For the Mom Who Feels She Only Deserves a Lousy Participation Trophy
- Peyton Garland iBelieve Editor
- Published Dec 26, 2023
If I set my four-month-old son on his play mat, he will begin to cry… he’s a little attached to the natural warmth my body provides. Besides, he’s napping so peacefully, and he’s nuzzled perfectly on my chest.
Gosh, I love the feel of his tiny, rhythmic breaths whooshing against my arm… it makes the sweaty mess he made on this same arm just moments ago—as he viciously fought sleep—seem as commonplace as morning dew.
But here’s my dilemma (and if your brain just cued a Selena Gomez song, well, hi, friend. Good to know there’s another Millennial who cringes at her 2010 photos hanging out in this space…): if I let him stay snuggled on me, it’s hard to get work done. And though motherhood is my ultimate priority and is a 24/7 job I underestimated, I do have a nine-to-five gig that requires my attention. And as a believer in a God who calls us to goodness, I am convicted that I must participate in my day job with a sense of excellence—not perfection, but certainly with a heart of gratitude for a job that lets me daily express my love of storytelling and the Oxford comma.
To put him down is to get work done.
To keep him safe and snug for another thirty minutes is to get work done.
One earns money that affords the fancy organic ball pit I want to purchase for him for Christmas. (How a ball pit is even organic, I don’t know. I’m probably just a sucker who is paying an extra $100 for false peace of mind.)
The other earns emotional stability, forging little neural pathways that scientifically whisper to my son that Mommy will always be there.
I want him to have both. This little guy deserves all the ball pits and emotional stability I can afford.
What Sacrifice Is Sufficient?
But what price can a mother pay to fulfill every need of her child?
Is that even possible?
To be frank, I think the answer is no. (But, hey, I am only four months in and just seeing the light at the end of postpartum depression’s nasty tunnel. So if you have any momma tricks up your sleeve, I’m all ears… when my son isn’t screaming in them.)
Maybe amid this feeling of incompleteness and ineptness is where God steps in, takes my hand, and guides me with the warmth only He provides, reminding me of those Awana verses I memorized solely so I could go to the Awana store and buy that Polly Pocket…
Perhaps God does supply all of my needs by supplying my son with everything he needs that I simply can’t give (Philippians 4:19). And maybe He supplies my son with His riches and glory because, geez, I dunno, He loves my son so much that He died for him (John 3:16) and made salvation as simple as childlike faith (Matthew 19:14).
I have a hard time letting the Savior of the world save my child. I have a hard time letting Him save me from being unable to save my child. To prove the point, let me share a snippet from my most recent book, Tired, Hungry, & Kinda Faithful:
Several years ago, I grew agitated asking God for help on such a consistent basis. Every morning, every night, I would need forgiveness for cyclic sins. Every sunrise, every moonlight, I would confess that I fell into the same trap of not bridling my tongue, listening to myself instead of the omniscient One, etc.
Such agitation seems rightly off-kilter. It’s normal, even healthy, for people to rejoice over a gift, one in mint condition without sly monthly payments buried in microscopic print. God hands me heaven, free of charge, in exchange for my flaws. The deal of all glorious deals. Yet, his free gift of goodness reflected my lack thereof. The more he forgave me, the harder time I had forgiving myself. Receiving forgiveness felt like I was dropping off sin but taking shame home. “I can’t pay you back for what you’ve done for me,” I huffed at him.
But that’s Peyton Garland: a woman who privately squirms at the untainted beauty of God, a God who birthed perfection and its very essence at a mere thought but never once asks for such an impossible standard of his children in return. Meanwhile, Peyton persists on her squeamish path because she remains frustrated at her inability to compensate for his glory. Peyton will share his unmatchable loveliness on the page. Still, away from word counts and headliners, when the laptop is closed and no deadlines remain, when SEO keywords, or browser pushes vie for her attention, she wrestles with the very truths she preaches to others.
While a friend can surprise Peyton with a batch of warm, fresh cookies, she can return the favor by gifting her friend with the most aesthetic cup of coffee on a wintry Colorado day. When a friend drops off bags of treats for Peyton’s tyrannical dogs, she can hold onto any packages left at her friend’s door while she is on vacation. But there’s no tit-for-tat with God. He gives her everything and asks for nothing tangible in return, only a heart of gratitude for his sacrifice. He is so marvelous at maintaining perfection that she will forever be indebted to his kindness. Peyton will forever be not enough, yet is loved unequivocally by the God of the galaxies. Granted, it’s not that she loathes his love; instead, she is frankly agitated with her inability to pay back her best friend who saved the world.
Most people can work through their mess-ups and graciously accept God’s forgiveness through it all. Meanwhile, I’m stomping my feet and telling God He should have provided more sustainable, dependable resources than this frail body and overloaded brain. Yet, with God, there is no such thing as pulling my weight while he pulls his. There is no meeting the Maker halfway, no matching his abilities and stellar performance. He carries it all and only requires that I follow behind him.
You get the point. I like to earn my way. I don’t want things free of charge. I crave the satisfaction of knowing I dug my heels deep where it mattered to deserve my reward.
Hence my struggle with motherhood.
Longing to Earn My Way
I want to earn the right to hear him say, “Ma-ma.”
I want to earn the right to know he feels safe in my arms.
I want to win at motherhood. (And I hate participation trophies.)
But I guess with each day that goes by, as I make little mistakes and even big ones, I’m learning that my son quite adores me for no other reason than that one time I carried him in my stomach and told him what a rascal he was for making me vomit the whole time… (I even threw up between each push in the delivery room.) He cries for me simply because I’ll hold him, even when I’m frustrated, smell sour, and mindlessly scroll on my phone.
He loves me for being. Even being imperfect. And I think I’ll take that little participation trophy and, daresay, place it on the mantel with anxious pride.
And I’ll take the bigger win that my God will provide all of his needs and guide all of his steps because He is good when I am not. He is patient when I am not. He is gracious when I am not. He is all-powerful because I am not. He is all-knowing because I am not.
So I’ll let God be victorious in my motherhood journey simply by admitting that I can’t afford to be all the things all the time. Some days I will win tiny victories. On other days, I will lose not-so-graciously, drag my scuffed-up heart toward the rocking chair, and collapse in defeat.
But all the while, my son has everything he needs, even with a participation-trophy mama.
And that is enough.
Because God is more than enough.
Grateful you are here,
—PG
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