The delivery truck parked in front of our house this morning. Predictably, every little set of bare male feet pattered toward the porch. The two year old, sitting on the sofa next to me, hauled himself up the couch cushions to wave graciously through the window at the delivery man. He graciously waved back.
I wasn’t expecting any packages. The guessing began as we ripped through the tape.
“Probably books.” My four year old said, preparing to be disappointed.
“Is it mine?” The two year old crawled over to the mysterious box hopefully.
“I want to open it with Daddy’s knife!” The six year old was climbing the bookshelf to find the forbidden box cutters above his head.
The brown packaging was pulled away to reveal another box with blue and pink lettering beneath.
“It can’t be for us; it’s pink.” The seven year old said practically.
But it was. I was a bit taken back when I pulled out the contents. It was a toilet seat. (Which wasn’t pink. Phew.)
I hadn’t ordered a toilet seat. It took me a moment to connect the dots. I had rather laughingly posted a link on Facebook to a seat with a built-in child size seat on top. It seemed like an ingenious product, and very handy for the little masses now popping bubble wrap at my feet. But actually buying one was pretty far down the list of necessities I needed to spend money on in the near future. How did the toilet seat find its way to my doorstep? And why?
It’s the nebulous time between a newborn’s month one and two. These are the dark days of babyhood for a mother. At least they have been with my last four children. My fifth infant son has crossed the six week mark, which is historically height of the crankiest period. For the baby too.
Oh, I know it will start to even out in the next month. The first newborn month was a break from homeschool and most housework, and a time when there were simply more people to help with the mommy business. But then mommy had to go solo again. His hormones are most out of whack right now, but they’re starting to simmer down. I’m at the apex of adjusting to a new normal while running the marathon of long days on little sleep, but I’m seeing less of the wee hours than I was even two weeks ago. I’m getting faster at typing one handed while nursing, so maybe I can catch up on blogging soon. There are glimpses of light at the end of the newborn tunnel. I know I won’t walk through the valley of the shadow of ultra zombie mommy for much longer. (Soon it will just be regular zombie mommy). But we’re not quite there.
In these predawn moments, waiting for that daylight to come again, I have just been reminded I am not forgotten.
From the other side of America, God sent a gift.
A dear old friend saw my link and blessed me with a surprise.
I’ll think of her every time we use it. (Well, maybe not… )
In the midst of homeschool and homemaking and home always breaking, it was so nice to be given a practical reminder. God sees. God knows. God gave me lots of little boys who must all be potty trained, and God sends little tangible promises that it will happen. Really. Diaper season will (and already has) lasted a long time in this home. But these little boys will be trained into men. Really.
“Patience, Momma,” I hear God laugh over the popping bubble wrap. “See? There is hope. There is a future. Really. I’ve got this.”
And He sent me a toilet seat to prove it.
I love Him.