A Mother's Prayer for PrivacyJane Roper
Thank you for my beautiful, healthy, creative and otherwise spectacular children. I am grateful for the many blessings and profound love that they have brought to my life.
I just have a few teeny little requests:
I pray that I might be able to take a shower without one of my children coming into the bathroom, crying, to tell me that their sister hit them / pushed them / grabbed a toy or book away from them. Or telling me that they need help getting their shirt off. Or that they want a snack. Or that they’re going to poop.
Furthermore, I pray that they might not pull back the shower curtain, peek inside and say, “I can see your butt!” or make other comments about my body — specifically the ways it differs from their own on account of my being an adult, thus requiring me to have mini-conversations with them about the way their bodies will change when they’re older while at the same time trying to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.
On a related note, I pray that maybe at least some of the time I could go to the bathroom without one of my children (whom I adore and am grateful for, really, don’t get me wrong) starting to open the door and come in, requiring me to yell, “Hey! Privacy, please!” Or simply standing outside the door yelling for me to help them find their scissors or tape / get them a snack / settle a dispute / etc.
Dear Lord, may they someday be able to settle their own disputes.
But I digress.
May I someday be able to get dressed without my daughters commenting on my boobs. And trying on my bras.
Actually, that’s not so bad. It’s kind of funny. Scratch that.
Might I be able to work at home, in my home office, while the girls are being looked after by their dad or a sitter, and not have them come up the stairs and open the door and come in and try to crawl on my lap. Especially when I already have my laptop on my lap. Because it’s a fairly new MacBook Air, and I really like it. (Sorry, that was materialistic, wasn’t it? Thank you for providing fertile ground and good fortune in which to plant metaphorical trees that I might reap the fruits of my labor to buy a totally sweet computer. Hey, I think I just managed to disprove that old chestnut “money doesn’t grow on trees.” Because it does, on metaphorical ones, right? Ha! But I digress again.)
Finally — here’s a twist; you’re never going to see this one coming — I pray that they will continue to want to crawl up onto my lap after they’ve eaten their breakfast / lunch / dinner while I’m still eating, because although it’s annoying, and at times makes me feel slightly claustrophobic, I know that their need for physical closeness to me won’t last much longer. And I want to cherish it while it’s still here.
Which is a roundabout way of saying thank you, O Lord, for my sweet, affectionate children, whom I treasure above all treasures. (Like, way way above the aforementioned MacBook Air.)
PS – Even just the bathroom thing would be great.
PPS – Where is Jesus buried? Just curious.
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