I’m home again, and back in my garage, covered in paint, and dust, and sweat.
I am working on a table and chairs that I have been hired to refinish. When completed, my labours will have produced a lovely finished product, that I will have labored on for about fifteen to twenty hours (a rather concervative estimate). It will be complete, I will deliver it, have my pocket padded, and be on my way to begin yet another project.
I am labouring in another way this week …
parenting.
Yesterday, my twenty-something daughter and her friend left for a road trip …
and I had labor pains, as I hugged her good-bye, forced a smile of well wished excitement and fun … and thought of all that could go wrong enroute.
Yesterday, my just-graduated daughter and her boyfriend headed south, across the Canada/US border for the first time (solo), to check out a waterfall, hang out at a park, shop, and have the best pizza this side of Chicago …
and I had labor pains, as I hugged her good-bye, wishing them a great day of fun … and thought of possible dangers of a waterfall, money issues, and car failures.
Today we will pick up our son, after two weeks away at camp, and I already know what he will say when we pick him up,
“I’m only home a week, then I want to go back for the rest of summer”
and I will have labor pains, as he will not be here much this summer … and I’ll miss him.
Never, as an expectant mom, did I imagine that my connection to my children had nothing to do with an umbilical cord. It has nothing to do with anything physical! As can be confirmed by mothers who have adopted or fostered children.
I don’t desire for my kids to live in momma fear. I don’t desire for them to only do that which makes me comfortable. I want them to live their lives within fearless wisdom, pursuing the dreams, desires and responsibilities that God has laid upon their hearts and minds.
A child does not labor for its mother, a mother labours for her child.
Not one book I read, in preparation for birth and delivery, ever informed me that the length of labor for a mom (a parent) never ends.
My family knows, much to hubby’s chagrin (since he discovered online movies that can be watched at home) that I LOVE to go to the theater to watch movies. I love the popcorn, I love the dark, I love the laughter of strangers all around me, I love that the seats are low enough that my vertically-challenged feet reach the floor, and I LOVE that they tell you to turn your phones off!
So, for Mother’s Day they took me to a movie I had heard of, but written off as one about mom’s of little ones.
Mom’s Night Out is a movie about a trio of weary moms, all dealing with stresses of their own. Allyson is the main character, and she is struggling with the blessing of having what she always dreamed of (motherhood) but not being happy, feeling like a failure and trying to find purpose.
Who couldn’t relate to those struggles (with or without children)?
I strongly encourage (or is it ‘incourage’) any lady (not just moms) to see this movie (plus it has my favorite ‘tweeter’, Patricia Heaton, and the comedian whose voice I hear whenever I get a pedicure, Anjelah Johnson … see her video at the bottom of this page).
I had no idea just how applicable this movie would be for this momma who fails at her dream every day.
And, speaking of ‘incourage’ I discovered that another blogger has already told the tale of this movie, so, rather than re-create the wheel … check out this post from incourage.me.
“In the new movie MOMS’ NIGHT OUT, a group of moms dealing with everyday stresses realize they need a night out. The main character, Allyson (who is played by Sarah Drew), is a blogging wannabe when we first meet her. Enjoy this post written in the voice of Allyson.
“Beck’s playing in the toilet again!”
Not the words you want to hear when you are already late for church, your husband is out of town, and you’re trying to move your little army out the door in the general direction of the minivan. You are of single mind and laser focus: we will not be late, we will not be late, we will not be late!
Your children, on the other hand, are meandering through the house without a care in the world. Why brush your teeth when you can play one more game? Why wear church clothes when you look so much more fabulous in your sparkly shoes and a tutu? And why not have a regatta in the toilet while Mom is looking for the only clean pair of khaki pants that don’t have a rip in the knee?
Maybe if everyone just slept in their church clothes.
Sunday mornings would go so much better. Wrinkly, yes, but better. And why stop there? Why not load up the swagger wagon on Saturday night and just bed down in the minivan so that you would actually be in the parking lot before Sunday school? This idea has real potential and you vow to give it a whirl soon.
Once the kids are finally maneuvered into their clothes and parked on the couch staring at a video, you throw on a dress and reassure yourself that a messy bun is a fabulous fashion statement. And hey, if you hit enough red lights, you can do your makeup on the way. A girl can dream can’t she?
Reality sets in as you roar into the church parking lot.
All the perfect moms are chatting with each other, the sun gleaming off their perfectly highlighted tresses as they compliment each other on their perfectly coordinated dresses and shoes. You know perfectly well they must have nannies. You’ve never actually seen any of these nannies but you know there must be an underground legion of them who hold down the fort while these women take actual showers and blow out their hair and try on outfits. Otherwise, how could they look like THAT?
Then comes the cherry on your Sunday sundae: your four-year-old daughter asks to help with your eye makeup. It’s her charming LET ME! LET ME! LET ME! at the top of her lungs that inspires you to hand her that mascara wand. Hiding her handiwork behind a pair of dark glasses, you marshal your last bit of strength and head into church.
Deposit the kids in the nursery, try to fix your raccoon eye in the ladies room, and crawl over four people into a pew. But finally, it’s time. Time for a few moments of peace. Just you, God, and the reassurance that it’s all going to be okay. Your spirit will be renewed and you will be ready to head back into battle. Thank you, God, for these children. For the privilege of being their mama. For the love You show me every day. Please give me strength.
And as you collect them all up again and head back into the parking lot, you smile at the pictures they made and know that it will all be better . . . in five or maybe seven years.”
itsawonderfilledlife 