No Joy
By Melissa Hogarty
@savoredgrace
“I’m the sweeper off-er!” my 4-year-old declared, knocking a wooden ice cream scoop off my head. “Again!” she commanded, scrambling to grab a new flavor I could wear as a hat. She was giggling wildly, a deep, throaty laugh that sounded almost like coughing. Her baby sister, who had just learned to crawl, studied our exchange with raised eyebrows—probably wondering whether she could reach one of the wooden scoops that rolled a few inches from her hand before Big Sister snatched it away.
“Aah!” the baby yelled at us, sitting back and clapping her hands proudly as another ice cream scoop went flying. For the second time that day, the second time in what felt like ages, my heart melted into the sound of my kids having fun.
Earlier that afternoon, I sneak-chased my son through the house, pretending to creep along the walls using tall steps and rabbit paws, singing the Pink Panther melody conspicuously as I slinked around corners and climbed up the stairs. I scratched at his door and mewed like a cat, and he screamed with laughter and slammed the door shut before I could capture him.
I turned and bobbed back down the stairs, feeling almost giddy after my slow-motion game of chase. The baby was playing happily in the living room, hopping up and down in her baby jumper. I stopped in front of the jumper and bounced in time with her, grinning like a wild-woman. And here, I must admit that jumping and postpartum life do not agree with me.
That afternoon stands out like a lone Sharpie in a pile of crayons. I rarely lose myself in the moment like I did that day. My hands are usually busier with chores than pretending and silly gestures. I realized a bit sadly that until I played so hard I peed on myself, I had nearly forgotten how to play at all. Nearly forgotten how to laugh with my kids, and how to enjoy them.
That afternoon reminded me what I’d been missing.
***
It took a lot of nerve for me to tell my husband, who is the fourth of eight children—and who has never been especially interested in nailing down a goal number for our own family—that I thought maybe we should be done having kids.
When I brought it up to him as we tidied the house that Sunday afternoon, I had a lot of justifications floating around in my head, some of which are not real roadblocks—if we had any more, someone would have to share their room—and some of which are serious concerns—how could I possibly expand my attention any further? “Maybe three is enough,” I began tentatively, unsure how he would respond.
Much to my surprise, my husband immediately acquiesced. “Yes, that seems good,” he said.
“Really?” I asked him suspiciously. “Why do you say that?” I’m never quite comfortable when he agrees with me.
“Well, it seems like you don’t really enjoy the kids we have,” he said, matter-of-factly, as he cleared crumbs off the kitchen table. “So it’s probably not a good idea to add to that.”
I stopped nesting the stacking cups and gaped at him.
I had been unprepared to dodge that flaming arrow, and it hit me dead center, pinning me and all my composure to the floor. I wanted to rip it out and stomp on it, smother the intense shame that roared up to devour me. But I was paralyzed.
How could he SAY such a thing!? I wondered, burning mutely as he dumped his handful of crumbs into the sink. (Never mind that he was technically agreeing with me.) I barely dared to breathe, temporarily stupefied by shock and adrenaline, the green cup in my hand hovering two inches above its mates.
It had been a challenging week, a challenging year, and I was deep in the muck of training my older children to separate their emotions from their physical responses. In other words, I was teaching them not to scream and hit every time they didn’t get their way. I was weary. And I complained a lot—about things like my tinnitus (thank you, constant noise) and my lack of personal space. My husband had listened to a lot of whining, even after the kids went to bed.
Even so, I felt affronted—maligned—by the accusation that my children brought me no joy.
I jolted back to life as if abruptly unpaused. “Well, you…!” I began my retort, throwing an angry dart back in his direction. My mouth acted on reflex, attempting to deflect the shame away from me, toward another target.
He squinted his eyes at my prickly words and moved on to wipe the kitchen counter. I clamped my lips shut and left the room in a silent fury.
For the rest of the afternoon, I struggled with questions like, “Are children supposed to bring me joy, or do they have a larger purpose?” and “Does what I want matter? Are my desires from God or are they misplaced?” and “Does anyone really enjoy having preschoolers?”
