What a Mom Needs to Remember When Her Life Feels Small

Laundry frames the end of my day, stacks of clean underwear and yet-to-be-folded t-shirts, drifts of unmatched socks and mountains of wrinkled jeans.

 Upturned baskets are scattered across the living room like tiny tables awaiting a tea party. But I’m not in the mood for a midnight soiree or a sip of liquid comfort. I’m drinking from my own deep reservoirs of self-pity.

I’m exhausted and the voices of discouragement in my head are clanking above what my heart knows to be true.

What did you do all day?
Why don’t you ever get anything done?
You’re never going to have time to do something that really matters.

I am murmuring under my breath as I rub the palm of my hand over those crumpled jeans, trying to press out the unwanted creases that sprouted in the dark of the unattended dryer. If only I could smooth the ragged edges of my soul in a similar fashion.

I know the good-Sunday-School-girl answer, the one that says whatever you do,  do it for the glory of God, but to be totally honest, I’m tired of my whatever.

I’m tired of folding laundry for His glory. I’m tired of wiping dirty noses and dirty floors and dirty faces for His glory. I’m tired of starting one hundred noble things and never finishing one.

I’m tired of dreaming big dreams but remaining stuck in the monotony of small things.

I reach for another pair of princess panties and try not to glance at the paper airplanes scattered willy nilly all through the bookshelves from the afternoon’s flying competition.

My husband walks in from the study where he’s been paying bills. He sinks onto the couch and props his feet on the coffee table. “How was your day?” he asks as he leans his head back against the leather cushion.

“Fine.” I punctuate my feeble reply with an overstated sigh and reach for one of those little tea tables. I flip the plastic basket back into a laundry holder again and begin filling it with folded underwear.

My pathetic sigh has lured my man off of the couch, and he’s settled quietly beside me on the floor, his long arm reaching for a fistful of dishtowels to fold.

“What did you do today?”

It’s a loaded question. 

“Apparently nothing,” I reply sweeping my arm across the disheveled room like a lawyer presenting evidence for a deposition.

“I know that’s not true,”  my husband retorts, those green eyes fixed on mine even as his big hands fold the thread-bare dishtowels. 

I line the baskets of folded clothes along the wall and begin to pick up the library books nesting in the oversized leather chair.

“It looks like you read lots of books today,” Rob says as he grabs the folded dish towels and heads to the kitchen to return them to their nesting place near the sink.

I drop an armful of Bernstein Bears books back into our library basket and pluck a few Nerf bullets out from under the book pile.

“And it looks like somebody had a shoot-out this afternoon,” my husband observes with a chuckle as he returns to the living room.

Rob eases himself back onto the couch and pulls a wad of paper from beneath the decorative pillow at his side. He unfolds the crumpled square of white and studies the first-grade scrawl on the battered page.

“Josh’s spelling list,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows.

Rob nods in understanding, both of us aware of our youngest son’s distaste for homework. Rob pulls a lonely red Lego piece out from beneath the same pillow. 

And I feel compelled to explain why there are bricks lingering near the spelling words. “I tried to turn homework into a game, you know, so Josh wouldn’t be such a crab about it….” I take the Lego from my husband’s hand and place it next to those foam bullets on the coffee table. “We spelled the words with bricks, tried to build a word tower with all the letters.” My voice trails off, deflated.  “But he still threw a fit.”

My man reaches for my hand and rubs his thumb over mine. “You’re a great mom.”

I sigh for the hundredth time that night and doodle a picture with my index finger in the thick film of dust on the end table.

I don’t feel like a great anything.

I just feel discouraged. And small.

Laundry piles and spelling lists.

Picture books and Lego towers.

Homework battles and Nerf gun wars.

A mother’s hours can feel like an infinite blur of insignificance.

I sink on the couch beside my number one fan, and flop my head on the pillow that had been hiding the remnants of the afternoon’s homework.

A wise woman would just call it a day and hold her tongue. But I try to put words to my frustration, try to justify all my pouting and sighing before I drop bone-weary into bed.

“Sometimes I just want to do something bigger than all of this…” I mumble.

I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the expression on my husband’s face. I already know what he’ll say, this man who believes that mothering is no small endeavor, this husband who esteems what I do even when I have no proof of accomplishment at the end of a day. I am blessed by an encourager like him, but I’m not seeking truth at the moment, only sympathy.

