Don't Swallow Me

A baby was born and I became something new.  Something altogether exciting and challenging and rewarding and overwhelming and fulfilling.  Suddenly spit-up covered my clothes and life took on exponentially more meaning.  Decisions became more weighty, their consequences farther-reaching.  Judgement, perceived and real, lurked behind the eyes of strangers and friends.  Mundane events became the evening's entertainment.

Everywhere I went, Motherhood followed.  It didn't get tucked into bed with the kids in the evening.  It wouldn't stay at home and wave good-bye as I pulled off the driveway in the van.  It wouldn't stop interrupting what should have been my time.  It's sticky fingerprints took over every square inch of the house and of my heart.  And I loved it.

I love it so much that sometimes it's hard to remember it is not everything.  I am also more.  Or at least I am also other.  I can't turn Motherhood off or lock her at home, but perhaps I can hide her for a bit.  Is that terrible of me to suggest?  Maybe I can disguise her for a few moments and try to forget she's there.  Does she have to define all of me?

I want to be the cliched best mother I can be, I do.  But not more than I want to be the best wife I can be.  Best friend I can be.  Best teacher I can be.  Best Jesus-follower I can be.

Don't swallow me, Motherhood.  I'm pulling my life back out of your jaws and reclaiming it before you gulp it down.  Back off.