Being a mother to boys has been such an exercise in humility for me over the years.
When it was just me and my little girls--and an infant son--I would observe the puffing, red-faced mothers of young boys as they pulled their sons down from Sunday School chalkboards, dabbed mud from the knees of little dress pants in the parking lot, and lunged down the entire length of the coat rack in the church foyer in a futile effort to prevent Junior from clanging all 200 metal hangers together.
My smiles were kind, and appropriately laced with a twinkle of understanding, but underneath them was the smug conviction that "if only they used MY parenting system, they could have such PEACE."
I dispensed parenting advice that makes me cringe to think about.
I floated above the chaos in those halcyon days, serenely wheeling my girls in the grocery cart while listening to their happy banter, watching them play dolls on the couch while I made dinner every night, even taking them on a four hour garden bus tour all by myself when they were four and six, and Elijah was a babe-in-arms.
I was 40 years younger than most of the other travelers on that particular tour, and I basked in the warmth of their compliments about my well-behaved children. The patience and stamina of my girls for being so young! My bravery for taking them all out alone!
Oh yes.
And now I am so, so, so blessed to have four boys and be completely disabused of the idea that I know what I am doing.
I am incompetent. I can't predict what will work and what won't.
Ninety percent of the time, I don't have a clue what is happening in their heads. (Nor do they, I'm pretty sure.)
Let's just take today. Please.
Take it somewhere and bury it.
After Memory Master prep dominated most of last week, I was determined to get back "on schedule" (Ha ha ha ha...when will she figure out that the "schedule" only exists in her head and under the big orange magnet on the front of the fridge?)
Anyhoo, I sat down with Jude (age 5) first thing, pulled out his math and began with the story problems.
Me: "Dad has three pens. Kim has 2 pens. How many pens do they have altogether?
Jude: "What color are the pens?"
Me: "Well, it doesn't really matter what color they were, what they want to know is 'how many are there altogether'."
Jude: "Well why do they need so many pens?"
Me: "I don't know. Maybe they collect pens. So, how many are there?"
Jude: "Well Dad has more than three pens, and who is Kim? Do we know her?"
Me: " (Sigh) Let's talk about ducks. OK? Eight ducks are in the lake. A big duck lands in the lake. Now how many ducks are in the lake altogether?"
Jude: "Was it a nice duck?"
Me: "Not really. It was a mean one. So how many were there?"
Jude: "Well probably if it was mean, some would fly away, so I don't know."
Me (staring at the page and speaking very quietly): "OK. Ben does not have a cat. His dad brings a cat home from the pound. Then how many cats will Ben have in all?"
Jude: "Did Ben's mom want a cat?"
Me: (Sound of deep breathing)
Jude: "What color was it?"
Me: "I think the dryer just beeped."
Of course, when I left, he filled in all the right answers, so clearly, he was just playing a fun game with Mommy!
On to (8 year old) Isaiah's math and an excellent (if I do say so myself) explanation of how and why we can solve for X in a basic equation. I worked several sample problems with both addition and subtraction, and asked, "Do you have any questions?"
Isaiah: "Yes. Why didn't you name me Habakkuk?"
Me (a bit deflated): "Very well then. I guess that means you understood all that."
Shining-moment-in-home-education #3 happened during read-alouds this afternoon.
I had been reading myself hoarse for about an hour, and Elijah had been staring at me in rapt attention the whole time. After the chapter, I stopped and pulled out the map to point out Burma, where the heroes of our story were imprisoned.
I pointed down at the map, said Elijah's name, and he continued to stare at a spot on the wall somewhat near where my head had been.
I said his name twice more, and deep in his eyes I saw a tiny flicker of recognition. He continued to stare at me and blink for a few more seconds, traveling back from somewhere very far away where he had been visiting during the entirety of the story.
Wherever he was that whole time, it was nowhere near Burma, I can tell you that!
Jamey keeps telling me this is normal for boys, but I felt as helpless as Miss Wormwood trying to call Calvin (a.k.a. "Spaceman Spiff") back from zorching aliens with his frap-ray blaster.
Unlike Miss Wormwood, however, I do not respond to days like this by drinking Maalox right from the bottle!
Instead, I go to my room, shut the door, and eat chocolate;)
4.26.2013
4.23.2013
Pardon Me, Mind if I Stare?
I am a sideways-looker.
A comparer. A wisher for the (positive) attributes you have...that I lack.
I am also a perfectionist.
I am overly analytical. (Typical internal dialogue: "Did she just look at me weird? I think she did! And what did she mean by that comment? Odd comment + strange look. Conclusion: most likely she hates me.")
Sometimes I am hyper-critical of both myself and others.
I am emotional and dramatic and (a tinge) sarcastic.
This is not the full complement of my attributes, just the ones that I trip over from time to time.
And it is easy to wish them away and create in my mind the perfect(ly unattainable) version of Sandra--the one who plunges boldly through life, secure in the strength of her own convictions, looking neither to the left nor to the right.
This Sandra chuckles over her innocent mistakes and the blunders of others. She doesn't torture herself with endless replays of projects gone bad, poorly chosen words, and impulsive parenting decisions.
