There is was again. The tiny, squirting sound of newborn poop. The third time in five minutes. I kid you not.
Another diaper filled with yellow, liquid breastmilk poop. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
(I realize this is the grossest introduction to a blog post ever. I’m sure in a year I’ll look back and be completed revolted, but when you are in the thick of it with newborn fluids and sounds, you lose a bit of your decency for a few months.)
This little girl poops with the best of them, but three times in five minutes was a new record.
It was almost as if I had wished it upon myself.
Micah had taken the girls on a bike ride to give me some “alone time” on a Sunday afternoon, but instead of being grateful, I was a postpartum, bitter mess. He said he would take them much earlier in the morning, but he got distracted by an NBA playoff game. The girls were destroying the house. I had served breakfast, cleaned breakfast, and got the girls dressed, huffing and puffing my way through Eisley’s solid morning nap instead of doing anything remotely restful. By the time they left, I was irate. “Now the baby is going to wake up and I’m going to spend my ALONE hour nursing,” I hissed at Micah as he walked out the door.
And it was true. I nursed the whole hour, I dealt with a record-setting number of poopy diapers, and I was just patting Eisley back to sleep when the older girls walked into the house after their hour-long bike ride.
But somewhere beneath the exhaustion, the resentment, and the tornado of postpartum hormones, I mustered a half-smile. I signed up for this. When I became a mother, I entered into a covenant with my children. I promised them, “I will lay down my life for you like Jesus laid down his life for me.” Maybe I never said those words out loud, but I agreed to them in my heart.
So even when my husband gets distracted by the NBA playoffs. Even when my preschooler uses a sassy tone for the tenth time that day. Even when my toddler is throwing a tantrum. Even when I’m hungry and tired and just want ten minutes alone…
None of it really matters. Sure, it would be nice if my older children didn’t fight over who gets the pink water bottle and if my husband were a little more sensitive to my fragile, postpartum state, but it doesn’t change my role. It doesn’t change the truth that I must live out the Gospel every day for my children.
Three poops or ten poops… I will change your diaper.
Second tantrum or fifth… I will discipline you with all the wisdom and grace and patience I can muster.
Bumped head or skinned knee caused by slightly erratic behavior as you learn to adjust to a new sibling… I will give you a hug and a band-aid too.
Just like my Savior, I lay my life down. I may give up my alone time with tears. I  may struggle against my flesh as I seek to serve my children with a smile and a gentle tone. I will surrender my body to breastfeeding a baby while a toddler climbs on my back, even when I long for no one to touch me.
Jesus surrendered his body on a cross for me. That truth will get me through the next tantrum, the next nursing session, the next poopy diaper. I count it all joy to die to myself as I worship the One who died for me.
“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.
Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends.”
|| John 15:12-13 ||
