Make Time For Interruptions

In case you don't know me personally, let me just clue you in on something: I am wholeheartedly a Type A personality.  I would love to be spontaneous, but I forget to write it on my schedule.  My husband, on the other hand, never has a plan.  Well, to be fair, he does have a plan.  "Have fun".  J is all about enjoying the ride, and if we get to the destination, so much the better.  I'm the kind of person that has mapped out the route, calculated when we will have to stop for gas and food, and is constantly watching the clock to make sure we are making good time.  In other words, I am a worrier.  And I'm great at it.  I worry about worrying, and then I worry about that.

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And you know what?  I'm good at it, that's the weird thing.  I could gold-medal in anxiety.  You name it, I've worried about it.  Even social anxiety.  I'll worry about things that I said or did in ELEMENTARY school, for cryin' out loud!  And I know its ridiculous.  And then I worry about how ridiculous I am being.  So, there's that.  

Well, one of the things that I worry about is the memories my kids will have of their childhood.  Will they think of it as warm, golden days?  Will they look back and recall that we had a happy home?  That J and I love each other and were united together in everything that we did?  That I believe in my kids to no end?  That I am their biggest fan?  Will they look back - some day, when I'm really old - and remember be as being loving, funny, caring, soft, generous, kind?

Or, more frightening yet - will they look back and think that I was too busy?  Too short-tempered?  That I was too happy to let them entertain themselves?  That I didn't play with theme nough?  That I couldn't be bothered?  That I was too busy taking care of the house that I neglected to make it a home?  That is, I think, my greatest fear.  

Over the past few months, I have been really feeling God speaking to me through this anxiety over my kids.  He has shown me that when I am worrying about their safety, the best thing I can do for them is to place their safety into His hands.  Aren't the hands that shaped the world a secure enough place for my two precious sons?  When I am worried about their school performance or their friendships and confidence, He has shown me that their worth should be found in Christ first.  That I should affirm their identity as a Child of God, and that I remind them that they are loved unconditionally.  When I worry about the negative things they hear from the world - maybe they don't have the coolest new shoes, or they haven't seen that new movie, or they don't like that new game - He has told me to speak affirmation and positivity over them.  

One of the ways that God is showing Himself present in my daily life is in my new office.  I am surrounded daily by people who love God, and love His people.  Who genuinely want the best for my family, and pray intentionally and fervently for it.  It is a humbling experience, to say the least.  One of these dear new friends shared a short line the other day when I was expressing these worries of mine.  She said "Make time for interruptions."  I took a minute to let that sink in, and have truthfully been mulling it over for nearly a week now.  

Make time for interruptions.

What wise advice.  Make it OK for your kids to come to you with a shoe that needs tied, or Legos that are stuck, or a juice box that needs opened.  Make it OK for them to tell you a story for the millionth time about something that you have no idea about.  Make it OK to stop doing your housework to sit down and have a tea party - or a Nerf war.  It struck such a deep chord with me - how often have I told them I was too busy to do something, and what was I doing?  Dishes?  Please!  How does that even compare?  If you asked me if I would prioritize dirty dishes over my own children, I would say 100% NEVER.  And yet... my actions...

It reminded me of a poem that I had read a long time ago, which still brings tears to my eyes.  I'll share it with you below, but you are forewarned that you'll need tissues.  And then hugs from your babies.

Song for a Fifth Child by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton (1921- )

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.)

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.

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