T
his time of year, my husband treks to the Wisconsin northwoods—to hunt.
I can measure motherhood in hunting seasons.
Six years ago, on opening bow weekend, I stood at the living room window and waved to my hubby’s truck with tears welling in my eyes. While he climbed trees and relished pink sunrises, I scrubbed bottles and rocked a fussy baby. Hours crept. Conversations were one-sided. I was lonely, frazzled, and desperate for a nap.
When little sister blessed our world, I juggled baby food jars and preschool crafts. My then three-year-old missed her dad almost as much as I did—so we added emotional meltdowns to the physical demands of mommy overtime.
Oh, how I longed for that truck to pull back into the driveway on Sunday afternoons.
And yet. Fast forward to now. My baby is a chatterbox three-year-old. She dresses herself and begs to watch Little Einsteins while I take a shower. For my school girl, free time at home is a luxury, so she colors happily with crayons and reads stories to her sister at nap time. Together my girls dream up games like pony rodeo and doll hospital—and they bless me by inviting me in.
It’s a paradigm shift, see. I’m no longer producing the entertainment. I’m watching the show.
Remember the day-in, day-out drudgery of caring for little ones? Maybe you’re in it right now. Wise women tell us it changes, gets easier—and I’m catching a glimpse. Monday through Friday, my day flies according to schedule. Pack the lunch, drive to school, chores and work and one-on-one time with my three-year-old followed by nap time (=me time!), carpool line, dinner, dishes, bath, bedtime prayers, crash and start all over again. By the weekend, we’re ready to let down our ponytails.
Saturday isn’t overtime anymore. It’s a party. We don’t have to go anywhere! We get to play and munch popcorn and wear slippers all day!
Poor Dad. He’s missing all the fun.
“
Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him. Children born to a young man are like arrows in a warrior’s hands. How joyful is the man whose quiver is full of them!” (Psalm 127:3–5a, NLT).
I’ve always known my children are a gift. But on hunting weekends, that gift looked less like a box of diamond earrings and more like the treadmill I never asked for. Insulting and challenging at first, but over time it whipped me into shape. I realize now that while my daughters were busy growing up, so was I—into a better version of myself, thanks to them.
What a fantastic gift.
Of course I still miss my husband when he’s gone, but no longer because I’m miserable. I miss him because I’m not. And I wish he could be here to see it.
Happy hunting season to our mighty Daddy man. Don’t worry, my love, we’ll text you a picture of our princess popcorn party—just as soon as we’ve finished painting our nails sparkly purple. Oh, yeah.
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