How Saints are Made

They say marriage is like a mirror, revealing things in each spouse’s character that each would rather not see. The challenge is to grow from these revelations, rather than bury them, run away or blame the other.

I believe Joe and I have grown leaps and bounds in our few years together, but never so much as in this past 16 months. If marriage is a mirror, parenthood is a magnifying mirror, making obvious even the tiniest imperfections.

We’ve both seen new sides of ourselves since Luca was born—good, bad and ugly.

It is so easy to get frustrated, to get angry.

I get frustrated when my son refuses to eat a nutritious and—I think—delicious meal I’ve spent my precious free time (his nap time) preparing.

I get frustrated when he treats his diaper change like torture, so I let him hang loose a while next to his toddler potty, only to see him pee on the floor—or worse, on his bed that I’ve just made with his last clean sheet. He loves going in his potty, announcing, “Brabo!” (bravo) and watching me dump the pee in the toilet. But he also loves watching his pee go anywhere in the house. Ugh.

I get frustrated when he just whines and whines and nothing makes him happy.

I get frustrated when it’s the middle of the night and he just. won’t. fall. asleep.

It is easy to discuss the happy side of parenthood, to declare some version of the cliché—with a smile—“parenting is the hardest job you’ll ever love.”

And those words are true for me, and probably for most who say them. But it is rare to understand someone else’s hard time, particularly if you don’t live through the details with them.

Before I had my own small child, I had no idea the depths of difficulty. I had no idea how my own character would be revealed and challenged.

Sometimes Joe and I wonder if parenthood is harder for us than others—if we are the only ones who feel trapped by our toddler’s strict nap and meal schedule. But I hear other parents talk, and I read blogs, and I watch comedy routines, and I realize we are not alone.

A mom of two small girls told me last year, when Luca was new, that she hadn’t had a chance to grow in her Christian faith since her first was born. She hadn’t had much time to read or focus on the spiritual.

Those words nagged at me for a few days until I realized why: She was wrong.

I normally don’t go around telling friends their personal reflections are flawed, but I couldn’t resist sharing what I saw in her.

It is difficult for any woman to find time for the kind of intentional personal growth she practiced before motherhood. But raising children is an opportunity for a practical crash course in developing the fruits of the Spirit: Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

My friend had good days and bad days, of course, but she was much farther along in that crash course, and I only hoped I’d learn as well as she had. I decided to make those fruits my goal.

This is not easy, particularly when I’m exhausted and my toddler demands to be held while I am trying to make dinner for him before he completely loses it. And by demands, I mean holding and leaning on my legs in such a way that if I move, he will fall to the ground.

Luca has made five separate ER visits and had three hospitalizations, and those were some of the hardest concentrated times in my life. But during those extreme challenges, it was easy to be a "good" parent, to be patient, gentle and kind.

It’s so much harder when things are fine. When I struggle to fill increasingly cold days. When the thought of going to a playground again makes me cringe a little bit.

You can’t phone it in with parenthood, whether or not you work outside the home. There are no sick days. Even if you find healthy ways to take breaks from your kids, you are a parent every hour of the day. And night. Children demand 110 percent, and that's taxing for anyone.

In those moments when I feel so frustrated I think I might explode, parenthood shows me my need for God.

A friend facing an ongoing conflict at work recently reflected, “Any idiot can get through a crisis—adrenaline will take care of most of that. It's in the day-to-day that the saints are made.”

So. True.

Perhaps the hardest thing about parenthood is sacrifice in the little things, day to day. Daily doing something I don’t feel like doing. Reading that same book ten times in a row. Praying for strength to stay calm while telling Luca again not to bite me or pull my hair. Playing in the dusty sandbox because he asked me to work the rake while he shovels. Giving up my plan to exercise because he pooped and woke himself up early from his nap. Keeping my cool when he spits out blueberries on the beige carpet.

Some days I see these “inconveniences” as gifts, and I am in awe at this wonderful child. But I can’t be emotionally on every day. No one can, and no one should be expected to. I think it is OK to have those days when you'd rather do something else.

But I can’t stop expressing love to my child just because I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I can’t stop changing diapers when I don’t feel like it. I can’t watch TV all day if I’m under the weather.

Of course it is healthy for parents to have outlets and hobbies apart from their brood, and of course it is healthy to take breaks, but even with those things in place, parenthood will bring you beyond what you can calmly handle on your own. It will reveal your selfishness and give you the chance to let your self-focus go, little by little.

In the midst of a rather controversial section of scripture discussing gender roles, the apostle Paul writes, “women will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety (1 Timothy 2:15).”

I don’t believe the author was talking literally about labor and delivery. I think he was talking about the much harder day in and day out work of raising children. I suspect the meaning is broader: At the time, women didn’t have careers or opportunities the way they do today, and fathers weren’t as involved in childrearing. I believe Paul's words apply to dads as well, and of course I don’t believe raising kids is the only way a women can grow and learn to rely on God—though it is one particularly intense opportunity to do so.

