I’m struggling right now. The kids, and all their stuffed princesses and shooting neon Nerf guns are adorable, but…but…this mama is TIRED. You see, I think I am missing some gene…
The gene that has endless patience with 2 yr. old fits over why Mommy makes her wear shoes when the temps are in the teens.
The gene who doesn’t mind trying to put up with my 4 yr. old’s fury with me because “it gets dark at night” (so obviously my fault).
The gene that allows me to not mind still being a parent when I have a 102 degree fever.
I really wish I had this gene. I wish I got giddy about all the sandwiches that must be cut in 4 perfect triangles lest the wrath of Hell breaks out. I wish I could always remember my daughter furiously requires her bird pillow and pink sippy in close proximity at all waking moments. And pray to God that I never forget how to cue up the latest Wii penguin game.
Sound like I’m just whining and complaining? Maybe. Sound like my kids are schooling me and leading the show? Maybe.
But the thing is, I’m a “good” mom. I know this. I distinctly remember the moment in my early 20s, when after years of raging at my parents in classic teen angst, I finally got that they got it right. They kept us safe. They fed us. They attended school concerts. They got us to the doctor every time we needed it and for not-so-silly things like annual check-up. They loved us and made sure we knew it.
These are the things that matter.
I do these things. I’m not saying my kids always like me. Or that I always like them. Sometimes, they really, really piss me off. I set limits. We fight. We have time-out stairs. It gets ugly.
Yet the darnedest thing is that these kiddos God entrusted to my care are people. They have needs, opinions, thoughts. And while it is my job to temper and guide them, I can’t control them. And I get tired of trying. I get tired of fighting. This is where I figure I am missing some gene? But regardless, this is my job.
I signed up for this. Even when I don’t feel like it, I am still a parent. Shoot.
So bring on these sucktastic temper tantrums. I can sleep in 20 yrs., right? For now, I just keep mantra-ing, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. ” And then when I get to the point where I feel like I still can’t even stand-up much less face another messy poop wipe? Again: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” And again. And again. And again. Until it’s bedtime and I get a chance to start all over tomorrow.
I can do this. I may not want to. I may be missing a gene. But God gave me this job, so let’s school this beast, shall we?
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