A Perfect Mom

A Perfect Mom.

What kind of picture pops up in your head when you hear that phrase? When it’s 4pm and I’m still in my pajamas, I look around my painfully disorganized house, with a sink full of unwashed dishes, toys still strewn all over the floor, and about a hundred piles of baby clothes that have been sitting out for about a week when I got the brilliant idea that I would organize my house with two kids under four and a husband who is gone to another country for two weeks, I have a pretty clear picture of what DOESN’T pop into my mind when I think of “perfect mom” status.

… Or maybe when I’ve heard “why?” for the hundredth time in thirty minutes and I snap at my son for no other reason than I’m tired and overwhelmed by the fact that I’ve done nothing but answer his questions all day and maybe change a couple diapers.

… Or maybe when I take my three-year-old son out to play in the rain and I’m scolded over and over by countless well-meaning Chinese grandparents who are positive I’m unaware that my son is wet (In the rain. Imagine!).

… Or maybe when my baby is screaming and won’t stop, and I have to walk away, just so I don’t scream back.

… Or like a couple weeks ago on Mother’s Day (you know, the day you’re supposed to celebrate how awesome you are?), when I left my house a complete disaster, stressed to the max with a teething baby who just couldn’t understand my need to feel pretty and in control on Mother’s Day, walked into our International Fellowship with a smile on my face like every other mom who has it all together, and then hid somewhere near the back so no-one would see the baby-puke all over the front of my painstakingly chosen dress.

Worship started, and I closed my eyes, asking HIM to meet me where I was—baby puke and all.  I raised my hands in surrender, out of pure desperation for Him to take my mess and trade it for something better… to make ME better. I opened my eyes for a split second, to make sure my three-year-old hadn’t run on stage or decided to strip naked or something (these things happen). I was taken aback. My son had his eyes intently on me, watching my every move, and was mirroring them. He was trying his best to sing along, with his hands lifted high in the air. I choked back tears.

I have no idea what was going on in his head. I have no idea if he was thinking about God, or worship, or the puke on my dress. But he was watching me. He was watching me fall, he was watching me cry, and HE WAS WATCHING ME SURRENDER. And though the word surrender may mean nothing to him yet, before he understands the word, he will understand the act.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be a perfect mom. But maybe that’s not what my kids need. Maybe they just need one that apologizes when she messes up. One that takes a deep breath and walks back into the room after hiding in the bathroom and locking the door when she can’t take one more second. One that keeps learning… keeps hoping… keeps dreaming… keeps surrendering.

Maybe they don’t need a perfect mom… just a mom who is on a journey, just like them… only a few steps ahead.