Why you should totally get kids

Some people have kids they didn’t want. Some people want kids but can’t have. Some people love their kids. Some people leave their kids.

I’m not being flippant about the massive undertaking of parenthood, or about the gut-wrenching dream-shattering pain of those who ache for kids of their own. I’ve just been thinking about it because our cell group has been wading through the sometimes straightforward, mostly mysterious book of Genesis. This week we looked at the whole ‘be fruitful and multiply’ thing. Which raised the question, ‘Is God commanding us to have kids? Like, is it a sin if you don’t?’ Apparently it comes down to grammar. In the Hebrew, Genesis 2:28 is an imperative not a command. In English that’s the same thing, but apparently in Hebrew it’s not. In Hebrew it’s sort of a blessing. So choosing not to have kids is not a sin. There are compelling, godly, out-of-our-hands reasons not to have kids. Of course, there are selfish reasons too.

Here are six ways (of many) that we’ve received the be-fruitful-and-multiply blessing, which has turned me into a card-carrying advocate for welcoming small people to the world.

Kids are about relationships. We’re only four and a bit years into the parenting journey, but I am daily amazed by the power and the beauty of the baby relationships brewing under our roof. When Scott drags me into the lounge to dance it speaks to something in the deepest places of my humanity. We’re made to connect with other warm bodies. (Like, as I type this Murray is hiding behind a curtain in the lounge and the boys are looking for him. Riotous.)

I do so want Cam and Scott to unravel the strings of potential embedded in their DNA. I suppose every mom is chuffed when her kids are achievers in the traditional sense, but I really hope to shape a different world view for my boys. I hope to teach them that life is not distinctions and accolades and promotions. Life is character and rich experiences and more than anything deep, healthy relationships. If they are labelled as average in every measurable discipline but exceptional in people-loving and difference-making and life-changing then I hope that they will know the satisfaction of true success. The eternal investments we make in other people are, after all, the only thing that counts in the end.

Kids are about riches. If we had five bucks for every time the boys made us laugh we could probably buy a small developing country. I gave Cam timeout the other day for being cheeky. He kept talking and his trouble was growing. I advised him to keep quiet until his timeout was over and he had calmed down. I had to stifle my giggles at his swooning melodrama: ‘But Mom if I don’t talk I will be voiceless forever!’

And then there are the heavy nuggets of heart-gold, like Scott using a four-word sentence for the first time this week. Or just watching them both at the kitchen counter, mesmerized by cheese rolls after church every Sunday. And when they climb on me for random hugs in between playing cars on the carpet. Cha-CHING. Rich, I tell you.

Kids are about reaching. I hope that how we love our kids will be an image – a nebulous reminder, if nothing else – of how God loves us. As in, unconditionally despite our mess. And maybe a cynical someone watching and doubting will be drawn to Jesus. Kids are about the Kingdom.

Kids are about reality. They bring quiddity like nothing else. They are ecstasy and grief with limbs. Like, last week, Cam had a really bad day. He ran into a glass door. He smacked into two different car side-mirrors in a parking lot. He missed a step and fell. When this happens he doesn’t lash out with tantrums. He pretends he’s fine. He goes quiet and hopes no one sees. And bits of my heart just break off when his voice is sad and whispery: ‘Mom, why do I keep bumping into things?’ The next day I thought I’d make French toast for breakfast. I lumped some butter in a pan. Cam was on the other side of the house. ‘Mom!’ he shouted, ‘I smell butter melting!’ Which is just astounding. And not sad at all.

Kids are about reality, and reality is about the strange symbiosis of triumph and setback. Scott drank juice from a cup this week. Wow, I thought. Then he dunked his chips in it. Oops, I thought. He’s learned to drink from a cup because he watches his big brother. Same thing with the chips. I guess that’s how we roll.

Kids are about reliance. They keep you down to earth, and close to God. They’re born with chisels to chip off your pride. They take you quickly to the end of yourself, where you are left with two choices: strong drugs, or total dependence on God.

On Thursday I went to the post office. To cut short a long story about a long queue, I couldn’t contain Scott. The slowly snaking line of silent, polite people who avoided all eye contact and have clearly never encountered a screaming laughing running toddler wild with curiosity eventually took me to a teller. Who then disappeared. Along with what was left of my sense of humour. I now had Scott on the floor pinned between my legs, red and yelling (both of us). Cam yelled also: ‘Can someone please help my Mom!’

At supper that night Cam asked me for all the Afrikaans words for the fruit of the Spirit. (Yes. Freaky.) I felt The Nudge, gagged on some pride and asked their forgiveness for not displaying said fruit in the post office.

This week I also gave away our baby things. Sounds arbitrary, but it was kind of sad, and another opportunity to trust God to take me through the seasons. To remember that he is my everything.

Kids are about redeployment. Of self. (And sleep.) I guess sacrifice is the hardest part of the blessing. But there’s nothing more beautiful than people who forget themselves in the tender nurture of others, to God’s glory. I hope I get it right sometimes.