If I had a degree in psychology, I could be a good mommy.
I would get why you sometimes cry from the time you wake up to when I turn out the light and close the door. I’d know why you melt on the floor like a puddle or stiffen like a board. I might figure out the reason some days you stare into a far-off land I can’t find my way into. I’d understand when you can’t concentrate one day and then on another your intuition is sharp as a tack. On days like today when you gallop like a colt wild and out of control, I’d call it by a long name as if it were a familiar language rolling off my tongue. If I were a psychologist.
If only I’d become a doctor, I could be a good mommy.
When your cheeks flame red, your eyes look dull and you grow listless, I’d know what to do. If I were a doctor maybe I wouldn’t share the bucket with you when you get sick. Maybe, I could bandage a finger and wash off the blood without growing weak, and maybe my worry would not take me to the worst every time I don’t know what’s wrong. If I were a doctor.
If I had a degree in education, I could be such a good mommy.
I could answer your questions about why some bugs fly and why lizards run straight up a wall. I’d explain why kittens have a liter and birds make a nest. I’d know how to explain the language of animals or the sound of a river running. I’d tell you why snowflakes have points and raindrops don’t. I’d know what to do when you say “ring,” but it sounds like “wing.” If I were a teacher, I’d be such a good mommy.
If I had a degree in science, we’d gaze at the stars and name them.
If I had a degree in biology, I’d have a smart answer for how the baby got in my tummy.
If I had a degree in accounting, I’d show you how to save those hot little coins in a sweaty palm and grow them like seeds in dirt.
If I had a degree in culinary arts, I wouldn’t open the fridge and wonder what to do.
If I had a degree in organizational management, I wouldn’t suck up LEGOs with the vacuum cleaner, the dishes wouldn’t look like Mount Etna overflowing, and the laundry piles would be neatly washed and folded away.
If I were a theologian, I’d have an explanation of why a grandpa dies and where a dog goes after he does.
Mechanics, technology, ergonomics, and dynamics. A mommy needs them all.
But if I knew all the answers, maybe I’d miss the wonder.
If I could put childhood into neat folders perhaps the splendidness of chaos would be gone. If I could put it all together by my own expertise, the marvel of the unknown might be mundane.
Maybe if I knew it all for you I wouldn’t be learning from you.
Who else could teach me the art of wilted flower picking or making mud pies? Who would teach me to hide in plain sight or put a straw in my nose?
Where could I learn snowman building or how to whisper stories in the dark? Would I know that animals smile when their eyes blink or how would I know the right way to pucker my lips when I blow on hot food?
Who could teach me to check for a dirty diaper with my finger like a dipstick or inspect just-brushed teeth?
If I had all the answers, how could I point you to the One who truly knows? What would omniscience be if I could reach it?
What if the holes in my knowledge and expertise set us both up for the most important type of training? The kind that learns to fly to Jesus for the needs of the soul, the type of learning to love what you can’t see and what you don’t fully know?
God created a unique image when he made mommies. Perhaps, dear child, what He wants to teach us most He designed for us to find in Him together.
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