Life is hard. It keeps getting harder. There is more pain. There is more beauty.
A few weeks ago I needed a babysitter and called a friend to see if her daughter could handle my three boys. She said her daughter would love to, but she had school, then track practice and homework, and needed to rest up for a big meet the next day.
I remember those days. I remember the stomach twisting fear right before a race, the palm sweating stress of lining up on the starting line, the sweat and unintentional tears pushing up the last big hill, digging deep for that shred of speed it would take to pass the runner in front of me. If Jesus and my track coach have had one thing in common, it is this: they believe I always have a bit more in my reservoir than I think I do.
Needless to say, I congratulated my friend on protecting her daughter and agreed that of course we would look for another babysitter.
People keep telling me that it gets worse, that parenting gets harder, that I will "miss these days" because "they go by so fast."
"Enjoy it while it lasts."
"It doesn't get any easier."
I hear you, I do. I believe you. But stop.
When my boys are teenagers they will be bigger than me, and when they are in goofy moods they will lift me off the floor and make me laugh.
When my son realizes no one else understands he will share his heart with me, because I am the one who has believed in him.
When his homework is too hard he will sit down at the kitchen table, we will be elbow to elbow, and we will get headaches together because algebra is so. stinking. hard. I will notice how thick his arms have gotten, I will marvel at the stubble forming like peach fuzz beneath his chin, and he will roll his eyes and ask me why I am tearing up.
I know there will be countless moments of pain that I will endure, and I know that my joints may start to ache more, but do you remember what it feels like to be woken up at 6 am and step on a Lego?!
Of course growing up is hard, and painful, but isn't it gorgeous too? I love the soft skin on my baby, but I can't imagine that I won't be proud when his hands are callused and his arms are sinewy.
So here is what I say to the high school girls: I hear you. I see you. Life gets harder, but what you're facing right now is just as hard as what you will endure at thirty. You will get stronger. You are hearing that growing up is gross, but that's all lies. People treat you like you're living in a carnival, but I know better. High school is awfully difficult, and falling in love and out of love is too. Growing up is marvelous. It's terrifying like a roller coaster, delicious like Cheesecake Factory, mean as a hornet, and tender as a lamb. You will get wrinkles, but the growing pains ease. You will lose your pimples and get some gray hairs. Better haircuts are coming, and more expensive razors really do work better. Friendships will get deeper. Wine tastes good.
To all of the moms who have been here, and have moved on: Enjoy the quiet! I know it's lonely, but just appreciate it, because I am looking forward to the quiet and I want to believe I'll love it, at least sometimes. Also, I will get there. I know it's more complicated where you are, I'm just not ready to think about that yet. And occasionally I would trade one day of worrying about my not-quite-ahead-of-the-eight-ball retirement plan instead of trying to wrangle three children to two different doctor appointments without changing a stinky diaper in my car. We young moms standing on the playground and acting like we know it all really do look up to you. We are impressed, slightly jealous, and a bit in awe.
For myself: calm down, little girl. You recently hit thirty, and you feel all grown up. You're not, so relax. You have lots more growing to do, much more to learn and much more time to improve on those decorating skills. You will miss these moments, and you will be grateful you've gotten through. There is so much happening right now, stop waiting for it to be cleaned up and put away. Shower tomorrow, play Grinch Bingo today. Take a moment and be glad there are NO AP Physics exams looming. Your car is not from 1987. Your clutter is adorable, it is tiny coats and tiny socks and papers with a little person's handwriting that is dripping with glue put on by tiny hands.
Time seems hell bent on destruction. It feels like a whip, a scourge, a driving cattle prod. I'd like to throw something back in its face. I would like to whip around in the middle of my flight, plant my heels in the ground, and scream: I'm not afraid of you, give it your best shot. Give me the option to go back, I won't. Give me the option to skip ahead, I won't. Just keep on ticking, clock. You ain't got nothin' on the beauty of living.
