When I was pregnant with my very first baby, Rebekkah, I had every intention of being the absolute best mother on this planet or die trying. Most mothers aim high with the first-born offspring. The next year, I had my son Dj in accordance with my plan to have all my kids at once so they would bond with each other, and I adjusted my goals again to a more reasonable level…I’d settle for being the best mother in Texas, or maybe just in the little town we lived in. Then, the year after that, I had Caitlyn, already sensing I might not have thought this plan out as well as I should have, but still committed to it. And to make things really interesting, both Bekkie and Dj learned to walk within a short time span, and Dj learned how to catapult himself out of his baby bed to the tile floor below. I suddenly found myself chasing a bunch of kids who had their own plans, and they were never any better thought out than mine were. I never factored in the possibility they would actually have their own opinions and desires, and they might not coincide with mine at all. By the third one though, I immediately aborted the plan and tied my tubes. I already had my hands full and my brain cracked a little more everyday until they turned 4 years old and I could actually reason with them some of the time. It was the longest, happiest, hardest, most sleep deprived 4 years of my entire life. And I have no idea how we all made it out alive!
With three children under the age of three to care for, expectations had to be adjusted regularly. With age comes some wisdom, but it always seemed to me those snippets of knowledge always dawned on me a day late and a dollar short. At 23, I now realize I didn’t have one single clue what I was getting myself into, and it was probably the mercy of God that I didn’t make any really permanent mistakes. I didn’t think about potty training, teething, colic, or any of the other million things babies are known for when I launched my dream of children that loved one another. All the other really important stuff just didn’t occur to me until I was hip-high in dirty diapers and pacifiers. And by that time, I was already committed, so it was a suck it up situation.
They still don’t cooperate with my visions no matter how much I want them to, and it would seem that they were instinctively better captains of their lives than I ever would have been. They are strong, unafraid, survivors, and they find things to love about life daily. ..They’ve always had their own plans for what they needed from life, and it wasn’t the exact same things I did. Fear doesn’t seem to be something they struggle with, and I am glad about that most of time. Then my son jumps off the roof barefooted, unafraid of broken necks, death, hospital bills or wheelchairs, but with the sure belief that he can fly if he really wants it bad enough, and I wish they’d gotten maybe a tiny bit more of my fear and less of my inability to really flesh out a decent plan.
I love all of you, and miss all your little faces. Please come home soon!!