I should be writing about Ruth right now, but I can't seem to focus on that right now. Hopefully tomorrow afternoon I'll be able to get back to the courtship series. Right now I just wanted to write to you. At first I wasn't even going to give you this letter, let alone put it on my blog. But mother-daughter tensions are probably as old as Eve and her daughters, and I'm going to guess there are lots of other moms and daughters out there who will relate to this letter. Especially if they are part of a big family.
Did you know that sometimes I am jealous of you? You get to go to people's houses and eat tacos and drink root beer. I get to stay home and eat chicken for the umpteenth time, only this time in the rocking chair because I'm so dizzy I can't hold my head up at the table. You actually enjoy hockey. I never really had the opportunity to even learn to skate well. You've been strong and healthy all this fall and winter. Oh, I know you've had headaches and your knees bother you, but you've still been able to go to church and other places while I've had to stay home either sick myself or with sick toddlers.
This morning I've been having a bit of a pity party for myself. That's wrong. I realized today that I am hard on you and the others because you can do stuff that I can't. Stuff I want to do myself. This may sound strange to you, but I want to scrub the tub, clean the refrigerator, mop the floors, move the furniture to sweep behind it, work in your room with your sisters, give the baths, do the laundry, change the diapers, even walk the dogs--yes, even Puppy. I want to cook all the meals, take care of John and Timmy, and a myriad of other things that I don't even bother to ask anyone to do for me. But I can't.
When you don't do things my way, I should be thankful that those things are done at all. I should rejoice that you are developing into a beautiful young woman capable of doing many things, and doing them well. Instead, I'm only reminded again that I can't do it myself.
So I confess my selfishness to you--because that's what it is--as sin. I still need your help around here. Yours and everybody else's. And there does have to be some kind of standard. But I won't be so picky about every little thing anymore. And I won't take out my frustrations on you by making mountains out of molehills.
Someday I won't be pregnant. Someday I won't be fat and my back won't hurt. I won't be dizzy, and all the congestion will be cleared out of my head and lungs. Hopefully that will be soon. I'll be able to run, ride my bike, build a snow fort, plant a better garden, even learn how to skate. I'll be able to help rip this house apart and make it beautiful inside and out. And I want to do all those things with you and your brothers and sisters.
Meanwhile, will you please forgive me? I love you.