Many years ago, when I thought about my life with kids, I imagined our house to be The House. You know, the house where all the kids end up hanging out? I wanted to be the mom who could be mom to my own kids and Second Mom to their friends. I never wanted to be 'Cool Mom' or try to be buddy-buddy; I just wanted to be The Mom.
Fast forward to present day.
Turns out I don't really like other kids.
Well, that's not totally true. Let me back up for a moment: My husband and I made the decision to put our kids into public school for a number of reasons, one being that we are looking to build relationships with people. We've gotten to know a few families and have had the opportunity to have their kids in our home. One family in particular has visited quite a bit. The son is a classmate of our oldest, and his sister is two years younger. She can be a little.....much. Like when she opens my cabinet to ask for something to eat. Or when she tells me that my baby doesn't want to be in her high chair anymore. Or when she tries to take my 2 year old to the bathroom. I feel my ire rising, and feel the need to put her in her place. This is my house, not yours; keep your hands to yourself. You may be thirsty, but I will be the one to decide what we're going to drink, not you. I'm the mom, thank you, I'll figure out when the baby wants to get down.
Oh yeah. I'm getting territorial with a six year old. Not my finest hour.
Right in the middle of my snit fit, God tapped gently on my shoulder and reminded me that this is what I wanted. This is the reason that we chose public school, this is the reason that we wanted kids in our house. She doesn't need me to correct her, she needs me to love her. She needs me to show her Jesus. She doesn't know that's what she needs, nor does her brother or mother for that matter, but Jesus is what they need. And this is how I show Him, by loving her.
How in the world do I think I'm going to stand having all these kids in my house over the years? Kids come from all different places in life, all different backgrounds, all different personalities, habits, you name it. My job is to love them, to show them the One who can love far better than I ever can. My job is to give them the love that they might not get anywhere else. My job is to be a mom who is capable of all this love because I'm not concerned with besting a six year old, but rather I've laid down my self to take up Christ.
And that's The Mom that I want to be.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Grace and gift cards
Sometimes I just don't like my kids. This is something that lurks deep and dark in the back of every parent's minds, but we just don't say it aloud. Ever. I love them deeply and I really do like them quite a bit. They're funny and charming and sweet and fun to be around...mostly. But then there are just....those days.
To be specific, a series of snow, ice, and sick days had stranded us in the house for close to a week. School was cancelled, the roads were too slick to drive anyway, and another storm was bearing down on us. Cabin fever was hitting hard, and kids were squabbling with each other, melting down over the smallest issue, and generally behaving miserably. I did not like them. One bit.
Salvation came in the form of a late Christmas present from a dear friend. The mailman delivered a package containing Toys R Us gift cards for each kid. Perfect, I thought - a chance to get out of the house and get a new toy to tide us over during the next shut-in.
The plan worked perfectly. We got to Toys R Us and spent a leisurely hour walking through the aisles, each child carefully examining their options. The tension was broken; tempers were cheered, words were kinder, moods were brighter.
Everyone finally had their choice and to extend the benevolent feeling, we even stopped in the candy aisle for an additional treat before proceeding to the register. All was going well. And then I realized that I didn't have my wallet with the gift cards.
Hoping it had just fallen out into the van, I lined the three older ones up against the wall, and ran out to check. No luck. I hurried back in to find my sweet angels sitting quietly where I had left them. They looked at me expectantly and asked if I had found it. I shook my head no, then called home. Sure enough, dear husband found it on the dining room table. I hung up, turned to the kids, and braced myself. "We have to leave the toys here for now. I don't have any money. We have to go home."
And they took my hands and walked out without even a whimper.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. On the drive home, it occurred to me that they probably didn't like me too much in those days either. I was sick of being at home too and it showed; I was sharp with them, less forgiving than I should have been, my irritation showing outright. And when my mistake was on full display, they simply loved me. They had every right to be upset. I can't imagine a situation more disappointing to a child than to have to leave promised toys at the store. But they understood. They understood and they loved me, and I was humbled to accept their grace.
