 

*****

I’ve noticed two extremes in motherhood. 

One side of the pendulum is constantly judging. These are the glaring eyes and pursed lips shot my way when my child throws his beanbag at another child during storytime. This is the shocked grandmother in the grocery story who wants to know why my toddler isn’t wearing a hat in such cold weather. This is the embarrassment that silences me in conversations about organic versus non-organic food when my budget is stretched as thin as it can go. This voice tells me I’m not doing enough. I hate that voice. 

But travel far enough the opposite direction, and I’ll meet the other extreme, the voice that says moms are a mess, kids are a mess, and motherhood is a shitshow to survive—“but hang in there, mama, because you’re doing great!” (Really? This is what great looks like?) This is a well-intended voice, pushing against the expectation of perfection, but simultaneously landing moms in a pile of helplessness. 

It is clear to me how both extremes of this pendulum are toxic. I don’t want to be held to that standard of perfection, but I also don’t want to sink down to a level that tells me it’s ok to shower once a week, explode at my children when they can't find their shoes, and shovel back the discarded scraps of their lunch for my midday sustenance. I want the bar to be above surviving, and I don’t want “hot mess mama” to be my final grade. 

Last fall, an unsettling cloud began pressing down on me. Something wasn’t right; I felt like motherhood just wasn’t how it was meant to be. My first response was failure. If motherhood wasn’t on track, obviously it meant I was doing something wrong that needed to be changed. Immediately I began brainstorming new routines and systems that might “fix” motherhood. After all, new routines and systems are my favorite solution to all problems.

But as soon as those color-coded charts and checklists started dancing through my mind, I knew that wasn’t what I needed. Doing something differently wasn’t going to be my answer. I’d already tried that. Instead, I needed to change my thinking—to uncover the lies about motherhood that slowed me down and stole my joy.  

I knew the answer; it was the lie that began creeping in before I even held my first baby. The lie that told me the only way to do motherhood is to be a mess—a barely-getting-by, caffeine-consuming, chaotic, hot mess. 

*****

We left our kids and husbands at home for the sake of girl talk and Taco Tuesday. I'm not sure which one we needed more. By the time the waiter brought our third basket of chips, the conversation turned down the path it often goes when moms are together—the challenge and exhaustion of motherhood. The conversation volleyed between who had the most laundry to catch up on and whose clothing was covered in the most spit up. We one-upped each other with stories of puke and picky eaters, competing as if a prize would be handed out for whose kid is the worst sleeper. 

I noticed one of my friends laughing along but not really contributing. 

“Do you think it’s normal not to feel like a mess all the time?” She turned her voice down to a whisper like she was about to confess a secret porn addiction. “I feel uncomfortable even saying this out loud, but I really like being a mom. And sometimes it’s hard to relate to moms who always complain about being a mess.” She spoke these foreign words with a sense of guilt, even wincing as if the rest of us might pour salsa on her head before throwing her out of the restaurant and banning her from all future Taco Tuesday girl nights. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a mom say that out loud before,” I responded. It was both foreign and refreshing. But why not? I thought. Why don’t we ever say that we like being moms? And why are we always complaining about being a mess? 

Driving home from dinner, I thought about my pathetic contributions to the conversation earlier in the night. At one point, I had bragged about my children eating mac-n-cheese two days in a row (which happened once), and I got some good laughs when I talked about our baseboards that hadn’t been cleaned since we moved into that house in 2016 (which wasn’t even true). I had mentioned a doozy of a toddler tantrum (but purposely left out the part where I talked my son through his meltdown and came out on the other side with apologies and forgiveness). 

Why didn’t I talk about the good? Why did I undersell myself? And why did that feel so normal?

*****

The messages I whispered to myself those first seven years ultimately sank deep into my mind and heart and took up residency. My pattern of nodding along to the frustrations and insanity of motherhood grew roots and even the jokes meant to unite mothers in laughter and solidarity took off their shoes and overstayed their welcome. That message was funny for a while, and maybe I even needed it. I needed to know perfection wasn’t the standard. I needed to know that other moms felt the struggle that I was feeling. 

But I am ready for a new message—one that tells me I’m capable of doing this well. 

A hot mess day doesn’t mean I’m a hot mess mom. I don’t survive on coffee and wine. I'm not constantly undone by tantrums and busy days. I’m not fragile or hysterical or stuck in a never-ending game of Whack-A-Mole. I can balance the mental load of motherhood and homemaking. I can think ahead. I can plan and juggle and delegate and decide because this is hard, but not impossible. I am not a hot mess mom. I am capable, creative, organized, flexible, and competent. 

And that is my new battle cry.

(Do you think I can make that a trending hashtag?)

---

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "All Things New".

but seriously, Mary, did you know?

"...the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn..."  (Luke 2:6-7)

"the time came....and she gave birth..."

Are you kidding me? That's it. That's all you're gonna give me, God?

