The Overlooked Mama

Quiet.

I am engulfed by a sea of quiet.  All that fills our home with noise are the running dishwasher, my husband's snoring, and our children's sound machines.  I can hear crashing waves echoing from the hallway of our babies' rooms, while white noise and snippets of Mozart drift down from upstairs.

From the time my morning alarm jolts me awake to the marathon that is putting our children into their beds at night, there is little quiet.  I sit here, during this last hour of the day, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, but sleep is still a far-off place.  My mind spends most of the day preoccupied with responsibilities, to-do lists, and dinner menus.  Once my head hits the pillow, I catch up on thinking about my family and their families; my sweet mama friends; special events I am planning; selling our old house; if I will finish my accounting degree and what sort of work I will pursue with it; writing a book... There really is no end to this list.  I just cannot seem to quiet the worry, the stresses, the planning, the yearning.

Days can pass without my needing to leave the house.  My steps down the driveway to the mailbox give me a fleeting moment of serenity to deeply inhale all of God's majestic handiwork.  This is the first home out of four that we cannot hear a train blasting its whistle as it barrels down railroad tracks.  Highway noise is miles away and emergency sirens are scarce.  We relish in the bits of nature that are now a scenic backdrop to our everyday life.  Our girls are thrilled to take inventory of the little creatures making our outdoors their homes.  But amidst the grandeur of the Lord's design, I feel so overwhelmingly little.  Overlooked.  Sometimes even forgotten.  I realize that, upon collecting the mail, I will recluse back into my home and quickly be needed again.  Tugged on and spilled on again.  Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing.  More bath-giving and laundry-folding.  More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping.  I give all of me to these children whose lives give me life.  But this journey takes so much of me, sometimes leaving me feeling barren--emotionally, socially, and spiritually.

A lot of women are professionally successful, building their corporate legacy and contributing to their family's finances along the way.  They have value, both inside and outside of the home.  Our family saves money by not paying daycare tuition, but it also feels as if I run a daycare (and nightcare) for free.  There is never a paycheck.  Never a column of my income next to my husband's income on our budget sheets.  My on-the-clock responsibilities look just like my off-the-clock responsibilities.  I can go hours without participating in any sort of conversation with another adult.  It is common that my lunch break occurs one or two hours after I feed our girls.  I preface business calls with "Please ignore the screaming.  I promise they are not dying."  I cannot leave a stack of work on my desk for me to tackle the next day, allowing me to break away and clear my head until the morning.

Yes, I chose to have these (and this many) children.
Yes, I also chose to stay at home with them.

I do not aim to gain your respect, impress you with my mad skills, or have you pity me.  I write these words, full of compassion and understanding and camaraderie, for the other mama engulfed in the worry, the stresses, the planning, and the yearning, in this last hour of the day.  Of all the mamas in the whole world, I know I am not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten.  I write this for you.  We are so much alike.  I know the same exhaustion you feel, and I know the same emptiness you feel.  Something often described as "the most rewarding job" can be so depleting.  Friend, I wish we could sit together, to share with each other the beauty and the ugliness that so commonly accompany one another.

I am immensely grateful and humbled that God chose me to love and lead my children through life.  But I would be lying if I said that I truly know my value here.  There is no impressive title by my name; I do not receive recognition for the completion of extensive projects (although, grout cleaning should qualify); and there are no tenure-based or performance-based pay increases.  Evidence of my hard work are full-bellied, sweetly-smelling, kind-hearted babes, on the good days.  Some other days, I feed our girls junk food, I spot-clean their sticky hair, and I remind them to be considerate of their sisters more than occasionally.  When difficult days abound, the self-guilt and self-doubt see me as a vulnerable target.

