It Takes a Village

Yesterday, my day began at 5:20 with the dreaded sounds of my daughter’s bedroom door opening, her tiny footsteps entering the hall and the zipper of her sleepsack dragging the floor as she pattered her way into our bedroom. Of course, she made it a point to come to my side of the bed. Brian, sadly, has trained her well. Despite valiant efforts to convince Anna that 5:20…and 5:40…and 6:15…still meant “bedtime,” Anna’s wide-eyed persistence eventually won out at 6:58 when I finally relented, unable to deny the rising sun any longer.

Our morning, from that moment forward, churned about in one nasty battle after another. Anna was being destructive, defiant and ill-tempered—an over-tired toddler with a sour attitude. As with returning Anna to bed, it seemed that nothing I did to try to discipline her—or encourage her—or ignore her nastiness made the slightest bit of difference in our day. With Brian gone, I suddenly felt as though I were suffocating, as though I had no hopes of coming up for air in the midst of the “yuck” hanging thick at my house.

I wanted a break from Anna desperately, and all at once I felt guilty and weak and otherwise awful for even allowing that thought to enter my mind. I am away from Anna three days a week while I work, and my sister-in-law kept her yesterday afternoon so I could do some much-needed shopping child free. I had hardly been with Anna, so I felt especially defeated when I realized that I was already wrung out, that I couldn’t seem to manage the blessings I’ve been given, that I couldn’t seem to see clearly enough to make sensible parenting choices that are so easy for me to point out when watching others raise their kids. I was humbled and heartbroken.

As I sat on the couch in our living room and looked over at Anna, I hit a wall. The tears flooded my eyes before I realized what was happening. “Anna, what am I going to do with you? What am I going to do with me?”

Anna, true to form that morning, saw my tears, pretended to cry, and laughed. Not exactly what I needed.

There have been moments this week when I have been able to take life’s ugly moments and find beauty in them, blessings in them. I found a way to be grateful for a nasty rock chip in my windshield. I even caught myself feeling thankful for the way a blob of cat puke came up out of the basement carpet. I had been attempting to view life through the lens of God’s blessings, and I was liking the results. I absolutely hated it that I couldn’t seem to change the course of my morning by forcing myself to see how my blessings outweighed my inconveniences. It was just one more knock that made me more convinced of my failure.

Despite the laundry on the floor, dust on the furniture, and dishes in the sink, I loaded Anna up and took her out to my mom and dad’s. It was just nice to be somewhere where people loved us both and could offer hugs, help, and toddler entertainment. When I called Brian on my way out to my parents’, he lovingly told me that one bad day wouldn’t ruin Anna, and it wouldn’t break me, either. He reminded me that his mom and sister were available, too, and that they understand the heartaches of motherhood. My sister later called and was able to offer a few words of love and encouragement too.

Since that time, the expression, “It takes a village to raise a child” has been drifting through my thoughts.  I am so thankful for my “village”—both the family I have close and friends and family who are scattered across the U.S. who help me stay grounded as a mom. By uplifting my family in prayer and offering kind notes and phone calls, they keep us connected, regardless of the distance.

God truly is good, and with a more harmonious morning so far, it’s easier to breathe and see His grace. I probably should go now, though; Anna just came running out of her bedroom—stark naked and holding a thermometer…

Hoping everyone who reads this has the kind of “village” I do and that God encourages you in unexpected ways today.