So I got a call from the principal. I confess to even wishing her (rather brightly) a Happy Friday.
She responded pretty kindly, considering my son was there in the office with her. (It was only 8:40. What could happen before 8:40?)
So I got a call from the principal. I confess to even wishing her (rather brightly) a Happy Friday.
She responded pretty kindly, considering my son was there in the office with her. (It was only 8:40. What could happen before 8:40?)
I’ve written before that I won’t get very political on this blog, and this particular post is no exception. Yet I was reminded (in the wise article, “How Do Christians Fit Into the Two-Party System? They Don’t”) that “Those who avoid all political discussions and engagement are essentially casting a vote for the social status quo.”
Which is why this mother of two teen boys and a preteen girl, without stating any opinion on the turmoil of the U.S.’ Kavanaugh proceedings, wants to ponder aloud one particular sentiment.
“Boys will be boys” is a bunch of hooey.
So I have a teenager, and another just about. Most of me is tickled pink about all the real conversations we get to hold, all the fun we have as a maturing family, all the crazy jokes they tell me that leave all of us laughing.
And there’s this leeettle part of it that scares the bejeebies out of me.
Seemingly separate note: I have recently acquired an agent for a non-fiction book I’m writing, which makes my heart do little cartwheels of happiness. It was a moment I wasn’t sure would ever happen.
Allow me to sketch for you a brief (yet oh-so-vivid) moment from about eight years ago. You would have found me slumped against the wall in the hallway one afternoon. He was only a year and a half old–and the potential for catastrophe was spreading before me.
Funny thing is, I don’t even remember what my then-toddler did to cause me to groan in despair. I just remember a lot of the stories that give me a pretty good idea: like that time while I was in the bathroom, when he pulled a barstool up to the counter, snatched a packet of drink mix from the top of the toaster oven, wrenched it open, and sprinkled it around the house like fairy dust.
Ever feel like you need a “cultural translator” just to get through to your kids?
Yeah. Me, too.
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I’ve been putting this post off.
It’s pretty much because creating a sense of respect in my kids still makes me want to tear my hair out. Admittedly, my oldest is now 13, so we’re breaking new ground in this area.
The idea bubbled up not long after my kids’ grandpa helped them each weave their own survival bracelets: eight feet of 500 paracord specially plaited and buckled around their wrists. The idea is that if you were in an emergency situation, you could use it, say, for a tent; a tourniquet; a climbing aid.
But even those neon colors couldn’t outshine the sparkle in my nine-year-old daughter’s eyes when she realized she could start a business with those little bracelets.
Her little business she started recently tumbled our family into a (lovely, really) domino effect of initiative, knowledge, community, work ethic, and perseverance. I love the dynamic it continues to create among my kids!
I am okay, I think, with not being my sons’ hero. I am even more okay with this because that spot has been occupied by their dad—since, oh, I finished nursing.
My husband is a wonderfully different kind of Good Dad to my brand of Mom-ness. When we moved to Africa, one of his first priorities was a rug for the tile floor—for wrestling, of course. He’s the kind of guy who grabs the Nerf football every once in awhile when he gets home from work, who initiates a family dance party, and yet who leverages that rapport to turn a child by the shoulder, look them in the eye, and state calmly, You need to speak respectfully to your mom.
Man, it was a tweeny sort of day. And I remembered: This isn’t just about control. It’s about relationship.
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