“He has shown you, O man, what is good;
and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
and to walk humbly with your God?”
I first heard this verse a long time ago, but reading it again, I think it’s a perfect mission statement for motherhood. Of course, it comes from a chapter of Micah entitled “What the Lord Requires,” so it can be assumed it applies to most vocations—but I love the nuances of its application to being a parent.
Motherhood requires us to be a voice of reason, rules, and respect in our homes. It requires us to treat our families with immense love and compassion, and to recognize when they do the same for one another. And there are few things more humbling than being responsible for cleaning up someone else’s messes 24 hours a day.
Humility is, for me, a core component of success in life. It keeps me sane and grounded and resilient. But sometimes I also kind of hate it.
Played Hot and Cold
There are some moments when being humble is easy. I am humbled every moment I look at my daughter’s smile and remember how much of a gift she is. It is impossible to look at her sparkly blue eyes and adoring gaze and not think, “God, I don’t deserve her, but I thank you every minute of every day for sending her to me.” These are the times when humility is a warm little gust that just fills me up—it floods my whole soul with a pleasant tingling, and reminds me that life is good despite my faults. It proves that the positive outweighs the negative, without doubt.
But there are other times when it is incredibly hard to set down the security blanket of pride and admit defeat—or when it seems much more preferable to puff up and deny my mistakes, instead of acknowledging them.
Frankly, I don’t like to be vulnerable in front of others when it comes to the way I care for my family. I think a lot of us struggle to ask for help when we need it because it’s hard to admit that you’ve hit a wall and need someone else’s guidance. It’s hard to own up to the fact that you simply don’t know everything, and that maybe a stranger or peer can help your family better than you can in that moment.
Last week, my daughter was sick with her worst head cold yet—after a few days a low-grade fever and obvious sinus pressure and pain, it required antibiotics. The antibiotics didn’t agree with her for the first few days, and so she was left with her worst diaper rash yet, too. Nothing we tried even helped soothe it, let alone treat it. We winced with her cries of pain during every diaper change for at least three days, by the end of it. It was excruciating for all of us.
To make a long story short, when it became clear that we’d need to call the doctor’s office for advice on how to treat it, I was irritated with the doctor. We’d seen her a few days before, and I mentioned the rash possibly progressing, but she seemed to brush it off. It wasn’t our usual pediatrician; I had missed our scheduled 16-month check-up by accident, and our usual doctor was booked for weeks, so we saw another pediatrician in the practice instead.
When it was way worse a few days later and we spoke to her again, her recommendation had changed (and we followed it), but I was already so frustrated and convinced that she wasn’t looking closely enough at the situation that I had very little faith the new suggestion would work.
Of course, it did. And my toddler’s system calmed down as we neared the end of the course for the antibiotics, which also helped the rash heal. But I was still angry. And it’s because I was refusing to acknowledge my own previous mistake: I had missed our scheduled appointment, which led to us working with another perfectly competent doctor. It was my pride that said, “This isn’t our usual doctor, and I’m not sure I trust her.” And it was my mistrust that caused my stress, not the doctor’s advice—I was just too puffed up to rest assured in her expertise and ignore the temptation to assign blame for the situation.
Knowing all of this, the evening I went crying to my husband (after hearing our daughter screech yet again during her bedtime diaper change) about how it was all my fault was irrational, but it was also a moment of cold humility. Sometimes it’s chilling to really see where I’ve gone wrong and own up to it. But it’s also an important moment to reset, mentally and emotionally, and move on.
I’ve learned that, for me, embracing humility takes constant mental exercise. I need to acknowledge my mistakes as they happen, lest they pile up, ignored, and plague me while I’m trying to sleep at night. I need to not resist the ick factor of parenthood—because yes, I’m required to get pooped, puked, and peed on for the next several years, and that’s perfectly okay even if it is, absolutely, kind of icky. I need to admit that I can’t do it all myself, because it’s not good for me and it’s not good for my family if I try to take everything onto myself. And above all, I need to know how much I have to be thankful for—there are so many gifts in life I didn’t earn, and didn’t even think to ask for.