Being the eldest Bergmann of the house, now that my parents are gone, I quickly found myself amazed at the regiment of mothers across this country. There's much more than cooking and cleaning in making a house run. It's staying on your toes, peeking over your book to the clock, every minute. You're it. You have to remember to check on that baby in the bathtub. You have to make sure he ends up dressed and washed for bed. You have to remind people to set the table, take the trash out, do the dishes. You have to pick up where people slack off or do what people are not obligated to do and you have to be absolutely, totally available to do it.
Like potty training. Something malfunctioned with the little potty and by nature of the malfunction, it created a mess all over the floor. The first time it happened - well, fine, I could clean that up. The second time? I walked into the bathroom, flipped the light and just stared. Daniel pranced about desiring gummi bears.
There were, logically, only two possible responses: (A) melt-down time and clean it up or (B) cheerful smiles and clean it up. For you see, it's not right to call on your poor grandmamma every time something disgusting happens; and when your mother's not there, the responsibility to scrub that floor is you. It can't just stay there until Saturday night.
It clicked just then. "You are not your own." I didn't get to create my line of work and reality. My Employer called the shots. And since I already professed devotion to my Lord, it made no sense to give that Bergmann arch and holler till the ceiling fell down.
So I said, "Okay, honey bug. Let's get your gummi bears. What color do you want?"