It’s already July, 2017. WOW. I said at the beginning of the year that I’d blog more about what I am grateful for and I haven’t done enough blogging. Not because I lack things to be grateful for, or the gratitude itself . . .
I’m going to remedy my lack of blogging with a post about what I thank God for every day, without fail.
My kids, of course. My offspring. My crazies. My half-dozen.
Faith Ann, Caroline Mae, Scarlett Clare, Thomas Michael, Barrett Gabriel, Marian Grace.
Some reading now are totally thinking, yikes, six is a lot! And that is correct. Six is a lot. No doubt about that. I really couldn’t have guessed that I would have a large family. My husband and I both hoped for at least four, and were blessed with super fertility. Now I can’t imagine anything else.
I don’t have to tell you that it’s hard. Everyone knows kids are hard. One kid, twelve kids, whatever your number, you know how trying parenting can be.
From the very start, little ones come out demanding a lot. Nourishment. Attention. Cleaning up after. Those are the just basics. And each one is different, so you may think you kind of have it down after the first, and the next will come out with a totally different personality.
They grow out of the baby stage in one blink and become toddlers. Oh. Toddlers. Toddlers are cute. And terrifying. Ticking time-bombs that can throw tantrums over the color of a sippy cup, and then fall asleep on you within the hour, suddenly looking like angels, melting your heart. Terrorists.
I may be getting off track here – I suppose I could blog all about the hardships of kids, but this was originally about gratitude, correct? Yes, the hard is real, the hard is H-A-R-D. I mean, 100% honest, most difficult job I’ve ever had. But that’s not what I’m blogging about today. Moving on.
Let me tell you what I'm grateful for.
I’m grateful for the laughs. The laughs I get when I’m tickling them, or when their Daddy is chasing them around the house. The belly laughs I hear when they’re playing together. Oh, I really love those. Seeing your kids loving on each other, that sweet sibling love, is the best.
I’m grateful for the snuggles. The weight of a baby when they fall asleep after nursing. The weight of a toddler who crashed after playing too hard. The weight of a six-year-old, who fell asleep watching a movie on the couch, while transferring her to bed.
I’m grateful for the kisses. The early baby kisses that are way too slobbery but adorable. The “Mommy, you didn’t kiss me goodnight,” second kiss from a 4-year-old who is just prolonging bedtime. The kiss you see your baby give your husband out of the blue, just because. The kisses never get old.
I’m grateful for the moments I feel proud. I remember when my oldest first started recognizing letters. I remember my second baby being sent home with a letter from her teacher explaining that she was reading at almost a second-grade level, while she was still in Kinder. I remember watching my son hit the ball with all of his might off a tee, his very first time. I remember my sixth baby’s first steps towards me. I laughed, and cried, at the same time. My heart swelled with pride.
I’m telling you, they have me on my knees asking God for the grace and patience to parent them well. Then they have me on my knees thanking Him for the blessing that they truly are. He tells me time and time again – “This is exactly where I want you, taking care of these children I’ve entrusted to you.” I feel it, with my whole heart.
So, simply to say that I’m grateful for these children, it just doesn’t feel like enough.
I always tell each of my kids “I love you more than can be measured.” And it’s true. “To the moon and back”, is cute, but there is a stopping point to that. My love doesn’t fit on a scale.
“More than can be Measured” is the title of a book I’d like to write one day, about my parenting adventures. But I’m only eight years in, so . . . many, MANY more parenting adventures await me.
For now, suffice it to say – I am oh so grateful to God for my half-dozen. Almost too grateful for words.
Until next time . . .