I am not a troll. I promise I don’t ever leave those types of comments that you might think rude, unless you don’t understand sarcasm. In which case, let’s be honest, I probably don’t follow you anyway. When I feel inclined to leave a comment, I hope you know it’s because I have, in one way or another, connected with you and want you to know that I am on your side.
I think you are amazing. I think it’s totally outstanding that you have four adopted children in all different shades. I think it is absolutely phenomenal that you are also pregnant for the first time and that there is not now, nor has there ever been, anything wrong with you and your baby-making-machine. Someone else just grew some of your babies for you. I live through your homeschool adventures, or your full-time RV adventures, or your weight loss adventures. Your children are beautiful. All of your children are beautiful. I am totally fascinated with you in a major, Duggar sort of way. Your pictures, the stories they tell, make me believe in goodness. They make me happier about raising my own children in this world. I’m so glad that you answered your call, whatever it may be. So glad that the child you are growing in your womb will enter the world with your idea of family, with Jesus’ idea of family. I find it utterly mind blowing that your adopted children, who share no DNA, look alike or that you are traveling with 6 kids in a Mini Winnie.
Not that you would ever know but, I share your stories with people all of the time. Please don’t think that’s creepy. I talk about ‘This lady I follow on Instagram…’ with the beautiful black daughters and the gorgeous curls who makes a living as a traveling nurse and a life as a mother. I share your victories with people, your struggles. I try to pass along your story so that other people will see goodness in the world, too. It really does brighten things up. Thank you for sharing your story with me so that I can share it with others.
I know you are not perfect, even though you don’t share pictures of a dirty toilet or a laundry pile full of pissy sheets on Instagram. It’s okay. No one wants to see that all day, promise. Even though you don’t post Instavideos of you and your husband fighting about money, or sex, or whether or not he ever listens to what you say, I know they happen. I know this because, like me, you are just a mere human, married to a mere human, with a house or RV full of little mere human children. I know you have days where you want to scream at the top of your lungs or ask, “Really, God? Are you sure because…I don’t know, Man. I SUCK at this!”
I know that people see you at the grocery store, or at church, or comment on your blog and they tell you that you are amazing. I also know that it makes you cringe sometimes and think, ‘if you only knew.’
Here’s the deal, though. I do know. I know that you are not perfect, that you don’t feel amazing some days. I know that you lay your head down some nights and think, ‘I’m a fake. I’m a fraud. My feed is full of lies and pretty, filtered moments and the truth is I don’t even like any of these kids, today.
‘Except the baby. The baby hasn’t learned to talk yet.’
I follow you because of the pretty moments but I tell your story because you continue to find those pretty moments and share them even in the midst of the hard stuff. You choose to talk about Autism and Down Syndrome and Bi-Polar Disorder and then post pictures of simple, every day things, like eating popsicles or leaning to ride on two wheels. And they are not lies, you are not a fraud, you are a real, living, breathing mother who chooses to find joy anyway, to find laughter and bright moments anyway, to mother children you did not grow anyway.
You keep taking pictures and writing stories. You choose to capture the moments that make you smile, that make you proud, that make other people want to tell your story, too.
Next time someone stops you to tell you how amazing you are, do me a favor, would ya?
Just say, Thank You.
Because you are.