No Museum Baby
[In my arms, Abby and Esther...Esther grimaces, saying "cheeeeeese!"]
Something every person should know, hopefully, before they become a parent is that you must be willing to give of yourself sacrificially to another human being, utterly and completely and without reserve or hesitation. I know this sounds trite, like common knowledge, but hear me out on this. I really had no clue.
When I was a little girl, I was much like my own little girls, always playing the parent to my dollies. Cabbage Patch Kids were the rage, and I played with them far into my early teens, much too late to be playing with dolls, really. But they weren’t merely dolls, you see. They were my babies. And what I loved about these “babies” is they came complete with diapers and lace-up shoes, which could both be removed at whim. They had their own cribs and changes of clothes, lovingly sewn by my seamstress mother. And they had names. They were adopted babies, of course, as is the theme behind Cabbage Patch Kids, and you could change their name, if you so chose, but as gnarly as some of their names were, I never changed one; their names were their names. I can remember three of the four (yes, four!) babies’ names – Irvin Ben, Karly Kirsten, and Tabitha Cybil, my little black baby. The fourth baby was a blonde-haired, green-eyed gem, but so help me, I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I’m sure it will turn up in the crevices of my mind eventually.
They were perfect museum babies, ready for display. They didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night for their nightly feeding. They never cried, unless I scripted it. They didn’t leave their toys everywhere or pull all of the shoes out of the shoe bin because they never learned to walk, and they had no ability to make choices of their own. And I could put them away when I tired of them and decide to do other things, if I so chose. I could “hang them up” in the closet, so to speak, and take a nap or read a book or play with friends. Who knew mommying could be so accomodating?
When I was a little girl, I was much like my own little girls, always playing the parent to my dollies. Cabbage Patch Kids were the rage, and I played with them far into my early teens, much too late to be playing with dolls, really. But they weren’t merely dolls, you see. They were my babies. And what I loved about these “babies” is they came complete with diapers and lace-up shoes, which could both be removed at whim. They had their own cribs and changes of clothes, lovingly sewn by my seamstress mother. And they had names. They were adopted babies, of course, as is the theme behind Cabbage Patch Kids, and you could change their name, if you so chose, but as gnarly as some of their names were, I never changed one; their names were their names. I can remember three of the four (yes, four!) babies’ names – Irvin Ben, Karly Kirsten, and Tabitha Cybil, my little black baby. The fourth baby was a blonde-haired, green-eyed gem, but so help me, I can’t remember her name for the life of me. I’m sure it will turn up in the crevices of my mind eventually.
They were perfect museum babies, ready for display. They didn’t wake me up in the middle of the night for their nightly feeding. They never cried, unless I scripted it. They didn’t leave their toys everywhere or pull all of the shoes out of the shoe bin because they never learned to walk, and they had no ability to make choices of their own. And I could put them away when I tired of them and decide to do other things, if I so chose. I could “hang them up” in the closet, so to speak, and take a nap or read a book or play with friends. Who knew mommying could be so accomodating?
The older I grew, the more I recognized that this is not what it meant to be a mommy. I saw that children consumed much more of one’s time and energy than my museum babies. And I don’t even begin to try to compare human beings to dolls; believe me, I know they are not. But even as I became a wife and looked longingly at women with children, I did not even begin to comprehend the commitment involved in caring for them. There is simply no way of fully knowing this until you become a mom. But there also aren’t enough words out there to adequately assist in the preparation of becoming a mom, which is why I write this, as inadequate as it still may be.
So listen up. You will love your children with every ounce and fiber of your being; there is no doubt about this fact. It is unconditional and readily available at all-needed hours of the day. They will be the pride and joy of your very existence. But something you don’t hear much is that you are no longer fully yours. A good part of you is now the property of that precious heart that now beats outside of yours. You think you own your child, when in fact, more accurately, your child owns you. And it is more than good for anyone to be owned in this way. It is the selflessness that God uses to make us more aware of what true love really is, like His love.
So listen up. You will love your children with every ounce and fiber of your being; there is no doubt about this fact. It is unconditional and readily available at all-needed hours of the day. They will be the pride and joy of your very existence. But something you don’t hear much is that you are no longer fully yours. A good part of you is now the property of that precious heart that now beats outside of yours. You think you own your child, when in fact, more accurately, your child owns you. And it is more than good for anyone to be owned in this way. It is the selflessness that God uses to make us more aware of what true love really is, like His love.
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