My mother (and other wise mothers in my life) have always admonished me that prayer is a mother’s most powerful tool. That having children of my own would cause me the height of all worry, and, in turn, anxious prayer.
They were right.
In no particular order, a prayer that:
That my toddlers don’t manage to poison themselves while I take a 5 minute shower
That someone is kind to my 13-year-old on his first day of a new school
That there is enough juice so I can avoid going to the store another day
That none of my children get hit by cars
That the dog isn’t foolish enough to get hit by a car, either, because it would devastate the kids
That whatever that banging noise is down the hall, is doesn’t cause permanent damage
That other people’s children who are unattended don’t fall through the ice on the river across the street
That I might have 5 minutes a day alone with my baby when he/she arrives
That my overly-affectionate toddler doesn’t actually throw or squash the babies he loves so much
That I’m not ruining my children by letting them watch Daniel Tiger
That I’m not giving my children diabetes by letting them drink gallons of orange juice
That the mysterious stain will come out of the couch upholstery.
That I will suddenly find patience, today
That no one shows up unannounced, because it’s so messy here
That some one will show up unannounced, because it’s lonely here sometimes
That no one gets sick and causes us to cancel our vacation plans
That my 4 year old won’t require stitches from learning to cut his fingernails
That I won’t get irretrievably fat from eating so much garbage while pregnant
That the baby gear I bought on Amazon isn’t poisonous or faulty
That my savvy 4-year-old doesn’t learn how to unbuckle his own car seat
That my 2-year-old will learn to use a toilet consistently before he’s 18
That “I NEED A BANDAID” is, as usual, a false alarm.
There are so, so many more. But those mothers weren’t kidding – and it’s not formal, sit down type praying over my children. It’s a constant running request line, almost subconscious, the alternative to which is constant panic. Because I’m only one mother, and I only have two hands and two eyes (one of which doesn’t work very well) and I’m uncoordinated, out of shape, and any number of other faults that prevent me from being SuperMom.
