Have kids, they said.
It’ll be fun, they said.
Well, and it was.
Is.
Amazing. Life-changing.
Delightful and challenging and beautiful and messy and it’ll bring you right to your knees and right straight to the throne of God.
And yes, it’s fun.
Well, not the actual birthing of them. That just hurt. A lot.
And yes, I know that they say that you forget the pain. At least a lot of mothers-who-had-already-delivered told me this before I delivered my first. I can’t say the same. And yes, I really do remember. And yes, it really did hurt.
But after that, it was fun.
Well, okay, not the I-am-so-sleep-deprived-that-I-forgot-to-brush-my-teeth-today days. Or the I’m-so-busy-I-don’t-even-have-time-to-shower-and-don’t-you-dare-even-ask-what’s-for-dinner days.
But pretty much the rest was.
Still, you know, it’s all fun and games until the BIG DAY comes.
The day when your entire universe is just yanked out from under you, but you’re somehow still standing, like the plates and glasses and silver are when someone yanks the tablecloth right out from under them.
~
The thing is, it’s only been a couple of decades since I delivered him.
Really. Only twenty-plus-a-couple years since he first drew his own oxygen into his lungs.
Only a score, give or take, since he’s been here on the planet on his own, so to speak.
Is that really enough time to prepare for his really really being out on his own?
Deep breath. Trust. Eyes on Jesus and pray that you’ll be able to get through this like you got through the first day you dropped him off at daycare or kindergarten or camp, and you know you will. Because this is what mothers have been doing since the beginning of time – letting go.
Yeah. So. Motherhood.
Whatever.
It’s a great apartment, he says. Fair price. Good neighborhood. He shows me the low crime statistics, shows them off like they’re gonna make me think he’s better off, off somewhere where I can’t protect. Like Google’s street view of the nice neighborhood is gonna make me want to go through another painful delivery.
I’m excited for you, I say. It looks like a great place, I say. I’ll buy you curtains, I say.
But what I really want to say is don’t go. It’s too soon. You’re not ready.
Or I’m not.Sometimes love means letting go when you want to hold on tighter.
It can be hard to tell which it is when you still feel like he’s only hours old.
Deep breath.
Trust.
Eyes on Jesus and pray that you don’t cry too much when you do the right thing and let go, and you know you will.
Because this is what mothers have done since the beginning of time.
Let go and pray God’ll let you borrow some of His strength, loan it out to you like the library did with those books that you keep forgetting to return.
Let go.
Because it’s the right thing to do. Because, really, it’s the only thing to do.
Because you know God knows. Sees. Understands. Is right there with you.
Emmanuel: God-with-us.
Because you know He’ll loan you enough strength, with unlimited renewals to boot.
So I do what mothers have been doing since the beginning of time. Or at least I start the process of it.
I tell this baby who’s looking a lot like a man these days that I’d love to see this place. I say I’m excited for you. I say it looks like a great place.
~
I’m fairly sure this is going to be another painful birth.
But maybe, after the delivery, it’ll also be sorta fun?
I guess I’m going curtain shopping.
~xo,
LuAnne
