They proudly bring me gifts painted in garish colors, fling arms around me in wildness of affection.
I iron their clothes and help with buttons and fix piggy tails in baby hair.
And I wonder if mothers a hundred years ago doubted themselves as much as I do now. If the Native American mother with her infant strapped to her back agonized over her choice to wear her baby. If Ma Ingalls thought even for a moment that she had spent too much time that day doing housework and not enough time reading books or doing fingerplays with her little girls.
Sometimes I think that our society just overthinks everything. All the conveniences of my home have done nothing for me but give me more reason to dwell inward.
God would not have me dwell inward.
He would have my thoughts fixed on Him, on the work He has given me to do, on the sweet moments of joy He has given me the leisure to savor.
I do not think that if a pioneer woman were given a microwave and a dishwasher and a gas dryer that she would spend all her extra time thinking of all the things she had done wrong. I think she would know the preciousness of her time, thank God for an extra moment, and go out and dance in the tall prairie grass with her little ones.
Or maybe not.
I really don’t know. I just know this:
This moment of skinny boy arms flung around my shoulders, of bruised boy knees kneeling beside me on the bed for a kiss, of fat little girl hand curled trustingly around my finger– this moment is a gift.
And I choose to unwrap it, to savor it, and to enjoy all their undeserved trust and love.
Because this motherhood thing, it does have its perks. By grace I learn to just accept the gifts.