In a couple of weeks, my youngest turns 13. Which means I will soon be parenting four teenagers. Which means my prayer life is thriving.
As some parents of tweens chatted with my husband and me last week, I recalled some of the best advice given to us for parenting teens: Keep them talking. Keep the relational bridge open.
It’s great advice for all of parenting, right? But at times with each of my kids, that’s required supreme effort.
Once when my kids were younger, back in that season I was covered in toddlers and preschoolers, we met my husband at Chick-fil-A (always a win) after work one night.
When they’d slayed the nuggets and the playground and it was time to go home, I asked our four kids who’d like to ride with Dad, and who wanted to ride home with me.
I would say I have been praying for a miracle in one (or more) of my kids for a year now.
But, y’know, it’s probably one of those things where you think, spring feels like a small miracle sometimes. My kids hanging up their towels sometimes feels like a series of miracles. And hey, let’s not forget the miracles God’s doing in me (to the tune of, Wow, when that kid flipped his lid, I didn’t flip mine. Miracle.)
This week I had one of those shining parenting moments. I caught one of my kids deliberately subverting a punishment.
This kid didn’t lie about what he was doing, which in light of the past, felt like a win. He also seemed to sincerely apologize. I told him I would think about the consequence and get back to him, and we’d talk some more.
And two hours later, he did the same thing, people. #parentingforthewin
Okay, yes, I am this big Enneagram 2, and I am frequently caught “two-ing” in my family—overfunctioning like a crazy person, sublimating any needs of my own, etc.
But I also have this monstrous, flapping-larger-than-my-triceps 3-wing. Which means, for all of you unfamiliar with enneagram-speak, that I am an achiever. Goal-setting can fill my sails (…to the point of what we’ll call “Christian workaholism”).
So I don’t know what your kids’ morning routine is like at your house.
Maybe you picture me lovingly folding lunchbox notes and sandwiches built from the sprouts on my windowsill, sitting down to a full breakfast with devotional book in hand.
Me with my dad–who’s had my back for a long time.
When I was a junior in high school, a good friend of mine asked me to prom. I was elated. Yet as per our family’s policy, my dad asked to meet him for coffee and bagels. It was his “interview” of sorts before all my dates.
“How will I know which one he is?” Dad asked me.
I’ve been feeling an unexpected, if not undesired, kinship with my man Moses lately.
Remember when Moses comes down the mountain to the all-out idol-worshipping party of 2 million people (who God just brought out of Egypt and is about to give the Ten Commandments)? Moses loses it and breaks the stone tablets in half.
As an author and voracious devourer of fiction, I consistently get a kick out of the comedy Stranger than Fiction (2006), with Will Farrell and Emma Thompson.
Will Farrell’s character, IRS agent Harold Crick, begins to hear a narrator’s voice over his life–a narrator who has power to determine his circumstances. And who indicates he’s going to die.
Harold seeks a literature professor’s advice (Dustin Hoffman), who suggests he start to find his author by determining whether he’s in a comedy or a tragedy.
My parents, bless their slim pocketbooks, paid for a lot of piano and voice lessons over the years on my behalf. I took piano for 12 years–and to be honest, should be able to play better than I do…
There was the female teacher with the faint mustache and house that smelled like a casserole. The redhead who glared at teenaged-me for not practicing. Sally with her center-parted long hair and laminated flashcards. There was the pianist with astonishingly long fingers who also taught my voice lessons with a broad repertoire of Broadway hits, easing into a few Latin and German numbers.
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