This morning one of our children (who will remain nameless) was found with a rare lego that he may have *ahem* stolen from a *public place* because he *needed it.* After all, the lego was *gifted to him* so he said (at least he didn’t shove it up his nose).
Help us all. I’m raising a dishonest manchild.
Anyone know what thought followed next?
I’m failing at this whole parenting thing.
I kid you not, my mind went there.
Cuz’ it’s tempting to base our identity on how things – I mean our sweet spawns – behave and believe we actually have control over their free-will minds.
News flash, mama friends:
We are not failures simply because our kids are turning out to be quite so human after all.
I know. That’s a deep one. I’m sitting in that truth myself.
Repeat after me: We are doing the best we can with the time we have with the people entrusted in our home.
Over and out.
You are doing the best you can with the time you have with the people entrusted in your home.
I know you are.
Or else you wouldn’t care or pray or share about it.
We’d just go on our merry tra-la-la way and trust they’ll raise themselves to pure independent bliss.
Parenting is no joke. I text my girlfriends this on a daily basis.
Which is why when we share about our honest fears (like the other night when out of nowhere I was OVERCOME with trepidation that our boys are doomed because of their back-talking and yelling and threw my hands in my face because THE WORLD IS OVER AND I’VE FAILED AT PARENTING … I digress) doubt teeter tottered on the other side of grace.
My boys don’t need a mama who doubts herself.
Life is full enough with work and finances and plunging the occasional toilet. Ain’t no room for doubt.
You know what my boys need? They need a mom who gets off her phone and cares more about disappointing them than anyone else. They need a mom who fights for truth, who carves out time to be and chill out, who isn’t running all over God’s green earth trying to be all things to all people, leaving her kids in the wake of invisibility.
Day 1 when the boys started school, I had a nice pretty mental to-do list. All the free bird things I wanted to accomplish now that they were in sitting in plastic chairs in front of mid-size desks.
And instead, I came home, poured a giant mug of coffee and sat on my couch for 2 hours and read the Psalms.
Because I’m tired.
And I feel as if I’ve been in transition for years.
And I have no more words.
And that’s a clear indication that I’m running on empty and doubt will set in.
Mama friends, listen up. You are a freakin’ rockstar. You are. You are raising a tiny human. Maybe even five and therefore need a cape and theme song when you walk out the door.
So let’s all give ourselves a break. And grace. You are not your child. God is going to use every lie, anxiety attack, tear, naughty word and stubborn streak, along with the incredible beautiful traits pouring out of that little soul of yours to woo he or she to Him. Regardless of how we parent.
So pour yourself a hefty cup of coffee.
Tuck your toes under those yoga pants.
Toss the phone. Open the psalms and allow yourself the gift of time and truth and peace to fill from the inside out.