Before I had my wild little beasts, I truly believed in the ridiculous notion that the measure of a parent could be quantified in the number of nasty “No’s” that were audible to an unintended audience. I honestly thought that if you read enough books (as hilariously contradicting as they all are) and you had enough “discipline” (whatever the newest, trendy definition might be), you could somehow will your children into submission, cookie cut your own little mini-me-muffins, and avoid the scarlet letter of having “that” kid. Ha!

Thus, it is not surprising that my first prayers for Zoe were filled with wishful visions of wisdom and fulfillment of all of things I succeeded in failing in. I, as many first timers mistakenly do, assumed my children would become a reflective representation of me, when in fact they are more like one of those magnified makeup mirrors that allows you to see every-single-tiny-little flaw that is you. But that was a lesson I would take years to learn.

So, I prayed my Zoe would be smart. And she was. She was everything I prayed for…for better and for worse. You see Zoe began outsmarting me long before she could even speak or even really move, and the joys that came with the naivety of my prayers were evident in even the earliest of Zoe’s curse of intelligence. I can clearly remember a time when we performed the classic panicked new parent move, terrified by the thought of missing a milestone “on time”, and placed our still seven month old on a blanket, taunting her with a toy just out of arms reach. (The cruelty we commit upon our children in order to have something post-worthy on Facebook.) However my crafty little Zoe, just looked at that toy, waited a dramatic moment to make sure we knew she would deal with our little attempt at control in HER own time, and then strategically pulled that blanket toward her, hand over hand, like a contrived conveyor belt, allowing her to get what she wanted, on her terms. And she continues to outsmart me daily…okay, maybe hourly, often forcing me into that awkward, “That’s a great question Zoe. Why don’t you research that one. I wouldn’t want to ruin the fun of discovery.” (In other words, “I have no freakin’ clue kid!”) And with her big ol’ brain came big ol’ anxieties, which I should have prayed would have skipped a generation. Zoe makes Wemberly Worried look like a poised politician. But I guess I got what I asked for.

So it is not surprising that my next child came with very different prayers. I no longer wished to burden my babies with the weight of my monstrous defeats. So I prayed my Mia would be happy. And she was. She was everything I prayed for…for better and for worse. You see, Mia’s name is Mia Joy…”My Joy”…as in a mother’s joy. Unfortunately, I think Mia must have misread the memo, as she is better defined as “Mia’s Joy”, in that self-discipline is not exactly her strong point. Now don’t get me wrong…my little fireball can light up a room like you have never seen. The problem is she will also likely short-circuit the entire electrical system in the process. I am ashamed to say that I can actually remember saying this ignorant quote out loud pre-Mia, “I don’t believe in baby-proofing. I believe in teaching my child to make safe choices.” Ha! Needless to say, we went from never baby-proofing the house with Zoe to calling poison control 3 times in 3 months with Mia. And while she does not fill the air with words of worry, as her sister does. She instead confidently shoves away her troubles. I mean literally, pushes the poor people to the ground and tackles them. She does not spend her time riddled with anxiety. But instead shakes her little tush for whoever is willing to dance with her, and pushes (I mean literally knocks down) whoever gets in the way of her groove. But I guess I got what I asked for.

Thus, by the time my third came along, I no longer fooled myself into thinking that wisdom or joy were in any way relevant to the quality of life for a parent, and my prayers once again changed. So I prayed my Wesley would be obedient. And he was. He was everything I prayed for…for better and for worse. My little man is not burdened by the weight of my own monstrous defeats. Nor am I burdened by his short circuiting skills. However, with obedience has come the unexpected joys of dependency. Wesley brings a new definition to the word Mama’s Boy, as I sometimes wonder if he is actually, physically attached to my hip. And while my philosophy on child-rearing has changed drastically as I have watched each little one, transition to a bigger one, and then into that kid that suddenly no longer fits on my hip, and I am no longer in a rush to impress the masses with milestones and post-worthy acts of independence, the fact that my little sumo-wrestler started out in this world as a 10-pounder and hasn’t wasted away in the months that followed, makes his chosen hip-placement, a likely transition into my need for a future hip replacement. But I guess I got what I asked for.

However, I don’t believe my prayers were answered as some sort of “You-got-what-you-asked-for”, “sock-it-to-you” from The Big Man. In fact, I think Zoe was exactly what I needed at the time. As a person already consumed by anxiety (I consider nervous breakdowns an entertaining pastime), Zoe gave me confidence. I remember when we used to go to concerts at the park with our tiny toddler, she would sit there and quietly listen to the orchestral zen, as if we were in our own little snow globe of serene parenting. I would watch other children running around, climbing the trees like wild monkeys, and I would think, “I am SUCH an amazing mother”…

…and then I had Mia. God built me up so darn well with Zoe, that he knew I might benefit from a healthy dose of humility. Apparently, He thinks that I might need a lifetime dose, as the terrible twos have turned into the terrible threes, and I am now starting to hear, “She is going to be a strong leader one day” on a far too common basis…and we can all translate that little twisted “compliment.” I quickly realized I wasn’t at all amazing, just amazingly ignorant. And as I struggled with coming to terms with the realization that I had very little to do with the “success” of my offspring…

…I was surprised with a THIRD. And while I wanted a smart and happy child, I also wanted to survive. So when my little leech decided he needed all of me (which was an impossible fraction), all of the time (at what point does the sleep deprivation, that is parenting actually become a legally recognized torture technique), I was forced to rely on God to be my extra set of arms, that third eye on the back of my head, and a healthy dose of spiritual Xanax, as I stared at the impossible each morning and realized I had survived at the end of each night, having to face an all too soon tomorrow.

And I can’t help but also think of Proverbs 27:17, when I think of how distinctively different each of my little people are, and yet how perfectly they were created to shape one another. Without Mia, Zoe would never risk making the “wrong” move to attempt to burn it up on the dance floor. Without Zoe, Mia might actually burn up the dance floor, and possibly the entire house. And without Wesley, there would be nobody to blame it all on.