Confessions of a Scholar Mom
The Gratitude Gospel: Day 5
“Mommy, two plus two equals…1, 2, 3, 4!”
I shot my husband the look. You know, the “Wait, what just happened?!” variety.
Our three-year-old son has been curious about numbers for years, but the light bulb moment has never been within reach.
Until yesterday.
The Gratitude Gospel: Day 4
It was one of those bittersweet moments in parenthood – a sign that your child is growing more independent by the day.
This weekend our almost two-year-old daughter transitioned from a crib to a full bed. The déjà vu was hard to resist.
When I found out my second child would be a little girl, I panicked. I may be a woman, but I only had experience parenting a son.
You know, the parent who annoys you before you have children…or before you have as many kids as they do. In your eyes, they get it all wrong.
How could they do that?
Why don’t they just do this?
I’ll never…
For myself, I can chase personal guilt back to an observation of “failed” discipline at a nice restaurant early in my first pregnancy. The scene was Silicon Valley, and the parents were older (a cultural norm in the Bay Area). They have no control, I remember thinking to myself. Their unwillingness to face the little giant in the high chair really got under my skin. Before you have children, you can really believe you have all the answers.
But if you are a parent long enough, a realization will stop you in your tracks. In my case, I had to accept an uncomfortable reality: my kids are their own people. They won’t always behave at dinner – no matter how much money or effort you expend.
And, in due time, I did that thing I said I never would.
I learned to let little things go.
Don’t be afraid of what you don’t understand.
Easier said than done, of course, but this is my husband and I’s go-to advice for our three-year-old son when we know storms are imminent.
Two nights ago, however, we were no match for the incessant thunder and lightning.
At approximately 3:45 a.m. we awoke to my son’s tearful pleas: “Mommy! Daddy!” There was something different in my son’s voice this time – a blend of emerging maturity and raw fear. He sensed what was happening, yet couldn’t prevent himself from the human desire for certainty…and control.
I led my oldest child down the ladder as Mother Nature illuminated his small room with urgent pulses of white. The night’s antidote would be snuggles with Momma in the bottom bunk.
And, in that 10-minute embrace, shadows weren’t the only images that danced across his walls.
Tonight this very rare thing happened: my little girl let me read her five stories before she drifted off to sleep in my arms.
Let me explain.
Today we embark on our first mission trip together. We’re not traveling to Africa or China. Our service will be in the mountains of West Virginia.
There is an unwritten rule in parenthood: Crisis doesn’t occur until Picture Day. Really. Ask any parent and they will tell you a story. This year, it seems, we could not escape the curse.
“Now don’t worry, but I want you to be aware…”
I dread when my husband prefaces a story involving our children in this way.
But before I could reply, I spotted it: a pink mountain of flesh had filled the entire space between my daughter’s eyes.
And this is how a mosquito sabotaged our little girl’s first school photo.
I was running late, which isn’t new, but I had never been so tardy to yoga. Twelve minutes had been forfeited, and I almost heard my body cry out in defeat when I settled into the mat.
Over the next 45 minutes, I really questioned my entire existence. My arms and legs were feeble, my concentration was muddled, and the outfit I had selected most certainly flashed the nearby maintenance worker during an inspired downward dog. Oops.
The truth is, I was unprepared for the consequences of being late. I’ve been doing yoga for years, but every session is unique, as is every teacher.
After I attempted my fourth new-to-me position, I felt my forehead hit the mat.
I’m tired of being an adult.
It was the “I’m in pain” cry, and it stole my breath. As I bolted to my daughter on the other side of the house, I began blaming myself for the encounter.
Moments earlier, my son had spotted a poorly hidden toy that grandma had surprised him with months ago. Now there was pain, tears, and guilt.
Somewhere along the way, my life had turned into a game of Clue: It was my son…in the front bathroom…with the plastic purple pistol.
