God is Good to the Johnsons

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I found myself at 9:55am curling my hair as I listened to sermons and worship music. Gleeful cheers of laughter and play sounded down the hallway as my husband played with our boys, making blanket forts together amidst getting ready for our in-home Sunday services. This moment was a welcome reprieve from the LONG week of mothering leading up to it. A sampling of the mishaps and meltdowns of the week include: thrice spilled milk, waking up at 2am to Charlie screaming "I WANT WAFFLES!," my face getting kicked repeatedly during diaper changes, clothing decorated in ketchup and barbecue sauce, burned grilled cheese sandwiches, pen drawings on kitchen walls, and a grand finale: of a lost pair of prescription glasses somewhere along orchard roads (they remain to be found). It was a less than ideal week of shortcomings on my part and tantrums on their part. Amidst the sermons and hairspray and squeals of sons, I thought over the hard week behind m

My second child was born only 5 months ago. It was thrilling and intriguing to go through the birth process as a sequel. The smooth, speedy delivery of my blonde-haired little man was a precious and brilliant experience that is locked in my heart as one of my top 3 best days ever. While the births of my two sons were vastly different, the love that flooded my heart as I gazed for the first time into each of their individual, glowing selves... that love for each baby boy was equally supreme, divine, consuming, exhilarating, unparalleled, and perfect. However, after my first son's birth, I thought I had moved past the flood of birthing opinions, put-downs and particularity that clouded my conversations preceding and succeeding his arrival. So many women pestered me with their opinions about medications, midwives, and MDs. I was wrong. The mama-drama over birth plans is still at large. Less than two weeks after my second birth, a well-meaning woman in a social circle of mine