Kindness Is Magic
I plunge into a sofa at Parents and Toddlers. I yank the sleeve of Asher’s coat, kissing his temple and removing it to reveal the charcoal sweater I grabbed from the ‘Okay For A Second Day’ pile this morning.
Kindness is Magic, it says in bold white letters on the chest. I can’t help but cringe. I bought it in an emergency nappy-blowout situation, but he needs to wear it if I’ve spent real life money on it. If I was careless enough to forget a change of clothes, then I can learn to care less about what they say. These are the consequences, I tell myself in my serious-mum disciplining voice.
The aroma of buttery wholemeal toast wafting from the kitchen hatch comforts me, at least until the sound of toddlers ramming Cosi Coup cars into play kitchens slices through my skull. Ah, the familiar soundtrack to my Friday mornings at Parents and Toddlers. Any minute now, a cup of instant coffee will appear in my hands and I’ll try not to cry when an older volunteer mothers me.
“What age is he?” a new mum asks, looking at Asher and gesturing for her own baby to ‘make friends’.
“Ummm,” I hesitate and smile, as I figure out today’s date and then measure how far we are from the 15th. The 15th anchors me when I’m tossed around on the waves of sleep deprivation, and battered by the days that have no beginning or end.
“He’s nearly 10 months old,” I finally conclude. “What about yours?” I ask vaguely, as if I’m asking her where she got her mascara, because I’m not sure if the bald, neutral-clad cutie in her arms is a boy or a girl.
She hesitates too, and both of us smirk, because despite meeting 30 seconds ago, we both know these aren’t our first children.
As she does the maths, I wince at 10 months old. Something jars inside me. Like the feeling I get when Asher grinds his teeth, fascinated by their newness in his mouth, and my whole body grimaces at the sound. Determined to enjoy the toast I fought so hard to get out of the house for, I ignore the feeling and make my merry way to the hatch to collect my rewards.
Driving home, I make a mental list of everything I have to do before the school pick up. Lord, please make Asher take a good nap, I pray as I do before every nap, as though God is a magical nap genie, here to grant my every nap wish. By His grace, sometimes He does.
I’m trying to distract myself from replaying the whole morning at Parents and Toddlers in my mind and thinking myself into a hole. I’ve been handling a smidge of what seems to be anxiety (potentially the postpartum kind but potentially just the plain, old regular kind) and it strikes at the most inconvenient times. I know I know. Is there ever a convenient time to feel anxious?
My new mum friend spent the morning telling me about her full time job and her part time baking business and her love of the gym. For once, it isn’t something I said that replays in my mind, as if my 8 year old is shouting, “Alexa! Repeat this song!”. Rather, it’s something I felt.
Sad? No.
Sentimental? Not this time.
Embarrassed? Not quite.
Disappointed? Getting there.
The need to prove myself? Ah, there it is.
Of course.
By the time my older son, Reuben was 10 months old, I had already been back at work for a long time and he was happily settled into daycare. I had repeated my A levels, was studying alongside my job, had lost 3 stone through a well-balanced (if I do say so myself) diet and exercise I loved, and I was in the process of applying to university. I admire that Reb. She worked hard. Sure, her soul was a mess. But quite frankly, she bossed her life.
Now? As Asher hits the 10 month mark (without giving me any notice), I’m jobless and choosing to stay that way for now. I’m still soothing him every hour or more between 7pm and 6am (when I drop-kick him into Daddy’s arms for a while before he goes to work) and I spend a lot of my days shuffling around the house with said-baby on my hip, resembling an olympic gymnast as I manoeuvre from one chore to the next without setting him down.
Apart from the odd existential crisis over distant future plans, I haven’t tried to use this time to gain more qualifications or begin a side hustle, like the mums I admire on Instagram. But even then, after Paddy talks me down from the crisis ledge, I’m content to return to the present, focussing only on dirty nappies and spelling tests. Surviving, yes, but also enjoying one day at a time.
Oh, and the well-balanced diet and love of exercise? Ha. Breastfeeding is basically cardio, and the token vegetable at dinner balances out the chocolate consumption, right? Right?
This Reb is working hard, too. She really is.
But do I admire her, too?
Why did I secretly want to tell my new mum friend that 2 years ago, I volunteered at that same Parents and Toddler’s group, I placed warm coffees in the hands of weary mothers and attempted to place warmer words of comfort in their souls; and I didn’t wear the leggings I slept in the night before.
