Life is not about me

This morning, my back and arms were already exhausted at 8am.  I was circling our downstairs carrying our 2 1/2 year old and 9 week old.  While looking at them, Luke's arms pumping and throat grunting and Maddie's head leaning on my shoulder cushioned by her green blanket, I thought, "Life is not about me." 

I could hear the water running upstairs, Vanessa was getting a shower, what used to be a get-clean process that is now most beloved as a relaxing, momentary getaway.  She needs and wants a husband who cares deeply for her, understands graciously what she can (and can't) accomplish, who finds ways to seriously help, and ways to infuse adult conversation lacking phrases such as "poopie diaper," "sippie cup," or the ongoing question, "Why?" 

Maddie wants her daddy's embrace more than ever with Luke around.  Luke was wide-eyed during church the other day, alertly "listening" to daddy's voice.  The influence I have on them is frighteningly indelible, for better or for worse.  I have to be intentional, denying much of myself for their sake.  A wise man once told me, "When you get married, you realize life isn't about you."  (This is how it should be.  Unfortunately, many marriages are selfishly stuck).  "When you have kids, you realize that life really isn't about you."  He's right.  Life isn't about me.  And truly, I'm happiest when others around me are most loved by me.