In one sense, my job is pretty easy. I cook, clean up, play with kids, etc. I'm not working on algorithms for some electro-optic device for a helicopter (this is what Mike does, at least I think that is what he does), or saving people's lives, or designing buildings. Once in a great while, I wonder what is the point of what I do all day. I know it is to meet the needs of my kids, not only physically but also spiritually and emotionally as well. I also sometimes wonder what it's like being one of my children. What is it like for them to grow up in our house? What is it like having me as a mommy? What will they remember from their early childhood days? I have random memories growing up like my white dresser that I shared with my sister, jumping from my bed to my sister's bed so that my feet didn't touch the floor (because we convinced ourselves that if our feet didn't touch the floor then we wouldn't be disobeying mom who said to stay in bed), and trying to ice skate on a ¼ inch sheet of ice in our back yard (ya, that usually didn't work so well).
Stephen is my caring,
compassionate, verbal, carefree boy. Yesterday, he kept talking about our alarm
system all morning. He was pointing at the keypad on the wall and saying
something that only he understood. Next thing I know Stephen was
carrying a wooden kid's chair out of the playroom into the hallway and
headed for the keypad. In the middle of me telling him he had to put the
chair back in the playroom, he started to cry. This wasn't a cry that came from
being told no. This was a cry for help! My poor little 2 year old was
carrying a chair bigger than he was and he didn't know how to put it down. So
he was standing there crying hoping he wouldn't drop it on his feet. Of
course I quickly went over to him to relieve his weary arms and to take the chair
from him. I even decided to put it back in the playroom for him so that he
didn't need to stress any longer. And then there's my long haired, spunky, gregarious little girl. Grace loves her pink Hello Kitty bike. This morning was absolutely beautiful and she asked to go on a bike ride. Yes seemed like the only obvious answer. She can hold her own pretty well when she is on a flat sidewalk and when she approaches an uprooted, uneven sidewalk she is adamant about conquering it herself. Her little bike teeters but somehow she keeps that bike moving without a hitch. She can see her front wheel and is confident she can move forward, ready to tackle anything in her way. But what she fails to see is her two little white training wheels attached to each side of the back wheel. When she turns a corner, she is not looking at those training wheels to see if they are going to hit a curb, get stuck in a hole, or graze the grass. So I chose to walk behind her while pushing Stephen in the stroller, making sure those back wheels aren't going to cause her any harm. She was and is completely unaware that I am faithfully watching her.
My job of being a nurse, counselor, referee, bouncer, judge, teacher, and entertainer will probably go unnoticed by my kids. Watching toes and training wheels seems like a small task. This is where I can feel, at times, that my job is menial. But when I think about the reason why I'm watching out for little toes and bodies it gives me perspective, purpose, and a goal. I'm protecting them. I'm watching out for them. I'm loving them. Of course I desire some sort of memorable life changing conversation or event that I have with them where they have an awakening and appreciation for how much I love them. But I'm realizing that reality is that these life altering events are not the norm. Instead, I can show them my love small moments like these. Small moments like choosing to get off facebook when they are trying to talk to me, or snuggling with them during movie night, or playing their (annoying) Veggie Tales music in the van. Or painting Grace's nails, even though it usually ends up being a mess and only lasts a few days. When I kiss their boo boos. When I try to understand how they are feeling. When I sacrifice what I want for them (which I fail at often).
So what will my kids memories be when they are older? What do I hope they remember? I hope they know they were and are loved. Not because of what they’ve achieved or how they behaved, but because they are mine. They would know that mommy always had their back. Whether literally (like when Grace is leaning too far on her bike) or when they need me to hear them out about why they sneaked the chocolate egg from the cupboard. I want them to know that mommy and daddy are on their side. I am for them. I am cheering them on. So I'm encouraged today by all the little mundane and trivial things I do. I see they aren't meaningless, they are (hopefully) loudly communicating love to my children.
