Before I became a mom, I pictured happiness as a gallery of chubby smiles, goofy faces, and sleeping babes nestled in their mama’s arms. That vision crystalized into a deep, unmet longing when I couldn’t get pregnant for months, then years. As I scrolled through my friends’ photos on social media, the whispers of future fulfillment grew to a roar: “Once you have kids, then you’ll be happy!”
In his kindness, God redeemed my tears and blessed me with the joy of raising two sons. Though I was grateful that he answered my prayers, having kids surprised me in a less-than-blissful way. As I labored to keep two young children fed, safe, and cared for, I realized my kids weren’t filling my life with continuous sunshine. Mothering made me tired, annoyed, sad, confused, and enraged, sometimes all within the span of a few minutes. Happiness seemed fleeting—like naptime, it didn’t last long enough.
The problem wasn’t that my kids were terrible or that I’d naively assumed motherhood would be easy. It was that I was treating my kids like vending machines. I thought they’d supply doses of happy feelings whenever I wanted and satisfy my craving for meaning in life.
Read full article at Risen Motherhood.