House on the Rock

It’s the longest and shortest years of your life, they say. Somehow marked by mundane repetition of rhythms and routines and yet, strangely, awakened to new magic every morning. The beautiful, messy chaos of life with littles. And I’m only a few months in. It might be fun, someday, to look back and see how it’s changed me:

1. Once crazed by clutter, I now welcome any invention (no matter how tacky) that will temporarily contain our little crawler. I used to beg people to not get us Christmas presents because I prided myself on a minimally-congested home. Now? Please. Give me every bouncer, ball pit, swing, seat, and playpen you can find. I don’t care where you put it. I just want to take a shower.
2. In a similar vein, I’ve become quite complacent with the skating rink of mashed banana bound to break backs on our vinyl floor. The avocado-smeared artwork is now an adornment of the table, and I’d much rather watch tiny hands pound on pouches of sweet potato slop than keep the kitchen clean. So take your socks off, maybe, if you plan to come over. Don’t mind the mess — just watch where you step.
3. I gained a reputation in both high school and college for that 9:00 bedtime that shut down every social engagement. That woman no longer exists. The uninterrupted me–time tucked beneath the dark side of 11 PM is the very lifeblood of my existence. Without it, I have no hobbies. With it, I indulge in crosswords, sitcoms, reading for fun, and, when the words will flow, blogging.
4. I have become strangely averse to the blasting summer sun. You may have gotten hints of this when you read that I was (for once) looking forward to fall, but if you know me, this is drastic. I still long for that midsummer sunkiss that settles in our skin for a season, but the borderline-translucent epidermis of my tiny baby makes me crave some cloudy days. Rainy mornings. Cooler temps. Winter. I never thought I would be that girl.
5. Audiobooks. By necessity. It was late August when I realized I hadn’t finished a book in three months. I shrunk my Goodreads goal from 50 to 30 and it seems quite likely I’ll shrink it again. The only way I can make it through a page is if it’s being read to me. I can now indulge the intelligence of Tim Keller, Andrew Peterson, and a few tacky rom-com murder-mysteries thanks to Audible and Spotify. And although I seldom retain the material as well, whatever gets me reading is a win for this season.

There are many, many more changes that have occurred since that jarring January day when we first brought our baby home. Some not-so-deep: I no longer portray my breakfast platter with stunning aesthetic and rainbow-ordered fruit arrangements. I mostly just shovel a banana in two bites so Luke can’t clutch it with chubby fingers and therefore add to the skating-rink slop.

But there are deeper changes — heart changes — that have realigned my priorities and brought me face-down to the fold of our Father as I plead for help, for rest, for patience, for peace. Prayer feels more like oxygen as I desperately seek the unsleeping God of the Universe to shelter our son through the night. My propensity to angry outbursts is now poisonous with its potential to set an example I don’t want our son to see. The Holy Spirit is no longer a theological concept but a person I cling to amidst sleepless nights, screaming cries, and the burning breakdowns of a bubble-nosed baby insistent on getting his way.

I’m thankful for the sanctification — the stripping of selfishness, pruning of pride, and complacency that comes with the cold, hard truth that I couldn’t have it all together if I tried. If it were up to me, there’d be no way I’d make it through another day. I hope (some of) these changes stick with me long after my boy has reached adulthood — may I still need prayer like I need air and may the Spirit be the guide for every single step I take!