At least once a week, I pull out my trusty bottle of Windex and the same worn rag and have a go at my sliding glass doors. My children apparently don’t know how to use the handle and need to put two full handprints on the glass as they slide it open and closed. Sometimes, they paint the windows with bubbles; sometimes, their mouths make big sticky O’s on the glass. However, those few minutes with an unobstructed view of my backyard are short-lived; a kid inevitably uses the door, and the fingerprints are back again.
“You’re going to miss this one day,” we are reminded when we sigh about the cereal smushed into a couch cushion.
Of course, when my children have flown the coop, I will yearn for the years of having children in my house. My oldest is only eight and I am in the throes of mothering littles, but I still tear up when I see videos of my kids when they were younger. I can’t imagine a day without their snuggles, a day when I might not know what they’re doing or even talk to them—not to mention a day without having at least two butts that need wiping. But will I honestly miss the fingerprints, the shoes I am constantly tripping over, the hectic trips to the store with a basketball team of children? Or will I miss them and our time together, even if that meant sacrifice along the way?
The world today has lost its capacity to recognize nuance. We tend to label things all or nothing. A liked post, a passing comment, an old picture—all are enough for us to throw someone into a category, cross our arms, and decide we know all we need to know. We have the tendency to want to label our lives that way: Either we love being a mom—which means loving literally everything about it, never complaining about it or feeling overwhelmed by it, and constantly reminding everyone how grateful we are for it—or we hate it. If you’re frustrated by the kids repeatedly asking for the stuffed animal by the checkout line (Why are they selling stuffies at grocery stores again?), you’d better shove that frustration down your throat because you’re going to miss this. If you find yourself scraping melted gum from a kid’s pocket again, you better smile affectionately at the offending child because you’re going to miss this. When you wipe up yet another pool of water around the sink because apparently we can’t wash our hands without flooding the bathroom, just remember you’re going to miss this.
Is it wrong to say that I won’t miss all of it? Is it wrong to say that there will be a not-so-small piece of me that will appreciate not having someone repeatedly yelling “Mom!” at me while I am trying to parallel park? Is it possible that I can adore my kids and absolutely love motherhood but also won’t miss some of the challenges, too?
On one of our recent visits to New Orleans, we went to one of our favorite Mardi Gras parades. We had to get there early on a particularly hot day to get a good spot. The kids were squirmy, sticky, and demanding snacks-on-snacks-on-snacks. I was overwhelmed and wondered if we needed to call it before everyone lost their minds. Once the parade got rolling though, the day turned out to be amazing and filled with great memories. But is it wrong that I do not look back on the waiting in the blazing heat fondly? Or when we spent two months on and off antibiotics because of strep throat, is it okay that I loved having extra downtime with my family without also loving strep itself?
We aren’t required to enjoy our crosses, big or small, but we are asked to carry them. When I find myself wiping up muddy footprints again, I can offer that setback to God without being elated; I can be both grateful for my wonderful children and also wish that they would learn to check their shoes before they traipse through the house. I can think of plenty of moments throughout my life that I didn’t love—and truthfully, I do not miss them—but I love my life and am grateful for where I am now.
So I would like to end this “You’re going to miss this” narrative. Not only do I not want to be reminded of how fleeting my time with them is (my Google Photos memories do enough of that for me), but we also don’t need to add to the guilt that comes baked into motherhood. Not every single moment of every single day needs to be wonderful—and maybe that’s the point. Anything worth doing requires challenge, and motherhood is no exception. From pregnancy to sleepless nights to postpartum bodies to raging hormones, all of it is worth the beautiful little souls we partner with God in creating. (And none of us really miss being nine months’ pregnant, right?) Besides, motherhood is supposed to refine us. It should stretch us to the limits of our virtue and break us open, pointing out all of the ways that we need to grow. The Church sees motherhood as more than just a rite of passage, and our sacrifices—our swallowing our frustration over the floors, our deep breaths during the tantrums, our pulling out the rag to wipe the sliding doors yet again—are more than just tough moments. When offered to God and done joyfully, the moments we, if we’re honest, aren’t going to miss help conform us more to who God wants us to be.