She doesn't spend hours parsing past conversations in her head, dissecting the words, deeds, and intentions of friends, relatives, and countrymen...and authors, politicians, theologians, film makers, song-writers, radio commentators, newspaper columnists, and casual acquaintances.
She is able to sit back and enjoy the sight of five children let loose in a kitchen (or sitting amidst a pile of laundry, or armed with mops and buckets) without offering a constant stream of advice and correction.
No hovering! No pursing of the lips! No heart palpitations over the fact that things aren't being done "her way".
Sandra, Version 2.0 has all the bugs worked out! Tears are better controlled. She never makes a scene. And even when she sees a perfect opening for a snarky comment or a sly dig, she keeps her trap shut.
Or--could it be possible that some of the tendencies I so dislike in myself are in fact gifts, intended to be used for the glory of God?
There is no question that the desire to please others, and the tendency to compare myself to others can be perverted into a form of self-torture, but could it not also be redeemed as a tool of inspiration and aspiration?
Those of us who are quick to notice the good attributes of others, are apt to use our observations to try to improve ourselves. Isn't that a good thing?
We "sensitive types" are able to keenly feel the power of the words of others--and so we could become skilled in using our own words for comfort and encouragement.
Perfectionism is another conundrum to consider. It can easily devolve into a critical spirit, but it seems like God might rather have intended it to be a vehicle of order and beauty.
Just imagine a world without the skill of the architect who wrestles hard with numbers and angles in an effort to create a structure with perfect form and function.
Consider the surgeon who can focus for half a day on one square inch of flesh and blood until every tiny fiber is lined up perfectly. Ought we not be thankful for the gift of perfectionism in medicine?
How about the artist and the miracle that comes from striving for hours in front of a canvas or a screen?
Or the decorator who can see a million details in a room (or a whole house) and arrange them all to strike the eye in the most pleasing fashion?
Or how about the homeschool Mom who doesn't allow perfectionism to make a slave of her, but instead uses it to find joy in trying to bring symmetry and grace and beauty to a thousand little tasks in her home every day? (My goal. Not necessarily my reality at this point:)
Every gift this side of Eden comes with an evil twin.
The skill of being able to analyze words and arguments can be used to speak the truth in love, with clarity and conviction. Or it can be twisted into sneering arrogance.
Emotional sensitivity is essential to having sympathy with others. A tender spirit is often paired with ministering hands.
On the other hand, a person who allows herself to be continually overcome by her emotions will quickly descend into a spiral of self-pity and self-absorption.
Having a dramatic flair is one way of getting people's attention--God actually demonstrates His quite a bit! We creatures can use it to draw people's eyes to things that ought to be noticed--injustice, great need, opportunities for service, the horror of sin, the joy in beauty, the sorrow of pain, ...and most importantly, our desperate need for God in all of it.
Or we can become attention grabbing divas.
Even satire was meant to be a gift! I know this because Jesus used it. (As in, "Get the plank out of your eyeball!")
The prophets used it. (My favorite example being Elijah and the prophets of Baal.)
Paul used it with the Corinthians (4:8-13).
It is a powerful method of drawing attention to an absurd situation for the purpose of affecting change in one's audience.
The perversion of it would, of course, be malice or cruelty couched in clever words for the purpose of tearing someone down for one's own benefit.
All this is not to say that I should look at my full range of natural tendencies and find the silver lining in all of them. (No, gluttony is NOT just an enthusiastic appreciation for food, nor is laziness the kind of rest that Christ gives to the "weary and heavy laden".)
But neither should I wish for the removal of the amalgamation of quirks and characteristics which make me uniquely ME.
As long as they are not defined as "sin", I should not kick against them or wish them away, but rather pray that they will be purified and used--redeemed for the intents and purposes which God created for them to accomplish in my life for His glory.
That means not wishing away my ever-increasing weepiness or the fact that I can't go to bed with dishes in the sink or towels on the floor. It means thinking and re-thinking my little thoughts, and arranging and re-arranging my words, and laying a pretty table, and helping my boys learn how to "properly" fold their socks, and talking wildly with my hands.
And it might even mean looking sideways sometimes.
And so, dear Lord, please use those sidelong glances, and my intense appreciation for order and beauty, and my desire to carve up and chew on words and conversations, my attention to detail, my emotions and sensitivity, my sense of irony, and my appreciation for the dramatic to accomplish Your purposes in this corner of creation.
Forgive me when I take Your gifts and corrupt them for my benefit.
Forgive me when I call Your gifts a burden.
And remind me to rejoice in the work of Your hands.
"I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works, and my soul knows it very well!"
A comparer. A wisher for the (positive) attributes you have...that I lack.
I am also a perfectionist.
I am overly analytical. (Typical internal dialogue: "Did she just look at me weird? I think she did! And what did she mean by that comment? Odd comment + strange look. Conclusion: most likely she hates me.")
Sometimes I am hyper-critical of both myself and others.
I am emotional and dramatic and (a tinge) sarcastic.
This is not the full complement of my attributes, just the ones that I trip over from time to time.
