While having mentioned it before, I feel the need to express again just how much I abhor mornings. I awake in a tizzy, hearing my name in my dreams…whiny voices all around, like a house of talking mirrors… and then suddenly I awake with harsh taps on my sleeping arm to find someone, a person around three feet tall, staring at me, demanding that I get out of bed at an hour that I once thought only professors of a ridiculously early class could require of me… and even then I had a choice whether to get up and go to class or not… settle for a C or strive for an A. And even if I was striving for a D- in parenting, little people still wake up. They still need to be fed. Of course Go Diego Go is something to be grateful for at a ludicrous hour, but when I’m up, I’m up. Thomas can somehow stumble to the couch and fall peacefully back asleep, ignoring his ardent little ones, dozing in and out of talks of Cocoa Wheats and school snacks and homework and un-brushed teeth and untied shoes. But not me. The weight rests heavily on my already aching shoulders as I carry a little person to the toilet because he is about to pee his pants and has successfully waited until the last possible second to tell me before his bladder explodes into the only clean pair of pajamas I could dig up the night before.
And while on the weekends there is no set schedule or place to be at 8:30 a.m., it’s almost worse. I wake up with ADD, pondering all the possibilities of the day: Should we go to the market? The mountains? Ikea? The mall? Oh, maybe we could stay here and paint Elias’ room. Perhaps I should make a nice breakfast and we could sit down together as a family. The bathrooms need cleaned. The laundry needs done. Oh…everything is closed on Sunday and today is Saturday. Maybe I should get groceries…
And then, added to my rat-like skittishness, are my children. They begin fighting. One is tired. The other won’t eat his eggs. The other keeps saying, in a very, very whiny voice, “Will you please have alone time with me in the bedroom…. and watch me make stuff… and have tickle time?” This is the true test, as I am now guilt-ridden and unable to please anyone, and still am running around like a headless chicken in my mind. And of course the “one” isn’t going to handle it well when I try to rationally explain just why locking ourselves in a room won’t go over so well with the other two, namely a certain two year-old who screams at the top of his lungs when not getting what he wants WHEN he wants it. Did I mention we live in an apartment building? In Italy? And that our neighbors underneath us have comically mentioned hearing “the scream?” While they say the don’t care if they do hear us, I don’t think anyone enjoys waking up to a screaming child, especially one that isn’t hers, on her only day off in the week.
“Oh I haven’t taken my medicine. Maybe that will help.” I down 10 mg. of Lexapro and a glass of Diet Coke and think about the easy days--- about the days when I had one child and had the time every morning to read my Bible and ponder philosophical and theological ideas. Time to write in cute little homemade journals… time to read a parenting book here and there… time to pick my nose, twiddle my thumbs, clip my fingernails…without the demands of children filling my subconscious brain at all times. It’s not just their voices…and it’s not just in the morning… it’s just the idea of three people depending on me…sinful, immature, self-centered me…at all hours of the day. I understand why women keep their full-time jobs. Losing one’s identity in mothering, while it is made out to be such a harrowing thing on the covers of Parenting magazines…and such the morally “right thing” in Christian circles…is not exactly my idea of fulfillment.
Do not get me wrong. I have these moments when I truly see the fruit of my attempts at parenting. I see my son care for his little brother in a way that I know has somehow, between all the yelling and screaming and bickering that his parents do, been emulated by our underlying abundant love for him. I hear Keziah in the kitchen, spinning in circles and singing about Jesus and about how much she loves him (and about Satan and how she wants to kick his butt…but that’s another story). I see her bring me her misfit toys and tell me that they are for “Africa people.” And then there’s Ezra. And God love him, the two year-old kid is so incredibly wrapped up in his own wants and desires it isn’t even funny. But even when he’s innocently squeezing the life out of our pet bunny, I see love in his eyes and a desire to do what is right.
And I have to say that while I may struggle with depression at times, especially when in the midst of change (like now…just for example), children bring a certain joy that is unexplainable and strange. As completely cheesy and unhealthy as it sounds, they give me a reason (albeit not always the reason I want) to wake up in the morning. I know. I know. I should WANT to get out of bed. I should WANT to be joyful in every situation and so LOVE life that I desire to hop out of bed like Snow White and skip down the road to tell people about Jesus’ love for me. After all, I’m in “full-time ministry,” whatever that means (Insert Record scratching here).
But the reality is that I’m in a new place, enduring culture shock and a new language and no cheap fountain drinks and no Target…which have slowly found their replacements in yummy cappuccinos and the American-like mall…but still…
And then there are those actual important things in life—like relationships…and in this new home, in this new country, there are not those things that are familiar…like my mom and dad, my sisters, my friends… you know…all the things that give one a sense of identity and recognition
A pity party is not in order. Really. I chose this. At the end of the day, I love this. I’m always learning to embrace change, to try to have a good attitude toward life and its challenges. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. (After all, I am living in ITALY!) Following God is fun in that He truly does provide what we NEED. Perhaps not what we want always, but His provision is immense when we sojourn with Him. Sure I’m tempted to give up some days. And if it weren’t for my kids, there would probably be those days that I wouldn’t get out of bed.
Redemption lies in these moments, wrapped up like the gifts under my tree right now. These moments are change and the gifts are my children. While their demands suck every last bit of energy from me, I don’t know what I would do without them right now. They give me a glimpse of the past, as I remember their small helpless bodies juxtaposed against the individual creative and passionate (and completely stubborn) little people they are becoming. And they give me a peek into the future, as I try to live accountable for their knowledge of grace. I love watching how God uses all of this change to shape their lives…to help them embrace the difficulties that come with missing friends and cousins and grandmas and grandpas. And I have the opportunity to parent them through it all…to give hope even when I don’t necessarily feel hopeful.
My house is quiet now. Ezra is watching Thomas the Train on the computer, Elias is making a card out of magazine cutouts for our teammate, and Keziah is busy creating something with scissors and tape in her room. Dinner is on the stove (thanks to another teammate who has become like family to us)… and the smell of cider apple candles engulfs my senses. All is calm. All is bright.
Until the morning, that is.
