Alright. I know some of you hate Instagram and social media. I hate it too, as we’ve talked about before. But then you come across a post like the one I’m about to share with you, and you’re like, “Thank you, God, for putting this deeply encouraging and superiorly legit post in front of me.”
This post has some personal importance to me, not just because the way this lady puts things is exactly how I have felt about the baby and toddler stage of motherhood (and her and I have been mothers for almost the same amount of time), but because it was sent to me by my longest running friend, with whom I have had passionate, protracted conversations about this very subject.
And the subject is the classic “Enjoy these little years while they last! You’ll miss them someday” platitude that gets lobbed over the fence, weapon like, at us moms of tiny kids every half hour or so.
If you are struggling with “the little years,” you’re gonna love what this gal has to say:
So, my kids are 9, 7 and almost 4 years old, and I’m so close to the sweet spot, I can almost taste it. If my little guy was a year or two older and fully beyond the irrational meltdowns and the requiring of assistance to do things like buckling in and wiping bums, I’d be there.
The words, “You’ll miss this one day,” are finally beginning to resonate.
You see, for me, the baby and toddler years, while important and formative, were filled largely with feelings of worry, frustration, boredom, exhaustion, and an overall sensation of being trapped. I have never been truly at ease as a mother of babies and toddlers. I’m not particularly thrilled to admit how many times I longed for a “fast-forward button,” but I know myself pretty well, and I was positive I would thrive during these precious years where my children blossomed into more independent beings who, while still possessing that heart-melting purity, now bring with them a much more deeply reciprocal love and sophisticated emotional connection.
The photo of my kids on the second slide shows them dressed up in costumes they procured from around the house, unbeknownst to me, while I was off on my own exercising in the garage. Witnessing my kids entertain THEMSELVES while still being cute is probably the greatest feelings I have ever experienced as a mother to date. I may never forget that day; their laughter and my freedom to just observe it.
Further to this notion, and as an eternal optimist, always believing that brighter days are ahead, I feel it quite possible that the days I will miss most, have only just begun.
This post is for any moms who’ve ever felt guilty or like they’re not doing it right if the baby and toddler years are rough for you. You get to decide what you love most about motherhood, not anyone else, and if you havent arrived there yet or you’re in a tough spot, hang on, the winds will change. [emphasis mine]
Seriously, how legit is that.
And as a mother of an 8-year-old (not a toddler or baby) and a 4-year-old (definitely still a toddler and still dealing with irrational meltdowns that make me want to die), I can tell you right now this lady is telling the truth. When I hang with my oldest without her younger brother around, it’s so calm, so peaceful, so fun; almost like chillin with a tiny friend who has my exact hair color and jaw line.
The gifts and wit and personality of my 8-year-old are blooming forth out of her like the way a well-told story takes your breath away— in wonder. And do you know what? It’s OK that her presence brings me more life now than it did when she was pooing in her diapers and mashing banana into her face just for the fun of it.
It’s not that I love her more now than when she was a baby— far from it. I have sacrificed nearly my entire life, identity and exact hair color (so many grays popping out now…) to bring her the absolute best childhood within my power. I did that because of deep love for her. But what I see in her now feels like the rubber finally meeting the road. It feels like a very long lead-up to an exciting, epic story like Lord of the Rings or something, where it has finally gone from slow, plodding, meandering prose to compelling, emanating, captivating narrative.
My baby girl sure is a captivating narrative. And I feel I honor her in appreciating that now, rather than doing what all the random baby boomer grandmas tell me to do, which is lament that she can now walk, talk and wipe her own butt.
Because other than the intense sanctification it brings us, what is the point of having kids? Is it so they are always dependent on you? Always incomplete? Or is it to see what shape they will take as God, through our efforts and the efforts of every person in their tribe, leads them to what He planned for them before the foundation of the world?
We don’t have kids so they can sit in high chairs with mashed avocado in front of them their whole lives. We have kids to hopefully see them go from high chair to walking to running to one day flying, whatever that looks like for them.
Why do we think the healthy thing to do towards our kids is to mourn their growth? That’s like my husband of 12 years saying, “Man, Cas. I’ve watched you really grow a lot in your walk with God and in your relationships with others over these dozen years, but sometimes I miss the old days where you would have panic attacks because you weren’t trusting God or would just cut people out of your life when they wronged you instead of having patience with them.” Weird, right?
Take heart, my fellow pilgrims. You’re in good company in your trial and frustration with your kids. As with many things in this life, we either hurt now, or we hurt later. I have seen the mothers who really love the little years begin to struggle immensely once those little years are over. Their journey may have started in fairer seas than ours, but no one escapes the storms. Maybe starting out in a storm will actually turn out to be to our psychological and emotional advantage someday. Maybe our struggles, right here and now in the little years, are more of a gift than we realize.
Things will get better as the chiclets grow older. Not less sanctifying… but more epic and realistic. It’s like what the above Instagram post says— that her kids “now bring with them a much more deeply reciprocal love and sophisticated emotional connection.” I love how she put that. It’s like the difference between reading through Jesus’s genealogy in Matthew and Luke and then flipping over to His sermon on the mount. Both the genealogies and Jesus’s famous sermon are important… but which one captures your heart and gives you strength to go on?
Are our kids here for us? Are they here so we can fawn over them and keep them in a state of immature innocence their whole lives? Or are we here for them: to watch spellbound as the story of their life unfolds?
I don’t know about you, but I’m here to rejoice in the gracious and miraculous growth of those little gremlins who have my exact hair color. I’m not here for genealogies: I’m here for the dancing, glinting story the Creator wants to tell through my kids.
Speaking of Instagram, here’s the one connected to this newsletter in case you’re into that sort of thing!