The other night after the kids were in bed we watched The (live action) Jungle Book (on Netflix, *squeal*) and I was hit with something pretty heavy. This is not surprising since I was watching a Disney movie and they tend to give me all the feels. But I felt heavy with the worst kind of guilt. Mom guilt. If you haven't seen the movie (what are you?!) there's a part where the mama wolf fiercely says in defense of her man cub: "You're mine. Mine to me." In true Disney-fanatic form I got goosebumps and showed them off to my husband. We do nerdy stuff like that. But, more importantly, in that moment I realized that I wasn't being the mother I wanted to be. And not in the way that the do-it-all mom (which I am not *sighhh*) tells herself she can do more. No. I really saw myself clearly and realized how deeply I was failing my son.
They tell you making the jump from 1 to 2 kids is harder than the initial jump from 0 to 1. Did they tell you that? Well they told me that. And I thought, Seriously? How can that possibly be? Well, lemme tell ya, it can be. My life as a first time mother was pretty dreamy. With one baby in the house I followed the advice: "sleep when your baby sleeps" with ease. I did dishes while Everett laid on a blanket nearby. I took showers while peeking out of the curtain at him in his rock-n-play. I had all the attention in the world for every one of my baby's milestones.
After having Della I was amazed at how my heart could hold so much love for both of my kiddos. I've talked about this phenomenon before. But I quickly found that my time was not so easily divided. Sleeping while baby sleeps is now not an option as my toddler begs me "Mommy, play cars!". Dishes pile up...and I'm now without a dishwasher, so it's more infinitely a pain in the butt. And, showers? Showers, shower...show-errrr. What does this word mean? Excuse me one moment while I go look it up in the dictionary.
On top of this my sweet Della girl has been diagnosed with silent reflux, so while she's the cutest baby around, a lot of times she certainly isn't the happiest.
Some days I can physically see the strain this is having on Everett. The guilt that comes with that is as thick as a rain cloud. To try to calm Della down I would sing, "You Are My Sunshine" because, frankly, it's one of the only songs I know all the words to. One day Everett heard me singing to her and said "No Mommy! That Everett's song!" He definitely had a point since I had been singing this to him before every nap since his birth, so I tried another song: "When You Wish Upon a Star" today. He came out of the kitchen, eyes wet, and said desperately "No! Don't sing that, that Everett's Disney/Mickey song!" I thought it was the saddest, sweetest thing. Gut wrenching. I'm going to find a new song for Della.
I know I can't fix these things on my own. I have to turn to the Lord and ask for guidance. I've often heard it said that kids don't come with an instruction manual. But I've found that they do: prayer. So I asked how to help my sweet Everett. And with soft, simple nudges the answers came. Della's asleep, get out the play-doh with Everett. So I did, and OH the way his eyes lit up! I kept my heart in tune and more answers came:
It doesn't really matter which shirt he wears, let him choose. He wants to practice making decisions.
Don't get upset, he's struggling and needs to know you understand how he's feeling.
Make sure he knows you love him today. Tell him now.
Give him time.
Listen.
I know each day will continue to be a struggle. It's not easy. But I want my kids to know they can trust me and come to me with their problems to feel my love. Today, tomorrow, when they're teenagers (yikes) and in 20 years. I want them to both feel individually loved and important. I want them to feel God's love for them through me. Because they are mine.
Mine to me.