And it slowly dawned on me that the reason I was so offended by my husband’s evaluation wasn’t that it felt uncharitable or condemning. The real problem was … he was right.
In my heart of hearts, as much as I love my children, I couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that they were somehow standing between me and any number of things that might make me “happy.”
The Real Problem, I realized, something so treacherous it deserved capital letters and a special voiceover, was that for me, motherhood was not magical.
I was faintly shocked as I turned this idea over in my head. If you had asked me when I was 17 what I wanted to do with my life, I literally would have answered “be a stay-at-home mother.” The life I am living has been my ambition for almost two decades.
So why was I living this dream like I was waiting for something else?
***
There was never a question in my heart that I wanted children.
Long before I met my husband and his huge family, I thought that two kids would be just right—and all the better if you get one of each gender.
But when we started talking about family, I discovered that my soon-to-be husband did not agree. He reasoned with me over my protests about my own capacity. “Even one kid is overwhelming,” he said logically. “Even one will feel like too much.” When he put it like that, I agreed. We cautiously resolved to take it one at a time, even while I mentally prepared to raise a half-dozen children or more.
Bring it on. I thought I was fine leaning into the unknown. I thought it meant I trusted God completely to abandon all my plans.
In the space between having two kids and having three, when I was almost daring God to rain a huge family down on me (yet secretly terrified of that exact outcome), I heard some advice about family planning that spoke to my heart. The idea was to envision Thanksgiving with my grown children, to picture the faces around the table. Toddlers grow into adults; these years are a cosmic blip, a vapor on the wind. I can’t know what my family might become in time.
But sometimes I wonder: why should my target be a distant speck in the future, possibly decades away? Shouldn’t the mundane, in-between moments—the now—be just as meaningful?
***
I push back from the table and move away from my middle daughter, who is crouching in her chair and whimpering at the prospect of eating a single bite of her breakfast. Maybe from a safe distance, I will be able to hear myself think.
Irritated, I plop onto the couch with my laptop. I choose to ignore the raucous thumping and giggling coming from the front of the house until my son frog-leaps around the corner into view. Hot in pursuit is my baby, now taller and toddling. She trots after him at a near run. Her whole body leans toward him unsteadily. Her fingers stretch out in front of her. She squeals with glee as she rounds the bend and catches sight of him again. He hollers a laugh in response, turning back to look at her and give her a chance to catch up.
My four-year-old abandons her meal and joins in the chase, dropping kisses on top of her little sister’s head every time she holds still long enough. As they race pell-mell through the house, twisting their bodies toward turns and thundering on feet louder than their size should permit, I find a smile playing at my lips.
Once again, I am reminded that kids are full of joy. Their laughter is effortless. They don’t have to remind themselves to be in the moment, that this time is fleeting, that someday they might not laugh freely enough to reveal their tonsils. They just … enjoy each other.
Why can’t I let loose like that?
Somewhere along the line, I forgot that my children are not trying to distract me when they want to show me something. I forgot that yes, they do love the sound of their own voices, but also they are revealing their hearts when they stand next to me and say a thousand words in one minute. I forgot that when they treat my body like an extension of their own, it’s one of the dearest expressions of love and trust they can give. Quite simply, I got so caught up in the work of motherhood that I forgot to enjoy my kids.
As I watch them shriek and tickle, I suddenly know what I need to do. I will smile into my children’s eyes and press my lips into their cheeks and scoop their gangly limbs onto my lap. I will set aside the laundry to search for LEGO diamonds and Goldbugs and listen as they retell what happened one minute ago because it was just. So. Exciting.
I will practice joy with them. And I will let them show me how.
Guest essay written by Melissa Hogarty. Melissa is a habitually overwhelmed mama who is learning to slow down and sometimes say no. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and three very loud and silly children, who regularly teach her that she has more to learn in the areas of grace, patience, and letting loose. She can often be found cuddled up with a good novel or pulling cookies out of the oven. Melissa is an editor and regular contributor at Kindred Mom and a member of the Exhale creative community. She also writes a personal blog, Savored Grace, where you can find recipes as well as ideas about motherhood and faith, and occasionally updates her Instagram.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.