Fake It Til You Make It

I was walking through my favorite South African grocery store (Woolworths for those that care) a few years back for some true necessity.  Because of this domestic emergency, I dragged myself out of the house when all I wanted to do was call it a day at 2pm and go to bed.  And in that shop, my child, who had been making me daydream of torture, because that would be so much more enjoyable than dealing with her, turned on all her fabulous charms and managed to have no less than five strangers come over and tell me how well behaved she was and how sweet she looked.  It was in that maddening moment of wanting to scream at some previously unknown granny-type "Do you know that the Devil incarnates that child and did so no less than ten minutes ago!?!?" The elderly woman gave me a sweet smile as she picked Em up out of the shopping trolley it clicked in my head that sometimes I need to gain a different perspective of my circumstances.  This child, who could beguile strangers with just a sweet-faced wave of her pudgy little hand, who made me properly understand the motivations behind the need for a 'mommy time-out' was really trying to conduct her own special symphony.  Her symphony could sometimes feel like a noise specifically calibrated to drive me to the brink of madness, but in the smile of this stranger, I saw the reminder that her life was actually an artfully orchestrated masterpiece.

I learned long ago that when I get to those areas nearest my breaking point, if I'm not in a public place, I need to get to one.  Not because I'm going to harm my children, but because they are my children, and thus can get people in said public place to remind me, much like the granny in the shopping center, that my children are wonderful, that I always love them, mostly like them, and do in fact want to keep them 100% of the time.

Those facts bring us to the present.  We recently drove a 12 hour road-trip in an incredibly efficient 15 hours.  This had to do with many circumstances but it mostly had to do with the fact that (many) people had to use the toilet (mostly 30 minutes after the last sibling cared for their desperate need) … and wanted to wiggle their toes (on, near, and at someone else)… which all was irritating me (beyond belief!), and therefore I needed a Starbucks intervention, creating yet another stop.  We finally arrived, unloaded kids, laundry baskets of dirty clothes, and a one-year old who decided to start cutting a tooth in this cacophony of madness.

Which brings us to the day-after.  I was running on 4 hours of interrupted sleep with a clingy baby whom I didn't particularly like and by 8am it was clear:  today was an "in public" kind of day.  As I was pushing the shopping cart through the endless aisles of Target with a babe on my back, another in the cart, two fidgeting on the sides, and all that they were doing literally driving me crazy, a thought went through my head: "Where is my sweet old lady to remind me I love these hooligans!?!"

I think I, like so many of my peers, have been fed this lie that motherhood is something it's not... or at least something it isn't all the time.  My third child, no matter the clothes, always tends to look like she stuck her finger in an electrical outlet and simultaneously robbing the entire missionary donation barrel.  No joke.  She is not the picture of a sweet, pristine white-shirt clad child diligently asking for more broccoli please.  She's a mess, mostly emotionally, and always irrational.  Somewhere along the line I was tricked into thinking that the pictures framed and matted in the family home or posted online were true representations of LIFE.  No one tells you about the amount of effort and stress and crying that went into that one singular picture.  Because at the end of it all, no one is coming along side you saying, "this is your best lighting over here," or "hey, your kid's bone structure is more compatible with natural scenery."  We each have to find our way.  And we each have to find our kids.  I have to open my eyes and tune myself in such a way that I play the background music of their lives not to MY tune, MY pitch but to theirs, so that they can be the absolute, very best to perform in the music of their life.

My children recently have started spitting back phrases we've said a thousand times, but I'm suddenly hearing it from the other side.  Phrases like, "I don't need this Mommy, I just want it."  Things I've said over the years in an attempt to help us distinguish between the necessities of life and the wants of the moment and yet, here are my children repeating it back to me when they see a toy that's shinny and sparkly and pink.  I sometimes forget they're watching.  I sometimes forget that my intentionality (or lack thereof) and my generosity makes all the difference.  I forget that my children need to hear me say, while looking into their eyes, that I love them and that my love is not conditional on my mood or my schedule.  I forget that I have to take the time to snuggle with the poky and boney and incredibly wiggly 5 year-old as much as the snuggly and squishy baby-fat-of-a-sleeping-one-year-old.

So I'm standing in Target, trying to process the crunch of Gold Fish cracker under my feet and wonder if it's a moral obligation to find some way of stopping our little parade to pick up the broken orange fish because it was my kid, after-all, who had dropped said cracker while trying to give it to her littlest sister who can't see her but instinctively knows that there are three crinkling bags of wonderfulness that she is missing out on.  I stop the cart, nearly in tears because this zoo of mine can feel very, very large sometimes.  I take three deep breaths, hunt down the wipes and fake my way through a good parenting moment while squatting to redeem my broken, golden prize... Harper, how wonderful of you to share with your little sister!  Great job sharing my girl!  Next time, tell Mommy and I'll make sure to stop so Zora can see you and the cracker you were wanting to give her, okay?  And then, it happens.  A bustling, hurried Target employee blazes past us and stops.  In my head I'm thinking, there's no way we accidentally stole something because we haven't left the building yet (yes, it's happened).  But, bless her heart, she stops and turns to the three kids she sees saying, as if on cue, how precious they are and how well behaved they are and how lucky their mamma is because they are such sweet little things.

Thank you Jesus.  Thank you for reminding me that I'm going to make mistakes, thousands of them.  I'm going to mess these babes up because I'm their mamma and I've got issues.  But thank you that when I'm at the end, cleaning up smashed Gold Fish crackers and trying to 'fake it till I make it' at parenting, that you love my babes through grannies in Woolworths... through Target... through unexpected places... like me.