A Letter to Myself In 10 Years

Dear Self 10 years from now,

In the event that you start getting nostalgic and miss the years when the kids were running around like lunatics, I want to say the following. 

I know you miss those days.  I know you really do.  You probably look at your boys, now ages 15, 15, 13 and 12 (this is assuming they have all survived) and see flashes of sweet dimples and adorable, toothy grins masked behind sweaty teenage faces.  As you look at them they are probably scarfing down the umpteenth bowl of cereal for the day, nodding and grunting strange sounds as you ask penetrating questions to hear any shred of information about their day.  And with their moppy mess of hair hanging over their face buried into a cereal bowl, you probably smile and think back to days like I’ve today and you think, “Thank you Lord.  I never thought I would see this day.”   And you might laugh thinking, “Wow.  That was insanity.”  And there is a strange emotional cocktail of relief, humility, gratitude, longing, sadness and hope.

I want to assure you that you did not wish the days away.  Most of them anyways.  You truly tried the best that you could and you begged for the Lord’s help.  You felt weak all the time.  You felt dependent upon the Lord constantly.  You had some big victories and some ugly moments requiring quick repentance and prostration before the throne of grace.  You tried to really see your kids and enjoy them.  You tried to look past the mess and the ugly parts to see their hearts and to love them with wreck less abandon.   You tried to show each of them love and attention but you always felt like it wasn’t enough.  You had tender moments with each of them that I hope you are smiling about at this very moment as you recall them so quickly from your heart.  Deep spiritual conversations with Noah that typically ended with him saying, “I love Jesus.  And I love you more than to the moon and back.”  A beautiful, sheepish smile on Aiden’s face when he actually feels like he is wanted and loved after you had told him for the millionth time.  A tender kiss on the knee or shoulder from Asa as he said, “Mommy, I like you.”  And you replied, “And I love you.”  Or that sweet dimple that only exists on Nathan’s right cheek and the adorable smile that produced it, especially as he forcefully and gleefully plopped down into your lap for yet another story and you deeply smelled his silky blonde hair in hopes of remembering it.  There were many sweet moments.  And you knew they were fleeting.  You knew they were not going to last forever.  And you hoped that they would.  Many nights you cried over the fact that you couldn’t freeze time.  You did not wish the time away.

I feel the need to remind you of days like I had today that were very hard.  When you felt like you were going to punch the person who dared to say, “You are going to miss this.”  I want to remind you that some child running up and down the hall often awakened you earlier than 6:15.  Many days you heard some child yelling that he had pooped and you needed to wipe him before your alarm went off at 6:30 am.  Most of that time the child was Asa, and you longed for the day when he might sleep until at least 7 or 7:30 am.  The sound of riding toys being pushed onto the bathroom tile made your skin crawl.  You were tired most of the time.  You had a lot of headaches.  It was very loud, especially in the morning.  And I am going to guess that you have never become a morning person.  There was often bickering at the breakfast table and multiple children shouting wants and needs all at the same time.  There was whining.  There were a lot of time-outs.  All before 7:30 am.  You thought your head would literally explode.

Today after meeting all breakfast demands and making lunches and snacks, the boys succeeded in dumping out nearly every toy we own onto the floor and then refused to clean it up.  After dropping off Noah and Aiden at school, we went to the park.  Asa decided to pull down his pants and poop on the public playground.  He and Nathan then ran away behind the tree line and when I tried to catch them they ran to the fence and tried to climb over it onto the street where cars were passing by.  When they were back on the playground they attempted jumping off a high platform and got hurt when they hit the fire pole right next to them.  Then they started running on the concrete through a mud puddle.  Asa fell and cried like someone cut off his arm.   Then in the afternoon I got the pool out for the boys to play in.  They fought.  They hit one another.  They called each other names.  I made the mistake of trying to have a conversation with Kenneth while he was away at school.  Don’t know what I was thinking.  They hear the phone ring and it ushers in a million problems that cannot wait and must interrupt the phone conversation.   Nathan kept crying that he was cold so he kept wrapping up in a towel and then tried climbing into the pool with it on.  Meanwhile Aiden was throwing a tantrum because there were bugs outside.  Then there was complaining because the towel was the wrong color.  After dinner, which included a lot of loudness, throwing of cups and banging of forks, and the inevitable, “I not like this” from Asa, I discovered that Nathan had peed on the stairs at some point and that at another time one of the boys had taken a yellow crayon and scribbled all over the front door.  Nathan threw a tantrum because he couldn’t kiss his daddy through the computer screen and then refused to walk up the stairs for bedtime claiming, “I can’t!”  Then no one would listen and obey my instructions to get in bed and start reading time.  Asa threw a tantrum because he didn’t want to lay down, then because Aiden stole the Dragons Love Tacos book from him.  I had to set up guard in the hallway for over an hour to keep anarchy from rising.  I am beyond tired.  And emotional.  And I feel so weak and helpless.  I feel like I fail a million times per day and that I am messing up their lives for sure.  And I try to balance these feelings with what I also know to be true: This time is fleeting, I am engaged in a daily battle for their souls that can have a profound impact upon their lives, I have been entrusted with these children that God loves, I will miss this, They really are precious when they are sleeping, I love them so much that I feel like my heart could burst at any second, I can’t do this but God can, His grace is sufficient, and They are a blessing.  I am a mess.  And I will likely eat a large amount of chocolate in a few minutes and then feel guilty. 

And if you have read all of this, and you still think it sounds blissful, then I fear it has truly happened…I truly did loose it.  I turn into a loon.  Either that or God has so graciously blessed me with the ability to block out the impossible moments and remember the best.  If that is the case, I beg of you, do not go all sentimental on the disheveled mom at the grocery store.  You remember her.  She hasn’t had a chance to shower in a couple days because she is afraid of what the kids might do while she is in there.  She doesn’t feel pretty and she probably hasn’t had good sleep in a long time.  As her kids are pulling everything off the shelves and she is frantically trying to keep their arms and legs inside the cart while checking off her grocery list, please smile at her and say, “I remember when my kids were young.  Hang in there.  I know you are tired, but I bet you are a great mom.  Raising kids is the toughest thing I have ever done, but it is so worth it.”  Maybe smile, and as you engage her kids, tell her one of the many horror stories you had at the grocery store, or the park, or really any time you ever attempted to go out into public.  It will probably get her to laugh and maybe give her some hope.

Love,

Yourself.  

May 7, 2013