The other day I headed out to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. Before long I was skirting around all sorts of tricked-out strollers, the little ones tucked comfortably inside looking all couture in their holiday best while their siblings ran excitedly alongside Mama.
It didn’t take long before the ugly green started rising in my throat, the envy of these that wowed me—these well-manicured mamas who {I just knew} would use the wailings of their straddled-to-the-hip toddlers and the untimely playing of the older kids as delightful fodder for that night’s Pinterest boards. Those mamas who were actually having fun with motherhood.
I can’t do this today, Lord.
Recently I shared with you how I’m parenting again. Parenting as in up all night sometimes with my beautiful grand-daughter. She and I, we’re doing the best we can. In the crazy of our daily routine, we’re trusting somehow that God is working as each day starts with me begging God to keep that car line open until we get there and ends when we fall exhausted each night into story time.
It’s just too much sometimes. I long to do this right, this substitute parenting. I want to help my grand-daughter overcome these lingering obstacles that threaten to impact the rest of her days. I want to fill the gap others have created. I want to inspire her creativity, encourage her independence, and disciple her tender heart.
And now, out of nowhere, comes the hustle and bustle of recitals and programs and gift-buying and parties and card-sending and having to go here when I really need to be there. Quiet as a cat she snuck up on me, this holi-daze that threatens to cripple me.
What happens when all that sanctimonious talk about the “reason for the season” falls flat? Where is the festive joy, the Norman Rockwell of it all . . .
I’m posting today over at Write Where It Hurts . . . join me for the rest of this post?
