Motherhood has a way of making the completely absurd feel strangely normal. Like saying sentences you never imagined would come out of your mouth… with the seriousness of a courtroom judge.
“Do not lick the picnic table at the playground.”
“We don’t pet bees.”
“WHY are you handing me poop?”
And then there are moments that leave you with no words at all. When all you can think is: really, this too?
You just wanted two minutes alone. Not to scroll. Not to nap. Not even to breathe deeply. Just to pee. Or, in this case, more than pee.
But before you even settle in, you hear the patter of little feet and the rustle of the door swinging open. “Nooo don’t close it!” they cry, already barreling through.
And then, before you can protest, before you can redirect, there they are. Climbing into your lap. Mid-poop.
And you’re too tired to stop them.
This is motherhood in its purest form. No privacy. No pause button. No moment fully your own.
And maybe this is one of the stranger ways motherhood teaches you about presence.
David asked in Psalm 139 where he could go to flee from God, and the answer was nowhere. Not the highest place. Not the lowest one. Not even the dark could hide him.
You used to read that as comfort.
Now you are sitting on the toilet with a toddler in your lap, realizing God’s love has always been more relentless than you imagined. And in a much smaller, messier way, you get to mirror that love. Because to your child, you are their safe place.
Even in the most… unfortunate places.
Later you’ll tell the story and laugh. But in the moment, you sat there, stunned and squirming and weirdly loved. And you thought: This. This is my life now.
And oddly enough?
You wouldn’t trade it.
