I sip on my coffee in my cozy arm chair, Bible open to Proverbs 31 when my preschooler stumbles sweetly out of her room, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Good morning, Sweetheart," I greet her as she folds her slender frame into my lap. After our morning snuggle, I set her up at the table with a coloring book and a glass of milk while I whip up some scrambled eggs, plating up the perfect breakfast for my husband before waking the toddler tenderly for our day of carefully curated educational activities.
Just kidding. The toddler has been in bed with my husband and I since like 1:30 in the morning, the preschooler climbs into bed making her own requests for the day before I can even get my eyeballs open. My husband manages to hold her back with a granola bar while I disentangle myself from the toddler and do my own stumbling, headed for the fridge for my morning can of Mountain Dew.
With a last name like Pancake, I wanted my Mommy Blog to have a breakfast theme to it. It's poetic, the first paragraph of this post positively virtuous. But it isn't real. This is what's real.
My husband is ready to leave, backpack on his shoulder, and my eyeballs still aren't totally booted up yet. I'm still in my fuzzy robe, my hair is sticking out of last night's ponytail in all directions, and, to be perfectly honest, my nursing bra is probably still unclipped. But the girls and I group-hug Daddy, toddler in my arms and preschooler having wedged herself into the middle of our hug. "Dear God," I pray, "please bless our day. Help Daddy to focus and be as productive as he needs to be, bless Mommy and the girls' morning at the library, and help us to glorify You today. In Jesus' name, Amen."
To which the toddler responds with an emphatic "May-men!"
You see, I have these pictures in my head of what a Godly, homeschooling, stay-at-home mom is supposed to look like, and more often than not, I don't match those pictures. I'm more of a Judges 4 than a Proverbs 31 woman, today's culture and economy has turned "trad wife" into a social media fantasy, and I know Mountain Dew is bad for me, but coffee hates me so I do what a woman has to do.
But here's the part to notice: my toddler knows how the prayer ends.
It isn't a Pinterest prayer in an aesthetic home with idyllic vibes, but it's the very real picture of our family starting our day by surrendering it to God. The ground we stand on is the rock-solid foundation of our Savior who knows us, loves us, has always provided and cared for us, and always will. And even if it doesn't look like some part of my brain thinks it should, my girls know it. They're aware of the solid ground beneath our feet.
There are enough soft graphics of steaming coffee cups, enough blogs reflecting on the beauty of offspring from the kitchen sink as if those offspring actually play independently long enough for me to get the dishes done, enough studies on the second half of Proverbs 31. If that's what you're looking for, this blog isn't going to be it. This one is for real life: the life where there are always dishes in the sink and the laundry is never folded, where the mental load feels like more than I can carry, where I can wear the same t-shirt for three days and nobody would even notice. This is the one written from my daughter's bedroom floor supervising guinea pig play time: practicing her numbers by how many turds have been left on the blanket. I'm not even kidding. This blog: this blog is real life.
You probably have some tips and hacks that I've never heard of. Maybe I have some that can help you out. (I probably stole them from another mom somewhere along the way.) But I want you to know that you are seen, that you aren't alone, and that--whether it's a toddler's amen or a preschooler's bond with her guinea pig--this crazy motherhood journey?
It's worth it.
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