Reflections of Love

I've been reflecting on what Monday's post reveals about my evolution as a mother. And not just that I haven't read the Nativity story to my four-year-old often enough.

There was a time when I never would have shared that story with anyone outside of my family, certainly not with other homeschooling mothers. I would have been embarrassed that my almost-five-year-old would have made such a ridiculous statement. Surely, at almost-five, she should know that Jesus was never named Pocahontas, if I'm doing my job and she's capable of learning.

Somewhere along the road of my childhood, I became somewhat performance-driven, and my self-worth was centered more on how well I did what I did than on who I was (or as it should have been, to Whom I belonged). I was a shy and quiet kid but bright enough to play the game of school quite well. My grades earned recognition and gave me an identity to which I clung. I don't think my parents caused this by putting too much emphasis on my performance---it was simply a by-product of the nature of school and competitive ranking.

When I left school and work (paid work) behind and became a mother, there were no longer any As or honor rolls to bolster my ego. There weren't any more positive work reviews or promotions from my social work supervisors. There were just dishes and laundry and a baby. I've written before about how good housekeeping is not exactly my forte...so I depended on the baby to reflect my worth.

And what a baby she was. She was bright and beautiful and absolutely perfect in every way. She was our only child for eight years, and as those years passed, she excelled in pretty much everything she did. We adored her and were oh so happy in our little family. I can honestly say that I have always loved her unconditionally and that my love would have been no less had she been less gifted.

But I also know that I rather enjoyed the compliments I received on her behalf....because I received them as compliments to myself as well. Oh, did she make me look good.

Our good and gracious Lord knew that I needed to get past this nonsense if I were ever to grow in holiness. And so He gave me children who were every bit as bright and beautiful, but a bit lacking in the area of perfection. He also allowed my first daughter's adolescence to show me that, contrary to previous beliefs, she is lacking in that area as well, but not nearly as much as I am.

It has been a slow and somewhat painful process for me---frustrating and so very humbling---this letting go of wanting to look good, of wanting my kids to look good. I remember with shame how quick I was to tell people that Valya and Nastia were newly adopted, lest anyone suspect that I was the one responsible for my daughters' social faux pas. In doing so, I made it quite obvious that I was truly only responsible for my own.

We all face such a temptation (straight from you know who) to compare ourselves and our children to others and want to come out on top, or at least not at the bottom. As mothers who educate our children at home, we are not immune to this. Several years ago when my sister-in-law was struggling to teach her oldest to read, she asked me how it was possible that every other homeschooled child she encountered was advanced in reading, according to his or her mother. I do think we are a bit more honest about it now as a whole.

Maybe I'm mellowing with age or maybe I've been forced to become more accepting through adoption or maybe the gift of being with my children all day every day has opened my heart and eyes a bit more. It's probably a mix of the three and then some, with lots of grace thrown in. But I find myself worrying less about how much my children know and more about how much they are loved. Thanks be to God, I'm focusing more on their beauties and strengths and less on their little (and big) imperfections. Deep down I'm acknowledging that they are not solely a reflection of my success or failure but that I must be a reflection of His Love. Always and in all ways.

And so I can laugh and rejoice in the sweetness of my almost-five-year-old when she calls Jesus by the name of Pocahontas. I can take her precious face in my hands and kiss her on the nose and love her all the more. How I would love to peer into her little head and find the connection that caused the confusion for her. For I know that she knows who Jesus is and how He was born and most importantly, how very much she is loved by Him.

And I'm thankful that I do too.


P.S. In spite of all these nice words I just wrote, I must say that I am slightly uncomfortable that not one single person has commented to say how cute or sweet or funny my Jacinta is. I promise you that I have told her the Nativity story many, many times and that she really does know that the name of Mary and Jofess's baby was Jesus. Honest.