So glad

Sometimes I am not glad that I have little children at home. Sometimes I feel like I am going crazy and the noise and the arguing and the tattle telling and the no peace-and-quiet drive me up the wall and I feel like I would rather be clipping the toenails of chimpanzees than be in the midst of my life as a mother. And as horrible as that all sounds, it's the truth. But today, as I was talking with a woman whom I greatly admire, I was struck with a sense of ownership.

I know, it's sorta hard to understand so I'll do my best to explain it to you in Emily.

Our children, my children, are just that. Mine. No one else's. They belong to me, to us. To me and Michael. Their triumphs are ours. Their hardships? Ours. Even their little spats belong to us. And because these little things belong to us, we are responsible for them. The way they deal with issues, the way they handle an argument, their tone of voice; all of it they learned from us. Sadly, all the yelling they can attribute to me. I'm not too proud of it, but there it is. And today while speaking with my friend, she said something that made the positive, non-yelling people who live in my brain kick the tooshies of the negative yell leaders out my brain's back door.

What she said wasn't very profound, but it made an impact on me and for that small moment, I got it. I got what she meant when she said that if she could have just one day with her kids, one day when they were all small and dependent and admiring, she'd be so different. She'd be so nice. I have a hard time picturing this woman mean. Ever. But I also didn't know her when she was raising 6 kids. She may have been the grumpy-don't-bug-me-again mold from which I was cast. Who knows? But I do know this: I know that if my kids, our kids, can make me into the kind of person this woman is, then I've got a good thing coming.

So tonight as I type this, I am glad. I'm glad that I have a toddler who doesn't like to sleep in her own bed and would rather sleep in mine. I'm glad that I have a 10 year old who likes to barge into my room without knocking because he just wants to "hang out" with us. I'm glad our 8 year old daughter sometimes gets into an argument with a friend at school and tells me about it before the mother of the other little girl has a chance to call because it means that I have taught her (and continue to teach her) well in the ways of women. I am glad for the worries and the internal battles that are waged on the forefront of my mind. I'm glad that every hour of every day I wonder if I'm doing it right. I'm glad because hopefully it means that there is a small chance that I am doing something right.

Tonight, I'm just really, really glad.