Push

Being a parent involves saying so. many. words.

Sometimes I wonder why God made introverts at all. It seems like the whole world is full of talkers, noise-makers, sound-causers.

It's enough to fry my senses.

And then I wonder even further, why did God make introvert mothers?

Last night, while watching the Golden Globes, a girlfriend referred to Fifty Shades of Grey as "mommy porn."

I had to disagree.

"Mommy porn" to me is a silent room where no one is calling out, "Mommy?" every 5 seconds.

Parents coach their babies and hope that their first words will be "mommy" or "mama" or "dada," and when that word finally escapes your child's lips it feels like overwhelming joy. Like the Grinch must have felt when his heart grew 3 sizes. It's the best feeling, and the novelty of it lasts a while, I'll admit.

But then.

"Mommy" can start to sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Please don't misunderstand; I love my kids and I love being their mom.

But the constant "mommy" calling, never-ending stream of random questions, and non-stop chatter can be overwhelming for this loves-her-quiet-and-her-personal-space mama.

Yes, laugh now.

We all know I"m growing a tiny human who will shred every last bit of quiet in this house to smithereens.

And personal space? Ha! I may as well say adios to that now.

I guess I'm just trying to wrap my head around more noise, more mess, more imperfect, more of my sin coming to the surface.

Kids need.

Kids need a lot.

Kids need a lot all the time.

This is why so many say that becoming a parent has been the greatest sanctification process of their lives. It really does take all of you, and it will not satisfied with a mediocre offering.

The thing is, even knowing this, even feeling how I feel some days (exhausted, overwhelmed, frustrated, anxious, over-stimulated), I would still do it all over again.

That crazy, biological, innate, inexplainable love you have for your child conquers all the things that bug the hell out of you. The "Mommy?s,"the pee on the toilet seat, the mountain of laundry (of clothes that aren't even dirty but got thrown in the hamper due to laziness), the everyday spills of beverages and meals, the destruction of my once-nice things, the constant talking-sounds-noises coming from my children...I can keep going, but you get the point...I would still do it again. (I would still find all these things annoying, too).

I know that I am both called and privileged to be a mother. I know the lives He has entrusted me with are precious. I know that He has equipped me to do this job, even when I get the urge to run and hide in my room or cry because why won't they stop talking to me? I know I'm not a cookie-cutter, pinteresty mom packing bento boxes for my kids' lunches and coordinating celebrity-level birthday parties for all their friends; I'll never be that mom. I don't even have the energy to consider trying to be that mom. I certainly don't have all the words it would take.

But I am an advocate. And a defender. And a loud voice where there are too many hushed whispers.

And that's who my kids need me to be.

Sure, we still snuggle on the couch and sip hot chocolate and read story books and have tickle fights; we do all those things that mamas and sons do. And they need that, too. And I'll be that for them, too.

But sometimes, this mommy likes to remember when she wasn't one; When she and her husband would steal off to San Diego on a whim and stay in a hotel on the beach, or drive up the central coast of California and go wine tasting, or jet off on a plane to some new destination...That, my friends, is mommy porn.

And when I've had my fill of reminiscing about life B.C. (before children), I take a deep breath, pick up the laundry basket, grab a roll of toilet paper under my arm, and get back to work.

C'est la vie.