It’s all new to me, too.

It's all new to me, too.

I have to remind myself often.

They're young in their years; I am young in motherhood.

The balancing act, remembering appointments,

And the playdates, and the recipe, and the registration,

And the last time I nursed.

Wait, how long has the baby been up now?

Did I pack spare diapers?

Reminding myself of the next 'supposed to do',

Or… what the books say I'm 'supposed to do.'

But sometimes it feels better to just follow my instinct —

The one God gives to a mother.

Wait, what milestones should the baby reach next?

How will I possibly know how to be a mother

If I can't seem to wake early enough to read that book,

And that other book, and that other book, too?

“You’ve got your hands full,” they say.

The only response I can think of is

“Full, yes, but in the very best ways.”

These are answered prayers; I want to tell them.

Did they think to offer a helping hand?

Hold the door, maybe? Return the shopping cart?

Or was letting me know my hands were full the overwhelming priority.

“You’re being overprotective,” they claim.

I'd like to tell them about the depth of my love for these children,

About the lengths I would go to protect them.

“Put some socks on that baby,” I hear,

As a well-meaning elderly woman passes me in the parking lot.

Does she recall the days of her babies resisting socks?

Wait, was I overprotective?

Am I not protective enough now?

No, remember, it feels better to just follow my instinct —

The one God gives to a mother.

Is it possible to do it all? Be everything?

Be 'correct' in the eyes of those observing?

I wonder about that every day.

And in the same moments of wondering,

I'm met with God's grace.

He meets me where I am.

A breath in, a slow breath out,

A reminder that I'm not enough, and that’s okay.

He's enough for me, and He'll be enough for them.

And I remember, it’s better to follow my instinct —

The one God gives to a mother.

It's all new to me, too.