When we first moved to Hartington, Abby was 4 months old. We had moved from a two bedroom apartment into a five bedroom, two bathroom house. I had no job, and what seemed like all the time in the world. What a WONDERFUL opportunity to test out my dream of being a stay-at-home-mom. I had visions of having a hot supper cooking for my husband when he walked through the door at 5:30, a clean and happy baby on my hip, a freshly dusted home with newly vacuumed carpets. You know... everything that comes naturally to a SAHM, right?
Nearly a month into my transition, the dishes piled and the loneliness crept in. How in the world could ONE baby, ONE four month old, need so much attention that I couldn't care for my home? My life was a shamble of breastfeeding, pumping, and bottle rotations, with JUST enough time to sip on some cold coffee. Between books and blowout bath times, and crying as I prayed for her to just take a nap, Ben would walk in at 5:30 to no plans for dinner and a wife who hadn't yet brushed her teeth that day. I felt like a failure.
My life as a teacher ran on schedules. My life as a woman relies on to-do lists. Crossing things off my lists has always refreshed me, it's made me feel my best. Productivity brings me to life. And while I had every intention of quitting my job and being a SAHM eventually, I thought that I would have a beautiful balance of carrying babies around while I scrubbed floors and cooked meals.
I quickly realized that the dream of a clean house wasn't something that can be done when you're trying to be a fully invested parent.
Ben and I constantly have the conversation that being a housewife and being a stay-at-home-mom are two different occupations. I'm so fortunate that he knows and understands that, and most mornings, he has laundry and dishes done before I even wake up so that I can fully invest in my day. But dang... I miss having the dream of doing those things while my kids quietly played together.
I know that day will come, it will. But at 3 and 1, and with another on the way, the moments of them quietly playing together are fewer than them wanting to play with mommy. And when we "clean" together, it's a mess of water everywhere and dirt just swept to another area of the floor (it's cute, but not clean!).
The story of Mary and Martha comes to mind in a very real way for me as a mom. I LOVE being a Martha. Dang, I do. I want to serve, and clean that house, and cook meals for those I love. But being a Martha just isn't what I'm called to as a mother. I'm called to be a Mary. Whether we are working moms, or we stay home all day, we are called to be the ones that "sit at the feet of Jesus and listen." Our babies are the face of Jesus.
So when my three year old wants me to watch her get herself dressed to show me she can do it, I'll sit there for twenty minutes ;) and do it. And when the dishes don't get done until nap time because we were building forts, that's just how it's going to swing for a couple of years. I can't believe how difficult it is for me to be a Mary. But I'll keep trying, for them.
All of this being said, it is crucially important that you have dignity of home, in whatever form that looks like for you and your family. There are days I send my kids to daycare so I can clean the house (even though I know that there will be chocolate muffin smeared all over the floor the next day). There are mornings I'll put on a Daniel Tiger so I can drink some coffee and blog (**ahem, right now). There are times we put on a 15 minute timer so they can silently read books while I sit down and read my own book as well. Those moments of separation are necessary. They are the "filling" moments, so I can give in a Mary-way (and let me tell you, there's no giving like playing pretend for H O U R S).
So for all of you stay-at-home-moms and dads out there, know that you are okay being a Mary today. Do what you need to in order to fulfill the Martha in you, but know that you are not failing your household by not maintaining your household.
I'm off to clean chocolate muffin out of my one-year-old's toes (How in the hell did it get there?).
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