I feel sorry for you.

By,  Anna Click

"Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD:

and the fruit of the womb is his reward.

“I feel sorry for you.”

Psalm 126:3

I did a double take as you said that sliding past me with your cart full of groceries. In that split second, all the things that I wanted to say ran through my mind as the mama bear in me rose up, but I didn’t reply. It wasn’t a comment worth my breath. Anything I would have said, wouldn’t have changed your mind about why you felt sorry for a mom of five kids and felt the need to voice it to me.

We were in the ice cream aisle at Wal-Mart. My kids were so excited because mom does NOT buy popsicles. But we had raced into town earlier this morning to the ER because my 4 year-old fell and put her teeth through her bottom lip and busted her top lip. Thankfully she was ok. Her siblings comforted her with the idea that she could eat popsicles all day and so we were there for red popsicles specifically. They were oohing and aahing over all the choices, each trying to convince their little sister to get the kind they secretly wanted. And then you walked past and said those words to me. You didn’t even look me in the eyes. I don’t know if it was purposeful or your thoughts just came out loud. But they did and there was obvious contempt in the way they were said.

Don’t feel sorry for me.

My 6 year old whispered to me when we got home, “Mom, I prayed that God would heal Cami and that she wouldn’t be scared.”

Don’t feel sorry for me.

My 13 year old gave up her front seat to sit by her sister in the way in and the way back to comfort her.

Don’t feel sorry for me.

Her brothers cheered her up by propping her with pillows on the couch, turning on Bluey and telling her they were her servants for the rest of the day.

Don’t feel sorry for me.

I look at each of my children. Each a miracle. Some a rainbow after loss. Each unique and valued and worthy.

So don’t feel sorry for me.

I chose this life. I wish you could take a peek through this mama’s eyes. Maybe you would feel differently. Maybe not. But no matter how long the days or nights, no matter the tears of heartache or frustration, no matter the cost, it’s worth it. They are worth it. And I’d choose it all over again in a heartbeat.

Don’t feel sorry for me.