I can't remember when I was first reminded that, as moms, everything we do for our families is a blessing to them. Everything. The mundane-ordinary-boring-monotonous-disgusting-all-of- it. It's all for them. And it all blesses them.
Wherever it was that I first heard it, it struck a chord. Of course it is! Those dishes need to be washed in order of my family to eat. Those clothes need to be cleaned so they have something to wear. Those teeny, tiny little pieces of ground in crayon need to be individually plucked out of the carpet so that I can lose whats left of my mind.
OK, so maybe it doesn't always feel like I'm blessing my family.
Like when I was standing in K-Mart a few days ago, getting thrown up on, while simultaneously scrubbing vomit off of my shirt, and O's shirt, and Kmart's shopping cart with a red bandana. (Thank you Taylor Swift, for your Red tour, which Aunt Cathy and I took N to the night before for her birthday. But to be honest, a Yellowish Brown tour would have been better for me).
Like the dishes that I do six times a day. The paint I've been trying to scrub off the kitchen table for three days. The toothpaste that somehow found its way to the bathroom ceiling. Sorry, but dealing with these things doesn't always feel like I'm blessing anyone.
Least of all, me.
And yet, I am. Of course I am. And I'm trying really, really hard to keep that in the forefront of my mind when, for example, I'm trying to get black magic marker off of a mattress. Or get the drinking straw out of the heating vent. Or clean up the milk that I just watched my two year old intentionally pour onto the playroom floor.
Those diapers I thought I'd certainly be done changing by now? I'm not just up to my elbows in poop. I'm blessing my family. Going through the basket of one hundred socks that never seem to have the right match? Blessing my family. The green paint that I'm scrubbing off of the toilet seat, and the tub, and the bathroom walls? Just blessing my family.
Again. And again. And again.
I suspect it will be a while before I really convince myself of any of this.
Like maybe never.
And yet, I keep trying. Because if I have to spend half of my morning folding clothes in the laundry room, and the other half pulling Barbie dolls, and scribbled on papers, and socks without matches out from under beds, it does help if I can remind myself that there is a deeper purpose to all of this.
Or at least a slightly more palatable way of thinking about it
After all, the greatest gift is being able to help someone else, isn't it?
Which causes me to wonder what my children are thinking as they make these messes.
"Better get some more paint on the walls. We want Mom to have a chance to bless us today."
"Better take off this gross diaper and throw it behind the couch. Mom really deserves to bless us today...or the day after tomorrow, when she finally finds it".
"Better pour this bowl of fresh fruit into the toilet. Mom sure does like it when she gets to bless us".
OK, so maybe they don't think any of those things. Maybe they're just being kids, doing what kids do.
Dirtying. Cluttering. Destroying.
The truth is, some days I'm not really good at blessing people in these ways.
In fact, most days I pretty much suck at it.
I would rather be blessing my children by reading to them, or taking them to the park, or by giving them the give of my sanity, which may sometimes require that I spend a few quiet
Alone.
Some days It's hard to see how any of these things are a blessing.
Any of them, that is, except the sweet, crazy, wild bunch who can trash this house like nobody's business.
They bless me a hundred times over, each and every day.
The least I can do is make sure they have clean underwear.
Just don't look too closely at their socks.
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