I trip over my own shortcomings, tangle myself in self-satisfying sin, and justify my selfish whims time and time again, and I back-pedal furiously when I'm confronted with the truth about myself. But God gives grace generously, lavishly. And He gives grace through little children, who sometimes give their mothers a gift they don't even know they are giving.
We drove home, picked up the wallet, drove back, got the toys, and picked up a special fast food dinner to boot. And we survived the next ice storm with new toys. We even liked each other this time.
To be specific, a series of snow, ice, and sick days had stranded us in the house for close to a week. School was cancelled, the roads were too slick to drive anyway, and another storm was bearing down on us. Cabin fever was hitting hard, and kids were squabbling with each other, melting down over the smallest issue, and generally behaving miserably. I did not like them. One bit.
Salvation came in the form of a late Christmas present from a dear friend. The mailman delivered a package containing Toys R Us gift cards for each kid. Perfect, I thought - a chance to get out of the house and get a new toy to tide us over during the next shut-in.
The plan worked perfectly. We got to Toys R Us and spent a leisurely hour walking through the aisles, each child carefully examining their options. The tension was broken; tempers were cheered, words were kinder, moods were brighter.
Everyone finally had their choice and to extend the benevolent feeling, we even stopped in the candy aisle for an additional treat before proceeding to the register. All was going well. And then I realized that I didn't have my wallet with the gift cards.
Hoping it had just fallen out into the van, I lined the three older ones up against the wall, and ran out to check. No luck. I hurried back in to find my sweet angels sitting quietly where I had left them. They looked at me expectantly and asked if I had found it. I shook my head no, then called home. Sure enough, dear husband found it on the dining room table. I hung up, turned to the kids, and braced myself. "We have to leave the toys here for now. I don't have any money. We have to go home."
And they took my hands and walked out without even a whimper.
Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. On the drive home, it occurred to me that they probably didn't like me too much in those days either. I was sick of being at home too and it showed; I was sharp with them, less forgiving than I should have been, my irritation showing outright. And when my mistake was on full display, they simply loved me. They had every right to be upset. I can't imagine a situation more disappointing to a child than to have to leave promised toys at the store. But they understood. They understood and they loved me, and I was humbled to accept their grace.
I trip over my own shortcomings, tangle myself in self-satisfying sin, and justify my selfish whims time and time again, and I back-pedal furiously when I'm confronted with the truth about myself. But God gives grace generously, lavishly. And He gives grace through little children, who sometimes give their mothers a gift they don't even know they are giving.
We drove home, picked up the wallet, drove back, got the toys, and picked up a special fast food dinner to boot. And we survived the next ice storm with new toys. We even liked each other this time.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I suppose it's all my fault.
It started out harmless enough: as we'd wait for the stoplight to change, we'd say, "Green means go! Red means stop! Yellow means sllllooooooowwwww dowwwwwwnnnnnnnn!"
Little did I know that I was creating two backseat drivers in carseats.
A few months ago I took a right on red. "Mom..." I heard from the back. "Yeah?" I asked. "You just turned and the light was red." I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He was not amused. "Oh no, honey. That's ok to do." I never thought that I'd have to give a lesson on driving to my 1st grader, but then again, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do as a mom. He seemed pacified, although still a bit dubious at my explanation, as if maybe this was just some big story that I was inventing because after all, I was the one that had taught him 'Red means stop!'
A few days later, it happened again. "MOM!" "What??" I shriek, convinced that a projectile has come crashing through the back window and skewered my child, based solely on the sheer terror in his voice. "YOU TURNED AND IT WAS RED!" My pulse returning to normal, I managed to calmly reiterate the 'Right on red' rule. He also calmed down and seemed to accept my explanation a little easier this time.
The next week I turned left on a green arrow. From the back, a familiar, "Mooommm..." "Yes?" "You said that you could turn right on red, but you turned left that time and it was still red." "Didn't you see the green arrow? If you are turning left, sometimes we can make our turn even though the people going straight are still stopped." His mouth was set in a grim line, but he nodded.
"Mom?" "What, hon?" "How do you know how fast you can drive?" Thus the speed limit saga began. "See those signs with numbers on them? They tell you how fast you can go."
