Finite

It always gets away from me—my time as a mother, that is. Every morning I awake with the best intentions. Today I’ll get the laundry done, the practicing done, the cleaning, the cooking, the reading, the grocery shopping, the research for any number of needed items, the bills paid, the office and closets organized, the thank you notes written, I’ll try to actually say a meaningful prayer, and oh yeah, I’ll take care of the baby and manage to absorb and enjoy my kids. (Exhale here). . . If only, right?

Truth is, one of my most difficult struggles with mothering is the wide divide between my expectations of what I would be able to undertake as a mother versus the reality. Think about it. When parenting is at its theoretical stage, (i.e. before that first baby has landed in your home), one has any number of expectations of the experience. Mine included all sorts of glorious ideals: I was going to read classics with my children every day, include them regularly in service projects in order to foster empathy for others, give them access to lots of physical exercise or sports, have each one of them learn a musical instrument, make sure each of them was nurtured individually in their relationships with me on a daily basis, and help them foster a deep love of the gospel of Jesus Christ. And all this was supposedly going to take place in the midst of maintaining some sort of a meaningful career/outlet on the side, having a clean home, and getting enough sleep to look like I at least look my own age. . .

I suppose much of this anticipation evolved from the fact that I used to be capable of accomplishing a lot on my own as an individual. In my former life I used to be a serious musician, and later an attorney. On my own it seemed I could get anything done with just a little concentration and time management. I even used to have the arrogance to tacitly judge stay-at-home mothers of my acquaintance in wondering what it was they did all day.
Oh my, does karma have a way of biting you in the back side or what? Eventually, (and thankfully), I had my own turn with closely spaced little children, struggling health, and all of my previous expectations staring me back in the face . . . Judging me JUST AS I DESERVED.

There was simply no way to anticipate the realities of trying to get anything done when you’re trying to help other little hands and feet move at any “normal” pace, nor the time it takes to decently and consistently discipline/referee, to even get them dressed, to build in time or plans in order to avoid tantrums , to plan around very necessary naps, or what it feels like when the little folks constantly find ingenious ways to undo your work. (I always tell Pearly-Q it feels like someone keeps hitting the delete button around here). There’s certainly nothing that can prepare you for what it feels like when you have appropriately done all these things, are finally ready to walk out the door (hopefully with at least a little mascara on by this point), and then your baby has a complete diaper blow-out—usually part of it ending up on you. The whole world comes to a standstill, and you essentially start all over again. I mean, yesterday I finally took my first shower of the day at 5 p.m.

I suppose that much of this stems from the fact that we are, I believe, actually eternal beings, with spirits and desires that are greater than our current earthly capacity and are eager to progress as much as possible not only here, but also in the eternities beyond. Our intentions are bigger than we are, and we’re still trying to get our heads around how finite time is here. For as many times as it hits me over the head, it is still hard for me to believe that I really only have 24 hours in each day, and that somehow most of my heavenly intentions are left unrealized at the end of the day. I can’t stand it. Sometimes it makes me mad, (which makes absolutely no sense). Then again, it certainly gives me greater empathy for other mothers, and most especially for my own, which--in the end--makes a lot of sense.