If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results, then mothers are exactly as crazy as their kids think they are. From the moment the line turns pink on the pregnancy test, mothers operate at the highest levels of optimism. “Maybe this time, the smell of my husband’s toothpaste won’t make me feel nauseous.” “Maybe these jeans will fit just one more time before I have to switch to maternity pants.” “Maybe this baby will be born before its due date…”
And that slightly off-kilter hopefulness is what sends them careening into the early years of motherhood, hoping that this time they’ll find two matching socks in a load of laundry, or this will be the time baby sleeps through the night or the child will sit quietly in his car seat, or wear the outfit, or eat the cheese, or [insert whatever totally logical request a mother lays before her child in almost near certainty it will be rejected, but she tries anyway.]
We, mothers, are lunatics fueled on cortisol and optimism. We don’t always expect to win our battles, but we fight them anyway because it’s the right thing to do.
I received the following text from my son, who puts his own socks on now, but I’m not sure they match any more than they did when he was two. He’s across the globe this Mother’s Day, so his text arrived at 1:40 am. And, because I am a mother, his number is set to “always disturb,” and my phone helpfully read it to me out loud, waking me from my slumber.
He said, “Happy Mother’s Day! Thanks for putting up with all of the nonsense that comes with twins and 7 children. You did a fantastic job.”
I replied, at a much later, more sensible hour, “You are all a worthy nonsense. Please come home safe and soon.”
Because, even now, when my kids dress themselves and travel worldwide without me, motherhood is full of worthy nonsense. Tracking them on Life 360 to “trust and verify” that they’ll always be where they said they would be, hoping just once they don’t step over the bag of garbage but pick it up on their way outside, begging them to get a job, get a haircut, put gas in the car, and make good choices. And the really crazy part is, I can feel eighty different kinds of irritation at a teen for multiple infractions, but I’ll still send her silly gifs, cook his favorite meal, and be utterly thrilled just to see their faces walk through the door at the end of the night.
From the outside, it doesn’t make a bit of sense.
Hardly fiscally responsible.
Obviously not great for my health.
Guaranteed to break my heart into millions of pieces again and again and again.
But any parent, mom or dad, will tell you that the minute that baby is in your arms, raising kids becomes the most worthy bit of nonsense you will ever attempt.
Nobody gets it perfect, except the God who invented parenthood and showed us all The Greatest Nonsense ever known in the Gospel. He allowed the sacrifice of His perfect son to cover the penalty owed by rebellious children who rejected Him repeatedly. His solution to the world’s sin didn’t make a lot of sense from the outside, either. But that nonsensical, dogged pursuit of His wayward sons and daughters is just the sort of thing that gives me hope to keep pursuing my own bedraggled, hormone-ridden children no matter how many different directions they scatter.
It’s the ultimate exercise in optimism.
I may gain more skills or accomplish new things in my life, but there will never be a more worthy, ridiculous pursuit than the one I have now and always: Mother to Sam, Ian, Adam, Ellen, Willa, Mira, and Finn. It’s silly, exhilarating, terrifying, exhausting, infuriating, hilarious, and humbling. But it’s a worthy sort of nonsense.
And they’re worth every bit of effort.