Far too often do I reach a day's end feeling depleted and defeated.  Maybe I yelled at my girls too much or could have helped them navigate their sibling conflict better or tackled my housekeeping and homeschooling duties more efficiently.  You see, how we conclude a day dictates how the next one will commence.  In a moment of pure honesty, I might admit that I envy my friends who send their kids off to school or daycare.  If I had a "real" job, nobody would question how I spend every waking moment at home and have no substantial proof of accomplishing any tasks.  If I had a "real" job, I would never receive such lackluster responses when asked what I do for a living.  For whatever reason, there exists a stigma for stay-at-home moms.  We can be considered professionally incompetent, academically disadvantaged, or downright lazy.  Society imposes impossible standards, as if battling our own expectations of ourselves is not enough.

These expectations we have of ourselves exist because we cannot imagine giving our children anything less than our best.  We exhaust every muscle of our body and every ounce of our sanity to give all of ourselves every waking moment.  We are good moms, even when our hearts grow weary and our minds try convincing us otherwise.  Dear friend, I see you.  You have been tugged on and spilled on again.  Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing.  More bath-giving and laundry-folding.  More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping.  Sitting on the couch, soaking in the day's last offering of quiet, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, I see you.  You are not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten.  I may not know your name, but I know your heart.


"Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28 (NIV) 

An Unrealistic Reality

Do you have a TV?  We do.  If I can be honest, I think it remains turned on more than it should, but it is this mama's cheap babysitter for a portion of the day.  We are also a football-watching family.  Boomer Sooner.  Our chosen programs mostly focus on matters of real estate and home renovations, children's programming, and the good ol', trusty Wheel of Fortune.  Eleven years ago, my husband and I predicted what it would be like to be cool at thirty, and dinnertime Wheel of Fortune was involved.  It is nice to know we are embracing our younger selves' idea of total coolness.

After our girls' bedtime, the hubby and I rummage through our Netflix library of investigative shows or lighthearted comedies.  One of our favorite series follows a group of misfit employees through years of workplace shenanigans and personal, tumultuous relationships.  Let The Office fans unite!  And if full disclosure is in order, I can also waste countless hours lost in sappy Hallmark movies or a few network dramas sure to leave me a sobbing mess.  I should have covertly slipped "through corny and overly-sentimental television programs" into my husband's wedding vows to me as he still refuses to oblige.

Now that I have divulged my family's ever-so-entertaining TV agenda, you might be pondering the purpose of this soon-to-come tirade.  You see, a few weeks ago, I saw a commercial for another weeknight network show, and it was disheartening.  Repulsive, really.  I chuckled with disbelief before gasping with utter disappointment.  This show boasted of attention-gripping entertainment for its viewers while contestants sought to find their spouse within the one-hour television block.  Yep, the proposals were real, and the rings were real.  Supposedly.

I am not doubting that proposal and engagement customs have changed over the years, and I will even admit that my husband's and my story is less than traditional.  We met and married in about five months.  Eek.  Our journey has not been perfect or easy either, but the both of us have learned something very important: a marriage worth having takes grit.  Commitment, selflessness, and solidarity are just a few essential components to a prosperous relationship.  From the little I saw, the show failed to explore substantial content, and so wrongly conveyed marriage in a negative manner.  How can those couples expect to withstand life's storms together when they take marriage so lightly?  There is little real-life to a reality show engagement.

The need for instant gratification is a distinctive trait of this generation.  Two-day shipping.  Sign me up!  Grocery pickup.  Yesss, please!  Subscription shopping.  Take my money!  By no means am I faulting these practices.  As a mama-of-many, I heavily rely on these services to lessen my stress-inducing workload.  But we should be careful that our reliance on convenient services does not plant seeds of expectations in other areas of life.  My marriage is not always gratifying, nor is it always convenient or stress-free.  Sometimes, laundering my husband's pile of dirty work clothes at 9pm is dissatisfying.  Can he not wash his own clothes on the weekends?  Sometimes, cooking a hearty dinner for him is inconvenient.  I would rather throw a couple extra corn dogs into the oven.  Sometimes, offering a listening ear to his professional challenges is stressful.  I can have exhausting days, too.  It is easy to be a selfish woman, but God calls me to be a selfless wife.

