Remember when we were kids— we lived by the TV Guide… TGIF on the WB, Nickelodeon, ABC Family, MTV, VH1, Carson Dailey and Slime Time Live… new episodes, new seasons, premieres, finales. We lived for the story line, and rushed time through the commercials. The chore, the fervor to complete whatever needed to be done in 120 seconds between important plot.

Sometimes, motherhood feels similar to cable TV in the 90s. Stay with me 😅… we live for the show, the story. New seasons unfold before our very eyes. Each episode showing LIVE, urging us to watch, to soak it in, to be present for the plot- their childhood.

A commercial break, a brief time to complete the chore… whatever it may be— The focus is our family; the main characters; our spouses and children, our village… the loud “in-betweens” are the things that weigh on us, that fund the program— the advertisements. Our careers, household duties, running here and there- they keep the program going… lay the paper for the plot to be written.
___

We closed the store for the week between Christmas and New Years for the first time this year. I lived commercial free— we were streaming the story on premium subscription for a moment there. It was so hard, and exhausting, and LOUD… but so sweet and focused— like binge watching my boys childhood. Truly undistracted memories I can cherish. (Is this metaphor getting a bit “weird” yet? 😅 it’s 2025, stick with me).

I guess what I am getting at (and seriously, I am guessing at what I’m getting at, at this point)… is that motherhood — life — is quite difficult to remain present for, without interruption. There is always something tugging us away from them… but when we return from the commercial break, we are quickly gripped by the story of our children’s childhood. Directing, and watching with love and faithful fear again.

We all carry the beauty and burden of motherhood. Praise God we don’t carry it alone. We live in the plot… and we live in the commercial breaks— they are simply different. Serving different faucets of life as a mother— but writing us forward nonetheless.

Xx,
MacK