I'm working on it.

It's not part of my natural state to wish to stay up for days without sleep, or wear someone else's stomach acid on my shoulders, or wash huge swaths poop out of teeny, tiny clothing. It's not part of my natural state to go for weeks and weeks with no solitary moments - no moments alone, not even a shower or a trip to the loo. It's not part of my natural state to remain calm when the floor I've just picked up for the eighth time is suddenly littered with cheerios or spilled fruit or toys or tiny clothes. It's not part of my natural state to give up nearly everything I want for people too small to know, understand or care. It's not part of my natural state to control my selfish desires and my short temper. It's not part of my natural state to persevere, to endure, to press on, when 'me' is the last person to get a break that lasts fifteen minutes, if that.

Sometimes I don't want to do it. Sometimes I just don't want to. Sometimes I don't want to hear my name five hundred times in a row. Sometimes I just want it to be quiet. Sometimes I just want it to be still and soft and isolated.

There is never a moment when I don't love my kids. Even in those moments of longing for alone-ness, I still love them, and I am still filled with joy at the thought of their sweet smiles, soft skin, and shining eyes.

But you see, it's the 'them' that I love. It's easy to love them. That comes naturally. The hard part comes in the 'service'. Learning to love the service part is the part that doesn't come naturally. And let me just say, from my perspective (which isn't much better than cloudy, so don't take it to the bank or anything), learning to love being a servant, learning to be a good mother, is h-a-r-d, hard.

Some days I do a pretty good job. Some days I don't. I do my best and try to remind my mind that I am an imperfect parent raising imperfect children. But in the middle of the job, it's easy to lose sight of the times I do it well. It's easy to only see the times I lose my temper or don't get the dishes done or keep them up way too late or skip reading a book because I just don't feel like reading about big bird one more time. And it's easy to get stuck in a state of disappointment with the me that is mama.

Today was one of those days. Until right around lunch. When the sweetness that is my three-for-only-three-more-days little girl asked me why I was looking down at the ground.

And with that, she went back to messing around with her horses and her pasta salad.

I just sat there wiping away the water that kept springing up in my eyes.

"Not to be served, but to serve". Love is an action, after all. Press On.

The baby is watching, too, though she's fussing a bit in her daddy's arms. Girl-the-first is watching with all her 'darlings' - these are her stuffed animals, and she loves on them and totes them everywhere she goes, all day long. If she comes to watch Mama shower, the darlings go with. If she's eating her lunch, the darlings are there. In the same way, they travel along to movie night. She rearranges them as needed, giving each of them plenty of hugs and good viewing spots until they (and she) are satisfied. Poor daddy is still in his work shirt and dress pants; he's not as yet had a moment to slip into his comfy evening clothes. As I type this, I realize he must be really tired, too.

And then there's me. Me randomly sitting here, thinking random thoughts to the tune of 'Scales and Arpeggios', waiting for the next random load of Laundry to finish in the dryer.

I'm remembering how when we were home a few months back, Averie really wanted to watch this movie with her pal, who in turn, really wanted to watch something else. Ever the sweet gentleman, he gave in and sat in a chair watching with her. I'm remembering how when it was this cold back in the 'burg, I'd turn the heat in the apartment up and it would heat the whole place in a matter of minutes, unlike our drafty house where the heater runs and runs and runs and I'm always cold. I'm thinking about the coffee I drank at six, and wondering if it is going to keep the baby up all night. I'm thinking about nursery tomorrow, and how to manage groceries before nap time. I'm thinking about how I really need to work out, and how it always seems to be the last thing on the to do list. I'm thinking about how Isla suddenly looks so much like Scott, and how I feel a little bit sad about that because I really thought this time I was going to get one with my eyes. I'm wondering if that last thought is selfish, and thinking that it probably is.

Also, I'm thinking about the person who asked me if I was one of those parents who thinks my kids are the best 'thing since sliced bread', etc. And I'm kind of brewing a pot of fussy about the question and the 'friend' - even though I know that a.) they probably have no idea what a jerk question that is and b.) they don't have a spouse, much less any children. In general, I'm sure they didn't wake up in the morning and think about ways to irritate other people - at least I hope not - but I'm still annoyed about the whole thing.

I mean, what answer am I supposed to give there? "Uh, yeah, no, that's not me. I would never be one of those annoying people. Uh-uh. No-siree, not me." Because the insinuation is that only terribly annoying people would become parents and then think that their kids were incredible. I guess the 'hip' answer to the question, or at least the one that would make me a 'hip' parent is that of course I don't think I have the worlds best kids, and of course I don't think parenting is way cooler than bar hopping, and of course I'd trade an evening out for an evening in any day, and of course I think kids at the dinner table, at least in public, are a no-no.

What?!?!

Of course I think my kids are the best thing in my life since my marriage and I totally think they are incredible and amazing! I'm their mother, and anyway, what kind of mother, what kind of parent would I be if I didn't think my sweet girls were absolutely amazing? In point of fact, they ARE amazing. They are two tiny people, two tiny miracles, totally different from one another, and from me and their father, who I am privileged to know and love and help grow. I think being a parent is the most incredible thing I've ever done, and after God and my husband, my children are my world. I am in awe of how fast they grow, how fast they learn, how much they change in a day, week, month, year, how they go from a tiny six pound bundle to a running 3 footer in as many years.

And by the way, who asks this kind of a question? This kind of interrogation is really just a way to say without saying that person A is better than person B. And in this case, the measuring stick is whether or not a parent likes, or gasp, LOVES, their own kids.

I dunno. Like I typed earlier in this random mess of words, this person isn't married (perspective shift one) and doesn't have, or currently anticipate, any kids. (perspective shifts two, three, and so on). So you know, right there are two big stumbling blocks to understanding, to even beginning to comprehend, the kind of incredible that I'm thinking about when I contemplate my children. In part, it's not their fault.

On the other hand, any person with a bit of sense and at the minimum some common humility, should know that the parent-child bond is a sacred one. And also that mother bears in particular are prone to growl quickly when the issue of their children is up for discussion. And most people would acknowledge that it's a rather inappropriate question - a set up for condescension.

Ahh. Well. At the risk of grabbing the condescension and applying it from the parental perspective, I guess I'll just stop rambling and leave it that I'm thankful, so very thankful, for these two wonderful, incredibly amazing (and did I mention adorable) children. Of course they aren't perfect - I'm not either, but they are my own for a time, and they are a loan I am so very blessed to borrow.