"Mom", an annoyed voice calls from the bathtub. My five-year-old son, who is in the middle of acting out a water war with his Power Ranger figurines rather than cleaning behind his ears as he takes a bath.
"What are you doing?" he asks, seemingly irritated by this interruption in his bath time.
"Oh. Just...um, dancing."
"That's not dancing." He's right of course. I'd more liken it to the wretching movements of a cat heaving up a hair ball. I hitch my mom jeans back up to my belly button and venture downstairs to the clean laundry pile still spread across the living room floor; still unfolded; still waiting for me. Laundry. My arch nemesis of household chores. The Newman to my Seinfeld. Laundry is just one of those chores than can be put off, so usually I do. I mean, the kids have to eat every day. The chickens have to be let out of their coop in the morning. The toilet has to be scrubbed (only because my kids won't go if it looks too gross inside). Reports have to be completed for work the next day. But laundry can be tucked away in its nice little closet for days on end. Okay, weeks.
What results from this procrastination is that we have no matching socks. Like, ever. Thankfully, my kids are not yet in school and think nothing of this. They don't know socks are even supposed to match. I just recently found my daughter on her way out the door with two different shoes on her feet. She just overgeneralized the little sock rule to all things that go on her feet. Silly kids.
Although we're getting by just fine in our mismatched footwear of a home, guilt plagues me about this sock stuff. What kind of a mom can't find A match to a sock?
We opened our home to a little baby last fall (hence the looong neglected blog). Beautiful little K was two days old and still in the hospital when DCFS called and asked if I could take her. Crazy, right? It's an amazing story of being led that I will love to share once a coherent thought enters my head and I can put together the right words to tell it. But, I did want to mention this little baby's socks. K came into our home with a full garbage bag of little baby socks. Teeny tiny matching socks!
I found myself hard pressed to find a reason that a mom with all of those matching baby socks would be unfit to care for her baby. Of course, these thoughts were just my own maternal insecurities shining through as many times I'm hard pressed to come up with a reason that I am a fit mother. I can't fold a load of laundry in a timely fashion to save my life. I accidentally kind of twerked in front of my child. And on some days, I am overwhelmed by the responsibility that parenting carries to the point that I can't breathe. In her article, "There's more to Life than Happiness", Emily Esfahani Smith elaborates on the differences between living a happy life, living a meaningful life and which category parenting falls into (I'm sure you can quite easily guess). She cites Victor Frankl, author of Man's Search for Meaning as saying, "Being human always points, and is directed, to something or someone, other than oneself--be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter. The more one forgets himself--by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love--the more human he is." Reading her article serves as a both a wonderful deterrent from any time that I could be spending folding laundry as well as a reminder to trust, to know that despite the stresses of the mountain of laundry and all the rest, through the one who is greater than me, I am able to teach these little people the important lessons that will, in turn, give them the confidence to trust God's work in their life and choose the sometimes more challenging and meaningful road.
http://m.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/01/theres-more-to-life-than-being-happy/266805/ credit CB