Not one year of our marriage has been or will be the same; some seasons bring bliss and others bring storms.  The commitment my husband and I made to one another helps us navigate through the choppy waters and makes the sunshine that much warmer.  We have learned that jumping ship betrays our promise--to ourselves and our children.  (Just last week, our oldest daughter asked me to make a promise to her like the vow I made her daddy.  She was convinced that kind of promise was sure to hold me accountable.)  There are days we do not mesh well.  Some conflicts are petty, and some issues are more substantial, but neither of us have expectations of quick fixes.  We both desire and strive for less friction, so compassion and collaboration are a long-lasting approach to a better version of us.  We enjoy a lot of victories, conquering this marriage thing "like a boss."  Never does our real-life marriage mirror the inauthentic dynamics of a reality show relationship, and I am okay with that.

I think now is an appropriate opportunity to acknowledge that failed marriages exist.  Some of my favorite people walked from previous marriages or had spouses who were not true to their vows.  For whatever the circumstances, those relationships dissolved, but God has blessed those people still.  I firmly believe that God can redeem any situation and bring back to life a lifeless love.  And because our Father is one of grace, He also blesses second marriages, and third marriages, and beyond.  When a husband and wife are fixed on the One who designed marriage, in all its sanctity, there will be healing, intimacy, and growth.

Attempting to identify the TV show's worst offense, I hone in on the bloated idea of self.  A selfish wife cannot prioritize her husband when too consumed with her own emptiness.  Equally, a selfish husband cannot prioritize his wife when too consumed with his own emptiness.  Much of today's entertainment and advertisement industries prompt emotional decision making.  We are told to do what makes us happy and say what helps express our every-changing emotions, no matter the effect on those around us.  A selfish world is a hurtful one, an unkind one, and an inconsiderate one.  A dear friend planted such a precious seed of kindness and generosity into her young son, a few weeks back: "God first, then others, then yourself."  I recant those same words to our daughters on the regular, and I am proud of my friend for raising my future son-in-law so well.

I would be lying if I said that I successfully tackle my marriage every day, but I am granted the opportunity for a reset with every waking moment and extra cup of coffee I get.  Being kind and helpful and loving to my husband today ensures I can be kind and helpful and loving to my husband tomorrow.  Do not let the show fool you.  Marriage is hard!  There are no quick fixes, and it takes a heaping amount of selfless love to prioritize my husband before myself.  So, what happens after the show ends?  Does the network provide marriage counseling to help couples survive the storms, or does its interest cease with the rolling of the credits?  Weddings can be beautiful and the talk of the tabloids, but the extravagance and publicity does not dictate a successful marriage.  My marriage may not be a Hollywood hot topic, but my husband and I would rather it be a success story shared with our children, our grandchildren, and beyond.

A Little Place Called Home

Foundation, walls, and a roof--a lot of life can be lived in such confines. That place offered security, familiarity, and comfort; no other feels quite like it.  The brick may look aged, the walls slathered in decades' worth of paint, and the roof beaten by unforgiving springtime storms, but that dwelling was home.  Our short-lived possession is only a fraction of its existence, but it was the place of so much life for my sweet family.

I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.  I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized.  Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting.  We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love.  The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.

Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track.  With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred.  The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient.  Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow.  It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework.  The memories created there are at the core of our beings.  Our marriage grew there.  We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there.  We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.

Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered.  I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process.  The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside.  Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled.  Unfamiliar.  The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together.  I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.

There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition.  Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags.  Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old.  There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets.  In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room.  I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles.  Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.

It has been a couple months since our move.  There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes.  My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space.  Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway.  More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.

Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment.  I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons.  I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape.  Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages?  You are not wondering that?  Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure).  I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past.  If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments.  Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing.  That house is merely an old chapter.  A closed door... literally.

One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change.  I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases.  The logical approach, of course.  I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood.  Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays.  What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing?  It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.

Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping.  It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours.  This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance.  His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us.  He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast.  I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.


"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)