Sometimes I don’t want to share. From the time they are conceived they share my body. Even now, they want to cuddle, hug and hang on me at the most inconvenient and uncomfortable of times. I deal with way too many bodily fluids that are not my own. Sometimes I would just like some time and space to myself.
My time isn’t my own either. When I’m not nursing or pumping I’m reading, assisting with writing or cajoling our way through math. When my husband comes home, I want his attention, his affection but I also want my children to feel bonded to him, to feel loved. Spring has arrived and my daughter reminds me that we didn’t have a garden last year, which made her very sad. Sometimes I feel at the constant mercy of the tiny, quick changing feelings.
Because the truth is, I want to share life with them. That’s why I made the choices I have, to be home, to homeschool them. But sometimes it’s hard not to feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. Because the moment I realize my almost-four-year-old can read and my six year old is starting to do math without having to count on her fingers (though she continues to claim she can’t), I live for those. But I could do without the bickering, hurtful words and constant complains. I feel as though I will never be good enough.
It’s a wonder that the Son of God was willing to come and do life with us; with all our frustrations, impatience and ingratitude. Because we are children too, who make messes we want him to clean up for us, filled with whining and complaining when we don’t get our own way. He gave his life for me, and them and you.
So what choice do I have, but to pray for strength and soldier on; knowing that because of his sacrifice I’m not alone.
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