The Truth Is.

The Truth Is….

Is it wrong to admit that sometimes I hate my kids? Even as I write this, I struggle with the reactions of how others many interpret my statement. I fear the judgment, the condescension, the verbalized comments, or stolen glances of scorn to one another.

Do not mistake me—these little people are the product of long awaited prayers, months of growth, and hours of labor. I treasure those memories of my time pregnant with both of my boys, it was a creative and God-given gift. I never felt more peaceful than those 2:30 am feedings and all was quiet. Except for the house settling, the chair rocking, and the content gurgles from my son, little else shattered our cozy existence. To say those were precious moments would be an understatement, they were life-sustaining. Amid the chaos of the busy daytime life, it seemed that time stood still and let me steal a slice. I cannot tell you what I thought in those moments, but I know my mind kept time with the silent staccato of my chair. I saw their life unfold before me as I gazed down at them. I saw who they might become, not their profession. I dreamed of their future and reunions with their families. Sometimes I wept at the sheer magnitude of the responsibility that lay in my arms.

Who in their right mind would hand me one of Heaven’s most revered treasures…much less 2 of them? My head screams that I am just a kid myself, I don’t know the first thing about raising men—yet, here they are.

Catapulted from cooing baby stage where they are wholly dependent on me, to a place now where they need me less I am conflicted. In this stage their personalities are more than developed, with new facets springing forth daily. This is where I can see the influence of my words and actions combine with the outside world. I can see how the effects of my tones, words, responses, and non responses guide their behavior. I can also see when those two worlds conflict and my own self doubt come to the surface. How do my sons handle and respond to the questions presented? How do I respond? In what ways does how I would respond personally impact my children and other people?

Then the frustration of daily life takes over and I find myself at odds with two small people I’ve poured my life into. It is where I have heard the screeched, “MOM!!” for the millionth time that I begin to rue that title. Moments when answering the same question fifteen times taxes more of my strength than painting a house.

So, I struggle when the attitude of gratitude lacks presence, when refereeing one more fight over a toy or TV program seems overwhelming. In these moments I wonder who these people are that I have birthed? As I watch them wrestle rough enough to warrant an ER visit, I worry not about the future, I worry about the next ten minutes.

Then, I chastise myself for wanting my own time with my own thought not focused solely on them. Even as I write this I have opened the back door at least five times, analyzed the sounds of boat motors in a child’s pool, discussed wave actions on a beach or an island with a four year old, and kept out a watchful eye for possible brotherly conflict.

However, it is also within this time when quiet ensues that I am motivated to simply watch them at play or at rest. There are times at night that I sit on the side of their beds and watch them sleep, as I did years ago, where my soul needs to see them peacefully floating in dreams. I am not sure what it speaks to my inner soul, I just know that this time is necessary to my being. The guilt of wanting my solo life seems shallow then, and I battle my selfish human nature with the divine gift I have been given. This is when I struggle with whether the same instructions voiced a million times makes any difference to a person it appears is not listening. It is when I want to bounce Cheetos off their heads, advocating all manner of insane propositions just to see if my words caught attention. When I want to cry, scream, and rail that who they are now sets the stage for their future. I want to plead with them to understand how much I have given and will continue to give them. I want to show them the truth of what it really means to love, to wholly love-with all its mess, emotion, and crap. I can’t and I don’t though, because they would not understand. The only thing they know is the loving embrace from a parent and the eyes that speak volumes more than they will comprehend.

They are not ready to know the harder side of love, its all-consuming power to drive you to your knees in joy, pain, anger, or sorrow. For now that must be enough, I wonder if this is how our Divine Abba Parent regards us?

Excuse me, the pen must rest a moment, my son needs Doritos, duty calls.

Shalom?

 

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