But just as the challenges of parenthood are far more acute than I’d anticipated, so is the love and the joy. The cliché is right.

I love watching my son learn the letter E and hearing him giggle uncontrollably at something unexpected. Feeling him cuddle up to me as he falls asleep. Seeing him get that spoon successfully from the bowl to his mouth. Listening to him make monkey noises. Hearing “Mama!” when he needs me.

I love that little man.

The thing about parenthood is that each moment—each breakthrough moment, each impossibly hard moment, each fun moment, each moment you lose your cool—is a gift.

A chance to become just a little bit more like a saint.

Franklin Covey Mom

At bedtime, after I’ve bathed and moisturized Luca, after I’ve read him his current favorite book four times, after he’s downed his sippy of non-dairy milk (“night night,” as he calls his drink), I lie on his floor-bound twin mattress and pretend to sleep as he shakes off the energy of the day and settles in for the night.

He romps around the room a bit—some nights that means emptying his sock or diaper drawer and announcing, “Sock!” “Diaper!”—and then, as he gets sleepy, he starts to roll around the bed and chatter.

New favorite toys.

“Bye, bye leab,” he said tonight, referring to the fallen leaves covering our housing area.

“Vvvvvvvv! Vvvvv! Beep beep!”

“Mmmmmeh,” he mooed from his downward dog pose, imitating the Korean onomatopoeia for a cow’s noise, part of a favorite book.

“Boom!” he cried, code for plopping down on his bed.

The chatter began to fade, and he spoke once more about the leaves. “Oh, leab,” he said softly. “Oh, leab.”

I'm not kidding; he absolutely loves leaves.

As I kept pretending to sleep, one eye peaking in a vain effort to protect myself from the inevitable head-butt to the cheekbone, I realized he was simply processing his day.

You know how some people can simply shut off the day and fall asleep when their head hits the pillow (ahem, Joe)? I am not one of those people, and apparently neither is Luca.

When I close my eyes at night, things I’ve seen, said or done dance around my brain. Especially television shows. If I’ve watched a show that is disturbing on some level, I have to sift through the images and language, allowing it to run through—and hopefully out of—my mind before I can fall asleep.

This nighttime reflection has been nagging at me for a few months; I have a growing sense of dissatisfaction with how I use my time. No, not the time I spend with Luca—I don’t want to change that.

This little man is way too much fun.

I mean when he’s asleep. After I’ve spent hours pouring myself out emotionally and physically, which is the nature of life as the primary caretaker of a toddler.

I suspect no one would blame me for using that precious naptime and post-bedtime to sit around and zone out. No one would blame me if I use that time to catch up with household duties before plopping on the couch to watch a mediocre TV show for a little while, or to browse Facebook.

It’s gotten harder to do much of anything else in my “free” time these days, now that Luca walks and communicates his preferences more clearly. It’s hard to explain exactly why that is, but with the joy of watching him learn comes a brand of emotional exhaustion I wasn’t expecting.

I had hoped I would have more time to exercise, to read and—especially—to write as Luca grew. I had hoped staying home would provide me the creative space to let my imagination flourish.

But it turns out imagination takes a back seat to endless household chores that seem to fill every single spare moment. It turns out imagination takes a back seat to that comfy couch and easy access to Netflix and Hulu.

Mothering is a lot of work. Babyhood and toddlerhood are demanding phases. It’s OK if I don’t accomplish anything on a personal level outside of my familial responsibilities, which are accomplishments in their own right.

True.

But.

Even though I’m tired and easily bogged down at home, I want to write. I want to read. I want to exercise. I want the things that float through my mind before I drift off to sleep to be constructive. Creative. Exciting.

If I want those things, emotional exhaustion is a hurdle to overcome. Household chores must be put in their place as tasks. I need to limit my Internet time.

I have to plan ahead to make room for creativity.

When I’ve worked in an office of any sort, I've been all about systems and efficiency. Outlook’s color-coded to-do list and calendar were my best friends. In my personal life, though, I prefer spontaneity and less pressure. I prefer getting things done when I feel like getting them done. I prefer deciding what to make for dinner based on what happens to be in the fridge. I write my to-dos on a dry-erase board or a random sticky note.

Today, I realized I need to Franklin Covey my personal life.

I need to set goals. Schedule the “big rocks” I want to accomplish before the less-important daily tasks that now consume my time. Figure out a central calendar system. Prioritize so I know what to do when Luca falls asleep, rather than defaulting to the old reliable remote control.

Today, I filled out November’s calendar with a menu of Luca-friendly dinners. I decided which days I should go to the Commissary. I broke this week’s naptimes into blocks of food preparation, exercise, writing and reading. I planned at least a small task for each evening. I scheduled time to respond to email and watch Parenthood.

I’m not sure how this will go. I’m sure I’ll need to make adjustments and be flexible within my plan.

But tonight, at least, my thoughts can be empowered when my head hits that pillow. Hopeful.