I woke up this morning excited to be up early and ready to write. I won’t write unless I have spent some time in the Word or praying. I’ve realized that not doing that takes my focus away from Christ. After some time well spent, I was sat down at the computer.
Then I heard my littlest crying from his crib. Again. I had just nursed him right before my devotional time and put him back down to sleep. This time he wasn’t going to go back down. He was ready to be up.
I was slightly frustrated at not having any “me” time at that moment. What I got in return was much better. For a solid 45 minutes my littlest and I were able to play on the floor together without any interruptions. A little music in the background and we were learning and discovering. I reminded myself that these opportunities to interact with him at this young age are so limited, and decided that it was okay for writing to wait.
I feel so robbed of the joy of infancy that I did not experience with him during the first few months of my postpartum OCD. Looking back on it now, much of it is a blur (Coping mechanism? Or just mommy brain…either way).
Holding on to my children and wishing these days to last forever is as futile as grains of sand falling between my fingers. I love each new discovery they find as they grow and cheer them on. As much I want them to stay little forever, I find myself growing as a mom with each new milestone they reach and looking forward to their next achievement.
My oldest played soccer this season for the first time. Peewee sports are a hilarity all in their own for the pure humor they provide with the children running the wrong way, standing still on the field, or running off the field because they have to go potty. Amidst the disorganization, every once in awhile the kids would get it right and pass the ball to each other and score a goal.
When my son scored a goal, I turned into a wild maniac screaming my head off and jumping up and down. You would have thought he had jut won an Olympic gold medal. He would run off the field and into my arms for a big squeeze, smelling of little boy sweat and dirt.
When I get “it” right in my walk with Christ, I have to imagine him jumping up and down. The applause isn’t for me, but for Himself. “Yay! Finally, she gets it!” He must think. Not for my glory, but for His own.
Through my own stumbles, sin, and trials, His grace picks me back up again and points me in the right direction. During my horrid experience with postpartum OCD when the nights felt like they would last forever, somehow he worked in my heart even then and revealed Himself to me in new ways. I became a child again, reaching a new milestone with each passing day. He was bringing me through each step of healing, even though I was unaware.
I’m still licking my wounds. Occasionally it feels like salt was poured on them. I have my joy back on most days, and get to be the mommy I know God has created me to be. I am ever so grateful.