Why did that old icky feeling blaze through my heart for a moment? It was fleeting, but I’d recognise it’s chains anywhere. Holding me captive, when all I really want is to be captivated by my 10 month old.
As a young, single mum, the (self-inflicted) need to prove myself fuelled my early motherhood. I was so determined to prove I hadn’t thrown it all away, I bulldozed from one thing to the next, searching for a sense of worth and validation. I’m not sure what the ‘all’ was that I seemingly threw away. My education? Future career? Traveling opportunities? Reputation? Finances? Eligibility?
Bleugh. Young, single Reb doesn’t need my admiration.
She needs a hug.
I hear Asher groan over the monitor and I gallop up the stairs to lift him from his cot. I laugh at myself because I’m legitimately excited to see him and his post-sleep rosy cheeks. And sure enough, when I see him on his honkers, peeking through the wooden bars at me, I want to smooch him all over. And if smooching 10 month old Asher was the only thing I did for the rest of my life, I think I’d be delighted.
It’s tempting to think I should be ‘further on’ at this stage. To be embarrassed when I realise we’ve hit the 10 month mark (which wasn’t even a mark until my brain made it one *facepalm*). To look back when it seems like I’m never moving forward.
I’m not sure what fuels my not-so-early motherhood now, but it isn’t usually the need to prove myself. Maybe it’s the security of my socially acceptable age or the rings on my fourth finger. But even with my ducks in order (which are anything but orderly in reality), they don’t fix my messy cesspit of a soul. The ducks are cute, but they don’t deliver my worth. Their presence might make life easier, but only His presence brings fullness of joy (Psalm 16:11).
I didn’t throw it ‘all’ away and I sure as heck proved myself, but I also proved to myself that it ‘all’ doesn’t really matter. ‘It all’ is a pile of rubbish. (Rest assured I’m using a very different word in my head but my eldest can read now so...)
I’ll tell you (but mostly tell myself) what matters: When old insecurities threaten to take hold, my soul clings to the One now holding me (Psalm 63:8). When my own thoughts trip me up, I collapse into His strong but gentle arms. When the temptation to compare raises its ugly head, I discover my worth in His Word, not because of something I’ve done but simply by design - simply by imaging my worthy creator.
I stopped needing to prove myself when I realised I never can. Someday I’ll stand face to face with God and it’s Jesus’ worthiness I’ll need, not my own. There’s nothing to prove when the Saviour of the world says, “You’re mine”.
And when anxiety creeps in to steal those truths from my heart, I remember what He has already done. Hellbent on going my own way, He called me to Himself and He continues to whisper my name when the doubts creep in. It's scandalously undeserved. Just as God called the Israelites His Own after every betrayal, and just as Jesus authored Grace hanging naked on a cross, every time I think I need to prove something, He looks me in the wayward eye and says “Come. That’s not who you are anymore”. And then He leads me, not with eye-rolls and harsh words, but with ties of love and cords of kindness (Hosea 11:4).
Perhaps His kindness fuels my not-so-early motherhood.
It frees me up to enjoy this day, this moment, without thinking I need to earn it first. Without thinking I need to do all the things and be all the people. Maybe I have thrown it ‘all’ away. Maybe someday, perhaps tomorrow or perhaps in 10 years, I’ll be ‘further on’ and less sleep deprived. I’ll be working or studying or galavanting again. Or maybe I won’t. But either way, whatever it ‘all’ is, it will all be for Him.
With Asher in one arm, I reach up with the other to grab a cup from the cupboard. Just before I pour my coffee, I notice the bottom of the cup is still dirty. I pour it anyway. It doesn’t matter, I think, I won’t get the chance to finish it. With this barnacle baby attached to my hip, I never see the bottom of a cup. I shuffle through to the living room, noticing my red-rimmed eyes in the reflection of the microwave (0/10 would not recommend a microwave with a mirror) and I plonk both of us down on the play mat. Asher whimpers because he’s beside me instead of on top of me. Pulling out the basket of books, and pulling one another close, we choose our favourites to read before we leave to collect Reuben. Asher becomes ridiculously animated as I read. I feel content, I realise. Sitting on this mat, seen by nobody but One (two counting my 10 month old).
Kindness is magic, I guess.