And it is easy to wish them away and create in my mind the perfect(ly unattainable) version of Sandra--the one who plunges boldly through life, secure in the strength of her own convictions, looking neither to the left nor to the right.
This Sandra chuckles over her innocent mistakes and the blunders of others. She doesn't torture herself with endless replays of projects gone bad, poorly chosen words, and impulsive parenting decisions.
She doesn't spend hours parsing past conversations in her head, dissecting the words, deeds, and intentions of friends, relatives, and countrymen...and authors, politicians, theologians, film makers, song-writers, radio commentators, newspaper columnists, and casual acquaintances.
She is able to sit back and enjoy the sight of five children let loose in a kitchen (or sitting amidst a pile of laundry, or armed with mops and buckets) without offering a constant stream of advice and correction.
No hovering! No pursing of the lips! No heart palpitations over the fact that things aren't being done "her way".
Sandra, Version 2.0 has all the bugs worked out! Tears are better controlled. She never makes a scene. And even when she sees a perfect opening for a snarky comment or a sly dig, she keeps her trap shut.
Or--could it be possible that some of the tendencies I so dislike in myself are in fact gifts, intended to be used for the glory of God?
There is no question that the desire to please others, and the tendency to compare myself to others can be perverted into a form of self-torture, but could it not also be redeemed as a tool of inspiration and aspiration?
Those of us who are quick to notice the good attributes of others, are apt to use our observations to try to improve ourselves. Isn't that a good thing?
We "sensitive types" are able to keenly feel the power of the words of others--and so we could become skilled in using our own words for comfort and encouragement.
Perfectionism is another conundrum to consider. It can easily devolve into a critical spirit, but it seems like God might rather have intended it to be a vehicle of order and beauty.
Just imagine a world without the skill of the architect who wrestles hard with numbers and angles in an effort to create a structure with perfect form and function.
Consider the surgeon who can focus for half a day on one square inch of flesh and blood until every tiny fiber is lined up perfectly. Ought we not be thankful for the gift of perfectionism in medicine?
How about the artist and the miracle that comes from striving for hours in front of a canvas or a screen?
Or the decorator who can see a million details in a room (or a whole house) and arrange them all to strike the eye in the most pleasing fashion?
Or how about the homeschool Mom who doesn't allow perfectionism to make a slave of her, but instead uses it to find joy in trying to bring symmetry and grace and beauty to a thousand little tasks in her home every day? (My goal. Not necessarily my reality at this point:)
Every gift this side of Eden comes with an evil twin.
The skill of being able to analyze words and arguments can be used to speak the truth in love, with clarity and conviction. Or it can be twisted into sneering arrogance.
Emotional sensitivity is essential to having sympathy with others. A tender spirit is often paired with ministering hands.
On the other hand, a person who allows herself to be continually overcome by her emotions will quickly descend into a spiral of self-pity and self-absorption.
Having a dramatic flair is one way of getting people's attention--God actually demonstrates His quite a bit! We creatures can use it to draw people's eyes to things that ought to be noticed--injustice, great need, opportunities for service, the horror of sin, the joy in beauty, the sorrow of pain, ...and most importantly, our desperate need for God in all of it.
Or we can become attention grabbing divas.
Even satire was meant to be a gift! I know this because Jesus used it. (As in, "Get the plank out of your eyeball!")
The prophets used it. (My favorite example being Elijah and the prophets of Baal.)
Paul used it with the Corinthians (4:8-13).
It is a powerful method of drawing attention to an absurd situation for the purpose of affecting change in one's audience.
The perversion of it would, of course, be malice or cruelty couched in clever words for the purpose of tearing someone down for one's own benefit.
All this is not to say that I should look at my full range of natural tendencies and find the silver lining in all of them. (No, gluttony is NOT just an enthusiastic appreciation for food, nor is laziness the kind of rest that Christ gives to the "weary and heavy laden".)
But neither should I wish for the removal of the amalgamation of quirks and characteristics which make me uniquely ME.
As long as they are not defined as "sin", I should not kick against them or wish them away, but rather pray that they will be purified and used--redeemed for the intents and purposes which God created for them to accomplish in my life for His glory.
That means not wishing away my ever-increasing weepiness or the fact that I can't go to bed with dishes in the sink or towels on the floor. It means thinking and re-thinking my little thoughts, and arranging and re-arranging my words, and laying a pretty table, and helping my boys learn how to "properly" fold their socks, and talking wildly with my hands.
And it might even mean looking sideways sometimes.
And so, dear Lord, please use those sidelong glances, and my intense appreciation for order and beauty, and my desire to carve up and chew on words and conversations, my attention to detail, my emotions and sensitivity, my sense of irony, and my appreciation for the dramatic to accomplish Your purposes in this corner of creation.
Forgive me when I take Your gifts and corrupt them for my benefit.
Forgive me when I call Your gifts a burden.
And remind me to rejoice in the work of Your hands.
*****************************
"I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Wonderful are Your works, and my soul knows it very well!"
Psalm 139:14
(You should really take a minute and read the WHOLE Psalm. So good!)
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