Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Messily, Gratefully, Mama

Today, the bags under my eyes could have their own postal code.  Pascal was awake so much last night. Kachi was up coughing and sneezing. Vava had a bad dream. And Sam needed a cuddle. That all added up to me getting less than three hours of sleep by the time our morning alarm rang. 

And because I am no longer in my first bloom of youth, three hours of sleep does not quite equate to a coherent mama.

This was one of those mornings where Patrick cemented his rock star status by sending me back to bed (I really wasn't functional) and staying home to get the big kids ready for school and onto the bus before going to work. (Two extra hours! God bless that man!)

Kachi spent the rest of the morning playing by himself, while I dozed off and on, feeding Pascal. 

I am not worrying about the toys all over my living room floor or the furniture we pulled out to make a fort. I am ignoring the mountain of unsorted toys and clothes that need to make their way into dressers or donation bins. I am just fine wearing my hoodie and cut-off stretch pants and will probably stay in them all day.

Because no matter what supermoms tell us and no matter what post-partum magic celebrities use, the hard work of bringing a baby into this world lasts much longer than a contraction.  True labour does not end in the delivery room.  No.  That's where it begins.  

The other day I texted my sister that I was embarrassed because I opened the door to receive a friend who came with presents and food, and I was wearing my spit-uppy pjs, my carpet needed a vacuuming, and Kachi was running around in a diaper.

And my sister (with her own quick wisdom) pointed out that it shouldn't be embarrassing to have a life where I'm able to stay home and cuddle my baby, stay in my jams, and have a relaxed morning with my toddler while a friend thinks of me and brings me gifts. This is something to be grateful for. 

She is, of course, beautifully right.

Because God just keeps teaching me this, over and over, that gratitude isn't a matter of perfection, but perspective.

From the world's baggiest eyes, and a pretty lucky mama,


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