"Thirty-five, Mom. It says thirty-five." "Thanks." "Are you going thirty-five?" I glance down at my speedometer hovering just over 40. Moment of truth. I lick my lips. "Nope - but now that I know that it's just 35, that's how fast I'll go."
"Fifty-five, Mom." "Twenty, Mom. I just saw twenty." "Mom, did you see that? It said forty-five now. You can go forty-five." The 3 year old has begun to chime in too: "How fast, Mom, how fast?" My thoughts while driving now involve how hard it would be to make my back windows completely opaque and just how insane that would sound to explain to the car guy.
Next up, we bring the police into the mix. "Mom, what happens if you go faster than you're supposed to?" "The police will give you a ticket." I watch him in the rear view mirror as he digests this morsel. Lip quivering, he asks in a small voice, "Will we go to jail?" I assure him that we will absolutely not go to jail over a speeding ticket. It's only after I clarify that the driver is the only one who will be in trouble that he perks up.
Perhaps the most insulting query comes from the mouth of my 3 year old as we are en route to our weekly errands, a routine trip that I've driven for years now: "This is the wrong way!" I bite my tongue and sweetly repond, "Trust me; it's the right way" to which he reponds even more sweetly, "Are you sure?"
But I'll have the last laugh. The countdown has begun: only ten years until it's their turn in the drivers seat....
It started out harmless enough: as we'd wait for the stoplight to change, we'd say, "Green means go! Red means stop! Yellow means sllllooooooowwwww dowwwwwwnnnnnnnn!"
Little did I know that I was creating two backseat drivers in carseats.
A few months ago I took a right on red. "Mom..." I heard from the back. "Yeah?" I asked. "You just turned and the light was red." I caught his eye in the rear view mirror. He was not amused. "Oh no, honey. That's ok to do." I never thought that I'd have to give a lesson on driving to my 1st grader, but then again, there are a lot of things I never thought I'd have to do as a mom. He seemed pacified, although still a bit dubious at my explanation, as if maybe this was just some big story that I was inventing because after all, I was the one that had taught him 'Red means stop!'
A few days later, it happened again. "MOM!" "What??" I shriek, convinced that a projectile has come crashing through the back window and skewered my child, based solely on the sheer terror in his voice. "YOU TURNED AND IT WAS RED!" My pulse returning to normal, I managed to calmly reiterate the 'Right on red' rule. He also calmed down and seemed to accept my explanation a little easier this time.
The next week I turned left on a green arrow. From the back, a familiar, "Mooommm..." "Yes?" "You said that you could turn right on red, but you turned left that time and it was still red." "Didn't you see the green arrow? If you are turning left, sometimes we can make our turn even though the people going straight are still stopped." His mouth was set in a grim line, but he nodded.
"Mom?" "What, hon?" "How do you know how fast you can drive?" Thus the speed limit saga began. "See those signs with numbers on them? They tell you how fast you can go."
"Thirty-five, Mom. It says thirty-five." "Thanks." "Are you going thirty-five?" I glance down at my speedometer hovering just over 40. Moment of truth. I lick my lips. "Nope - but now that I know that it's just 35, that's how fast I'll go."
"Fifty-five, Mom." "Twenty, Mom. I just saw twenty." "Mom, did you see that? It said forty-five now. You can go forty-five." The 3 year old has begun to chime in too: "How fast, Mom, how fast?" My thoughts while driving now involve how hard it would be to make my back windows completely opaque and just how insane that would sound to explain to the car guy.
Next up, we bring the police into the mix. "Mom, what happens if you go faster than you're supposed to?" "The police will give you a ticket." I watch him in the rear view mirror as he digests this morsel. Lip quivering, he asks in a small voice, "Will we go to jail?" I assure him that we will absolutely not go to jail over a speeding ticket. It's only after I clarify that the driver is the only one who will be in trouble that he perks up.
Perhaps the most insulting query comes from the mouth of my 3 year old as we are en route to our weekly errands, a routine trip that I've driven for years now: "This is the wrong way!" I bite my tongue and sweetly repond, "Trust me; it's the right way" to which he reponds even more sweetly, "Are you sure?"
But I'll have the last laugh. The countdown has begun: only ten years until it's their turn in the drivers seat....
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