It was the perfect storm. A long, busy weekend. Routine and schedule thrown off. It was a Tuesday that felt like a Monday in every sense of the word.
“I can’t find my other shoe.”
Charlotte was getting dressed for Kindergarten, and when it came time for the shoes, she only had one. She is a bit of a “shoe flinger”— she likes to loosen her shoes just enough, kick her leg high and flick her foot, sending her shoes soaring into the air, landing in random, uncertain locations. It was only a matter of time before she would lose a shoe entirely. Today happened to be the day.
When it is five minutes until it’s time to load up for school, hearing that your child cannot find a piece of her school uniform is one of the top three worst things she could say. “I’m going to puke” and “Remember, you’re chaperoning my field trip today” are numbers 1 and 2, respectively.
We hadn’t yet picked up a second pair of uniform shoes for Charlotte, so these were her only option. I’d like to say that I played it cool… that I was the source of grace and positivity that my five year old needed in that moment…but I was far from that. I was stressed. I was grouchy. I was angry. I was mean.
And when I found my girl standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, putting on a pair of blue and white striped tennis shoes, smoothing her hair and her skirt with her hands, I immediately felt guilt and shame. I missed a moment to be the mother I wanted to be, and my daughter was forced to pick herself up and move on without my help.
Luke took her to school in the tennis shoes, and the world did not end. I drove to our storage unit, opened the bin of Noelle’s outgrown uniforms, and I found her shoes from Kindergarten. A full size larger than what Charlotte wears, I figured they were better than nothing, and I dropped them off at the school on my way home.
The weight of my shortcomings as a mother this morning felt heavy and suffocating. I began telling myself that a good mother would not have reacted the way that I did, and that a good mother would have let the shoe incident roll off her back.
But I have spent a lot of time and energy bettering my mind this summer, and, thankfully, like muscle memory, my brain put the negative self-talk in its place and stopped it in its tracks.
Rather than continue to rake myself over the coals of motherhood failure for my reaction, I rested in the truth.
Yes.
I rested in the truth.
My brain gets a high off emotion, but it thrives on the truth. It has taken a lot of practice, discipline, and prayer to find this place. But now, instead of allowing one shitty morning to derail my entire day or make me feel unworthy of a second chance, I simply rest.
I rest in the truth that I was created for this. No, not to mess up but to be a mother. I was created for motherhood, and my children were created for me. I may have lots of passions and pursuits and interests and careers throughout my lifetime, but I was created to be a mother to these children. It was not an accident. To quote Rachel Hollis, I cannot fail at something I was created to do.
I rest in the truth that “mom-guilt” is a distraction. It comes from a good place. Really it does. We love our children so much that we feel awful when we don’t get it right. It’s ok to have those feelings, but you have to let them go quickly. If we spend too much time in guilt, we fall victim to the trap Satan has set — that if we fixate on ourselves and our guilt, we can’t be effective at living the abundant life God has promised us. We ignore our blessings, our talents & gifts, and the fullness of God’s love.
I rest in the truth that I am loved. Even when I am ugly. Even when I am tired. Even when I am frustrated. Even when I am not fun to be around. You know how I know this? Because I love my children when they are ugly, tired, frustrated, and not fun to be around. And God loves me like that, because I am His child, too. I am blessed to be loved by my husband, my children, and friends and family, too, but even if I had no one – I would still rest in this truth.
I rest in the truth that shame cannot survive being spoken. Honestly? That is the very basis of this blog. I write to share my shame. In a string of several sentences, I am able to take this thing, whatever it is that has made me feel less-than, unworthy, and embarrassed, and transform it into a new being — one that can provide support for someone else, one that can find common ground to stand on, one that can heal and encourage change. Once spoken and brought into the light — it is no longer shame.
In these truths, I feel calm. In these truths, I feel free.
Wistful to restful, in these truths.
Mamas, rest.
