Nobody Told Me

Nobody ever told me about the dangerous situations mothers put themselves in everyday. No, I'm not talking about some quiet-mom-by-day, vicious-roller-derby-viking by night routine.

I'm talking about sitting on the floor to read a book. Making the bed. Walking across a room.

All are dangerous activities.

For the past few months, my body has been a constantly changing canvas of cuts and bruises. It's like I'm one of those art shows that changes every week.

This week, I've swapped out the bite mark on my shoulder for a cut over my eye from razor-like little fingernails exploring my face. My feet. My legs. My arms. Even my fingers are decorated with a rainbow of browns, yellows, and dark purples.

Wyatt has been warned several times: "Mommy is a unicorn, not a horse! Be gentle!" But look at his face in the photo, and you can guess how long he remembers that instruction. Even the 1-year-old twins view me as a mountain to climb over, a trampoline to bounce on, a pillow to slam into, and just another object in their way to step on.

And that's just a few of the physical dangers of being a hands-on mother who gets asked to hold, hug, kiss, and snuggle their squiggly little forms several times each hour of the day.

But what's really making me struggle lately is the mental danger of motherhood called lack of sleep.

Our house has been struck by some mystery virus that depletes every Kleenex box in the house and leaves glistening wet patches on all my shirts where little noses have rested for comfort.

This time around, there has been no fever. Just runny noses...and a cough.

But if I didn't know any better, I'd think my children developed that hacky, dry-throat cough on purpose. Call it their own little version of Chinese water torture. They wait until the fuzzy moments when I'm just beginning to float into the peaceful arms of sleep.

And then one of the three torturers coughs.

I startle awake. Listen for sounds that nurse mommy is needed. Wait. Nothing. Convince myself it must have been an isolated incident. And I begin to drift again.

Cough. Cough.

For eight days, I haven't slept soundly. I try. Yet my God-given mommy radar keeps being tripped throughout the night.

Between the bruises and the sleep-interrupted nights, I am learning the cost of love. And I learn it's a price I'm willing to pay 100 times over.

Love that costs me nothing is not love. I only need to look at my God to see that.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son..."