”Um, Mrs. Wise … Jane had explosive diarrhea everywhere, and I’m pretty sure Lola ate it.”
Jane is our 5-month-old daughter.
Lola is our 4-year-old Basset Hound mutt.
And this was my welcome home after a rare adults-only Sunday Funday out.
Add in my 3-year-old, Henry, and my husband—and this is home.
I remember life before kids. It was gloriously unscheduled. It was quiet. It was impulsive. It was tidy. And I knew full-well that having children would change all of that, but I had no idea how much.
Cut to now.
We are up at the crack of dawn. Our son comes into our room at 100 mph ready to take on the day with abandon.
Most of my day is spent answering the big questions that come from a three-year-old:
“How does a baby get in your belly?”
“Does everyone poop?”
“What machine are you?”
“Can I have a cookie?”
“Do you have bones?”
“Who is God?”
“What did you say?”
“Can you wipe me?”
“Can I watch a show?”
I balance out my question-answering with playing with a laid back baby girl whose big brother loves her aggressively.
Parenting has been the most amazing journey I have ever been on. I have never had a job that required the skill level that parenting demands. I have never had a role that took so much stamina, creativity, energy, patience, grace and forgiveness as parenting.
I’m confident that I’m screwing my kids up every day in one way or another. And mercifully, I’m also confident that I’m getting things right. I’m loving them. I’m loving their dad. I’m providing for them. I’m playing with them. I’m guiding them. I’m teaching them. I’m forgiving them. I’m modeling mistake-making for them. I’m parenting them.
My children and my husband are my home. It is messy. It is loud. It is lovely. It is home.
Photo (Flickr CC) by Pink Sherbet Photography