Lying Down

It seems the "Lie down with me, Momma!" bug has bitten every one of the boys lately.  Especially when Daddy is traveling, requests for this honor come from all three kids, kids who still believe that I have eyes in the back of my head and could have a very unsettling staring contest with them, one in which they'd have to take my word that "I NEVER blinked.  You just can't TELL."*

Each kid somehow thinks that neither of his other two brothers has had this brilliant thought to ask the lying down question.  A tactic, I'm convinced, is used as the ultimate, Mom-endorsed, "stay up later" ploy or as the monopolize the only couple time Mike and I get most days.

They also never seem to be convinced that it would actually be nice to have a little of my own downtime before I fall asleep in a twin bed with another human being, a cat/dog/both, a face-full of make-up, unbrushed teeth and every stitch of my clothing, including my shoes, still on.

Every time I have to say "Not tonight" or "I'm actually lying down with ____", or, heaven forbid "I'm spending a little time with Daddy", I pause to wonder "What if this is the last time he wants me to do this?" or "Does he need to share something important with me and I'm passing up the opportunity?" (because, God knows that little boys aren't exactly copious talkers about matters of the heart).

Tonight reminded me that, sometimes, they just need to know you'll say "yes", even if you arrive back from saying prayers with everyone and they are almost in REM sleep:

Scene:  The Babe's Bedroom.  Lights are dimmed as low as possible without being out.  Bob is lying between the wall and The Babe, purring at a decibel that would put a Harley to shame.

I scoot in next to my littlest guy and start to kiss on his face.  I make my usual rhyme with his name.  I rub his back. 

No dice.  He is O.U.T.

So, I tell him "I love you" and start to leave the bed.

That, of course, is when he rolls over.  His eyes never open, but he says "I kind of love you" then pauses and says "Actually, I love you alot". 

I'm just staring at his sweet little six-year-old face, the one that contains the two, brand new teeth on the bottom row that are coming in a bit crooked, the nose and cheeks that are dabbled with freckles, the amazing greenish eyes God gave him that are behind closed lids and I say "I love you more."  Partially because I don't think he can hear that enough and partially because it is so, very true and partially because I wish I had been able to circle back to him sooner so we could have talked.

He doesn't miss a beat in response:  "OK".  No argument; just resignation.  Because, unlike biggest brother, Nickels, he doesn't put up a fight when I say it.  He doesn't respond "NO.  I love YOU more" and turn it into a battle of who is going to quit saying it first.

Maybe The Babe just takes me at my word.  Maybe he believes I love him more.  Maybe he is just so tired that he want me to shut up.

But, it reminds me of God, who I KNOW loves me more than I can comprehend.  And, it took children for me to really get this sunk into my marrow:  there is no way God's children can love Him more.  We are His.  Created by Him.  Brought to life by Him.  Sustained by Him.

And though I realize I can't compare, even in the slightest, my Mommyhood to God's Daddy role, I do understand that being a parent is just a taste of how God loves His children:  He loves us more than we can imagine.  He's super wild about us, even when we don't like ourselves or we don't like Him or we fail to recognize the gifts He has given us.  He just super duper, all the way to the moon and back, loves us.

I feel that way about my kids, too.  And, truly getting how God can love us that much times a number that doesn't even exist is hard to comprehend.

No matter how much you love your kids, you can't ever love them as much as God does.

WHOA.

Before I know it, I'll be staring into the face of a seven-year-old when I lie down with my baby at night.  Thirty-nine days from now, if we want to be precise.  I can't quite put my finger on where time has gone, other than to say it seems to have zoomed by at lightning speed and I don't know how to stop it so I can bottle the goodness to inhale later.

Maybe THAT is God's design, that we have a handful of memories of our children's childhood that stand out and the rest seem like a blur and we are constantly wondering how time could simultaneously pass so quickly and so slowly.

Maybe that is what keeps us from losing our minds during the times of hourly diaper changes and sleepless nights of feeding every hour and days of chasing toddlers who have learned they are capable of speeds that wind their mothers lungs.

Maybe that keeps us sane when we drop our baby off at preschool or daycare or kindergarten for the first time and we feel a palpable pain in our soul that says "How did we get here?  Didn't I give birth sometime last year?"

Maybe it's God's design on the days that stinky feet permeate the car when the shoes come off and eyes roll in sockets and you can't believe that your kid is treating you the exact.same.way.you.treated.your.parents.how.dare.he.

I just know that, no matter how tired I get of people turning around in line at Target and saying "Don't rush time.  You'll wish you had this time with them back when they are older"**, they are RIGHT.

Our job as Mommies is bittersweet and treacherous and painful.  We have to navigate days where we wonder if our kid needed a few days longer in the womb to cook.  And days when they couldn't be more precious.  And days when we realize "In just a few, short years, my heart is going to drop out of my chest and I'll die when he walks that stage, accepts that diploma, and jets off to college".

(....And, later, remind me NEVER AGAIN to write the first day on my period....and the beginning of Easter Week...and the day that I realized that I really hope those Mayans were right so we can just have a big, fat party in November, all together, in Heaven....)

I guess it isn't inconceivable that there are times I have passed on lying down with one of the boys when I shouldn't have;  times when my kids really DID have something to say and I blew them off.  And, conversely, there are probably times that they didn't really need me for a specific reason.  They just asked to see what I'd say and didn't want to hurt my feelings by kicking me to the curb.

Like so many things in parenting, we just won't know until much, much later how we did.  There is no semester review and report card.  There isn't a checklist of areas with corresponding smiley faces and frowns for us to refer to every day.  We just careen through life hoping we don't screw our kids up TOO badly.

And that the one time reruns of House Hunters International trumps lying down with your youngest, that it isn't the last time he will ask.

Thank you so much, Lord, for the gift of parenting.  Thank you for the picture of your love for us that parenting brings to life, igniting our hearts in ways we didn't expect, imagine, or anticipate.  Thank you that you never fail to be right where we need you, when we need you, and that you are there for our children when, as Moms, we choose the wrong path.  What a comfort it is, knowing that when we drop the ball, you pick it right back up for us. 

*Look, the Tooth Fairy has been outed and Santa may very well be next, but I will NEVER own up to exactly WHERE those eyes are.

**Why does this always seem to happen when your children are acting like the spawn of Satan?  Those moments?  I could give a rat's rear about remembering.