Nothing can prepare you.

Nothing. I still remember trying to think of what it would be like to be a mom. You know, the dreams of rocking your baby to sleep, dressing them in precious clothes, watching them grow before your very eyes, ... I remember them well. Nothing could prepare me for the hard parts of being a parent, though. People tell you, you know, but you don't really acknowledge it. It's defeating to enter a new stage of life with a negative mindset, and rightly so, so we ignore it. We believe the best about the stage, and we know we'll somehow make it through. And you do, you make it through.

We were blessed to have our three children close together. Would I ask for that again? I'm not sure. I'm glad we don't get those chances to go back anyway. I think no matter how many kids you have or how far apart they are, parenting is just hard. Nothing can prepare you for the endless sacrifice. It starts small when that first child is small. You lose a little sleep, lose a little free time (or a lot?), lose a small amount of sanity (or a lot!), and you gradually grow into a big sacrificial parent (not always by choice, either). Nothing can prepare you for the years that roll by before you realize that you never really get a break. You never stop thinking about (or on behalf of) your children. You have to watch yourself, or you completely crowd out your amazing husband that helped get this ball rolling! And when you mess up, you come running back to that guy and promise you'll never forget your first love again. And you remember how much you need him... and he saves the day, like he always does. You can never prepare yourself for the endless laundry, the little bellies that are somehow never full, the kitchen floor that can never stay clean, the incessant demands on your body, your time, and your patience. You never really think about those things when that pregnancy test shows "YEP!" And rightly so. Those things just happen, and you struggle for patience, for worth, for clarity, for sanity. You struggle to stay true to your marriage, your faith, and your children. You struggle to put on the energy mask and get it all done. And you do. You get just enough done... and if you're fortunate, you get a little extra done, too. You can never prepare yourself for the days that you completely forget to play with your kids. They pepper you with kisses and you can't quit thinking about the vomit-covered clothes soaking in the sink or the checkbook that hasn't been balanced in three weeks. Nothing prepares you for the intense battle you have with your sinful self. I knew I was selfish, but I had no idea. I had no idea what it would be like to literally CHOOSE to walk away from the fight instead of put in the work. I wasn't prepared for the times I would come to my patient husband and beg him to tell me this wouldn't go on forever, right? We laugh, but inside, we both know it's probably a good thing kids grow up.

Though nothing could have prepared me for that, nothing could have prepared me for the love. I am still completely dumbfounded by the love I feel when I hold their sweet little cheeks between my hands and kiss their precious noses. I am terrified by the way I would do anything to protect them. I'm shocked that I can go from pleading God for patience to silently crying at the way they fit so neatly in my lap (not all at once, mind you...) just because I'm their mom. I never want to forget the way they look up at me for my approval. All the "Look, Mommy!" over and over again- it can either drive me to madness or remind me that they will soon stop asking. I never want to forget the way the girls try to hold my hands during prayer.... winding our fingers together till they are just right. I want to cherish the sound of their small voices, chattering on when they should be eating. I never want to forget the delight in their eyes as they look with excitement at the things I see over and over again... the sloppily placed strand of Christmas lights, or the candle that flickers to mask the smell of burnt popcorn (another interrupted task). I can't get over the joy I feel when they run to me for help or praise me for making the best chicken EVER. I find myself smiling long after they've left the room in their undies because they want to "run in their bum instead." I find myself laughing to myself over the way Jakob looks just like his daddy when he concentrates - or the way Elyse reminds me of a schoolteacher of mine already! Age 3.95.

Nothing could have prepared me for the joy in sacrifice. It's true: lose your life and you will find it. Jesus was right. Clean up the mess for the umpteenth time out of love, and you have loved Jesus. Wipe that tush for the billionth time, comfort that screaming baby again, do that special thing with the pb&j that she loves... do it in love, and you do it for Jesus. I have learned that I will keep messing up. I will keep forgetting the "lose my life" part. I'm not there yet. But, the more I find that my life is in Jesus, the more I want to lose myself in the finding.

It's good you just don't know all you get into when you have that sweet baby. Or three sweet babies. If you did, you'd miss the process of discovering that crucial truth: you have to lose your life to gain life. Really, is anyone dying to lose their life? Hmm.. I wasn't. But, until you experience that sweetness, you just don't get it. Until you experience a God who lost his Son so you could gain life, you won't appreciate it. I don't appreciate it unless I remember.

Oh, I long for that day when I don't have to "remember" the truth anymore. I can't wait to finally be THERE. But, for today, I don't want to miss a moment. Even the stinky (literally) moments are precious. I'm not going to lie... I am terrified by the way they look to me. Terrified to think that they will remember all the things that I've muttered under my breath when I just can't get something done. But, they forgive. They forget, thankfully. Someday, I hope they will just remember that I loved them like I loved Jesus: imperfectly at times, but faithfully. Tonight, my lap was claimed by a feverish baby boy. My second-born was in a small rocking chair next to mine, rocking her puppy. My firstborn was dancing to my poorly-sung song, impressing me with her fabulous ballerina moves. Emily looked up at me, patted my rocking chair and said, "You're the big one, I'm the little one." She had no idea how that set my mind to racing...