My man is quiet. He knows that I know the truth. He’s spoken it a thousand times since we brought home our first wiggly miracle fifteen-and-a-half years ago.

And he also knows that sometimes I just need to wrangle with those raw places in my soul, those flesh-deep desires that beg for something more.

He closes his eyes and I wonder if he’s praying, begging God to shake some sense into his tired wife. Or just asking for patience to sit with me while I battle my own demons of discouragement.

It’s the voice of another mother that enters my head as I lie there in the silence, words that I’ve read and re-read and quoted to mamas like me who grow weary of all the small.

Small is always the leverage of large. It’s one moment after the other, the small moments that turn a life. It’s the small actions that can change a life.

I open one eye and study those paper airplanes filling the bookshelves.

And I remember what Joshua had said as we’d transformed plain white pieces of paper into soar-and-dip flyers. “Mommy, you know what’s even better than making paper airplanes?”


I’d looked straight into those happy green orbs, the ones that look just like his Daddy’s, and I’d waited for his answer.

He’d tossed his newly-folded creation into the air and we’d watched it soar across the room until it crashed against the window. “Flying them with you.”

He’d cocked his head and flashed me a crooked grin, the gap in his front teeth leaving room for his tongue to waggle at me in happiness. And that look on his face had ushered in another memory from another day when the laundry had been piled high…

The kids had begged me to abandon the housework and join them outside.

“We need you!” Hannah had declared as I’d searched for my tennis shoes and followed her out the door.

Our driveway had been transformed into a race track with squiggles of pink sidewalk chalk stretching down the long winding cement. Scooters adorned with streamers and balloons were planted at the starting line. And the kids had danced about with giddy gladness. 

Hannah had handed me an orange paper flag, her instructions simple and clear. “We’re almost ready for the big race! When we’re all on our scooters, wave this flag and say go!”

I’d nodded and waited for the kids to mount their scooters. Then, with a swoop of my flag, the race had begun.

Wheels had squeaked. Kids had squealed. Until a cry had pierced the happy chaos.

Hannah had slapped the ground with an unsettling clunk, and I’d hurried to the scene of the wipe out. Her knee leaked blood and her scooter was scattered across the driveway in a dozen pieces.

“What happened?” I’d asked my shell-shocked girl as her big sister ran inside for some Bandaids.

“I don’t know….” Hannah had mumbled. “My scooter was just missing one little screw or something and then the whole thing just fell apart!”  My third-born had reached for a silver bolt lying on the cement beside her.

“You were missing a piece before you even started?” I’d asked, still trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would matter. It was just one small thing,” Hannah had confessed with a repentant purse of her pink lips.

We’d doctored my girl right there on the driveway and Josh had collected the wayward scooter parts in a bucket for re-assembly. Then, as Hannah had hobbled back to the house, her little brother cocked his head and flashed me a crooked grin, “I guess that small thing was really a big deal after all!”…

The clock is pushing midnight and my husband rises from the couch. I lie there, a mental list for morning scrolling through my mind.

Pack lunchboxes
Put library books in backpacks
Make sure Maggie’s got her show-and-tell
Set out Lizzy’s snack for track practice
Sign off on Hannah’s reading minutes
Peek at that English paper Luke asked me to proofread

My day will start with small things. My hours will tumble and roll together in a smear of book-reading and boo-boo-kissing and snack-serving and homework helping. 

But as I eye those paper airplanes on my way to bed, I picture a green-eyed boy’s smile, a blonde-haired girl’s bloodied knee, and a driveway dotted with scooter parts.

Maybe it’s the quick result of my husband’s prayers or just a gift of grace at the end of a long day, but for a moment, my frustration lifts and I remember that the small things might really be a big deal after all.

Being with these small people day after laundry-folding day; running beside them as they run toward Jesus–that’s the big deal of motherhood. 

 In fact, an unplanned lesson from a broken scooter suggests that the small things have a big impact on how we finish the race set before us.

And sometimes, when a mom’s legs are growing weary and the finish line feels far away, she  just needs to be reminded of that not-so-insignificant truth.

Oh, friends, I know there are a thousand other places you could be right now, countless other things you could be doing.

Thanks for taking a moment to linger here. It’s no small thing to run this race together.

What small things are discouraging you right now? How can I pray for you as you keep chasing after our great-big Savior? 

 

(c) Can Stock Photo