I guess that's how the Dad tells a birth story.

*****

I have so many questions regarding the details of this birth, my head could explode. I'm a mom; I love a good birth story. The past ten years of my life have been a continual stream of babies, and I never tire of hearing all the details of the glorious day. I want to know about the first contraction and the bickering between husband and wife about whether or not to call the doctor. I find great solidarity in hearing all the crazy things moms say and do when labor pain is all-consuming. I want to know all the details: what time you left for the hospital, how was the drive, and what time did you get there? Could you walk in or was there a wheelchair waiting? On a scale of 1-10, how was your pain level at this point? And please, please, please, tell me all about those first moments when you held your baby to your chest.

You can see why Luke's account is somewhat disappointing to me. Isn't he the doctor of the gospel writers? And all he's going to give me is "the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth." Grrrrr.

What about Joseph? What was he doing the whole time? Surely he was pretty freaked out.  After all, he was a first time dad coaching Mary through labor, and no doubt the watching eyes of horses and cows only added to the absurdity of it all. I wonder if they had a good sense of humor about it. Was there a moment during delivery that Mary made eye contact with a sheep and thought to herself, "You've got to be kidding me."

As I continue reading in Luke, I am left unsatisfied again by the lack of detail given to Jesus' childhood, and specifically Mary's unfathomable journey of raising the Son of God. Although she was given the heads up by the angel, Gabriel, I can't imagine their brief encounter prepared her for mothering the Savior of the world.

"You will be with child...He will be great..." (Luke 1:31-32)

But Mary, did you know that by "great," Gabriel meant perfect? A perfect baby, a perfect toddler, a perfect teenager. On the surface this sounds amazing, but how does a sinful mother go about teaching and training the great I AM, especially in a household of fully human siblings? I wonder about the guilt and frustration Mary must have felt when she kept falling short, time and time again, but her little guy kept getting it right. Every. Time.

"...and will be called the Son of the Most High." (Luke 1:32)

But Mary, did you know he will also be called worse - much, much worse? This title, Son of the Most High, will upset a lot of people, and that sweet little baby you're holding will grow to be rejected and hated. People will be talking about him behind his back, plotting ways to make him look like a fool. Plotting how to kill him. You'll have to really control those Mama Bear instincts. It seems you believed in his divinity with such ease, but that won't be the case for many. Your Jesus, the Son of the Most High, will infuriate the world for generations.

"The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end." (Luke 1:32-33)

But Mary, did you know this isn't going to play out the way you think, the way you hope? You will not see this reign, this kingdom in your lifetime. You will see glimpses, but there will be no throne this time around. You will be confused, wondering when your Jesus will stop turning the other cheek and establish the justice and righteousness Isaiah foretold so many years ago.  Words like "of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end" (Isaiah 9:7) will baffle you because you will not see his government nor will peace reign. And just when you think it's time, just when you think your son is about to unleash his power and take his place as King, he will instead ask you, "Dear woman, why do you involve me? My time has not yet come." (John 2:4). I imagine that wasn’t the first time he had said that to you. Seriously Mary, from one mother to another, did you want to smack some sense into him? You must have at least rolled your eyes. 

After Jesus was born, you and Joseph brought him to the Temple to be presented to the Lord. Upon your arrival, Simeon, "a righteous and devout" man, took the baby in his arms, praising the Lord and declaring,

"'For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared  in the sight of all people,a light for revelation to the Gentile and for glory to you people Israel.'

The child's father and mother marveled at what was said about him.” (Luke 2:30-33)

Well, yeah. Obviously. Oh Mary, you must have been bursting with pride. My heart puffs up when someone says my baby is cute, but salvation? A light for revelation? I can't imagine.

But Mary, did you know Simeon's words would quickly take a turn for the worst.

"This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too." (Luke 2:34-35)

Oh Mary. Did you know?

How could you? How could you ever anticipate all that would unfold over the next 33 years?

For years the lack of detail in the Bible led me, perhaps falsely so, to conclude that your faith was unwavering. I never questioned your ability to be the mom to the Savior of World. I never wondered about the details of the birth itself, and I never imagined the frustration of raising a child who came to save the world, but kept wandering around with 12 lowly men instead. I never considered the absurdity of trusting your child to know best, and I never thought about the fear of watching Jesus’ destiny play out. 

But Mary, then I became a mom and learned the truth: no woman gets through motherhood without battling the uncertainties of her children's future. The most godly moms have prayed “Your will be done, Lord...but here are a few suggestions.” The most confident moms fear they are doing it all wrong, surely scaring their children for life. The most gentle moms are ready to body slam anyone who causes their child pain, and even the most faithful moms lie awake some nights wondering how it will all turn out. Will this little one be ok? Will the world be kind? Will the world see the greatness I see?

I've got to believe you weren't much different. But boy oh boy, do I have some questions for you.

Seriously Mary, did you know?

---

This essay was originally published by Mothers Always Write.