The Climb

This is a post about confessions.

Our church's women's ministry is about to launch it's pilot gathering, a teaching event on grace. Before I even typed those words I wanted to cringe, not only because I'm the worst at grace, but because grace often feels like an oft talked-about discipline, yet impossible to attain. At least for me, it does.

I know what the Bible says grace is.

I can list some examples of what grace looks like.

I have certainly shown and received grace in my lifetime.

But still, grace feels impossible.

Especially as a parent.

You know what I can tell you without-a-doubt about grace? I suck at it. Specifically, I'm awful at showing grace to my big kids. I am better at modeling obedience than I am at modeling forgiveness. I'd rather teach them about good behavior than about Jesus and His gift of grace. I'd rather see them grow into productive members of society than train them to be men passionate about the Gospel and God's people.

All of this pains me to write because it's true.

I value human qualities over holy ones.

And that leads me to this. Confessions. Ugly truths. Painful admissions.

These are the hard lessons I have learned (and continue to learn) about myself since becoming a parent to my oldest sons:

I over-value "normal.""Normal" is such a taboo word anymore, and considered very unacceptable when it comes to describing people these days. Normal to me always meant like or similar or typical or like everyone else. I didn't realize how much I valued this quality, normalcy, until I was an adult and realized how much of my life hadn't been what I perceived as normal (whatever that means anymore). When I envisioned having kids, through adoption or otherwise, I pictured "normal" kids. Typical kids. Kids that look, act, talk, and walk just like every other kid. I never pictured, or considered, that I would have children with trauma histories so powerful that it would be impossible for them to be like all the other kids who had had "normal" childhoods. I never thought I'd have to raise kids one way while healing them of another. It's not something I wanted. I still wish I had "normal" kids everyday, because then our lives would be easier. Wishing away my kids' pasts takes away from who they are. It removes God from the beginning of their lives and diminishes their value and worth. Seeing them as a set of qualities, as opposed to individuals made in God's image makes it harder for me to show them compassion and more difficult for them to heal.

I over-value intelligence. This is something I have always known to be true: Smart is better than dumb. It's also an American quality (despite the growing idiocy and uneducation of our culture) that has been preached and modeled to us since we were born. Intelligence is a highly-valued quality in our culture, and it's one I have put much stock in as an adult. There is nothing that agitates me more than ignorance and outright stupidity (This should be my red flag right here. I care more about intelligence than kindness. Ouch.) God knew this would be a problem in my life, and thus decided it would be good for my refinement to give me a child with intellectual disabilities. This has, by far, been the most difficult challenge of my parenting life. Having a child who is not neuro-typical is a daily struggle for all of us. This reality shows me the ugliness of my heart daily. It makes me resentful and annoyed with my child. I have to remind myself, sometimes minute-by-minute, that my child's disabilities are NOT his fault. He is not forgetting out of laziness, not making bad choices out of rebellion, not unlearning what we've taught him on purpose. His diagnoses are real, documented and confirmed by doctors, and he will need extra help for the rest of his life. It is my job as his mom to be his greatest cheerleader and advocate, not someone who tries to make him smarter than he's capable of being. It's my job to engrain in him his value and importance exactly as he is, not as I wish he were.

I over-value good behavior. I am, by nature, a rule-follower. I am big on justice, doing what is right, and being a benefit rather than a liability (unless it comes to following the speed limit, and then I'm a major rule-breaking hypocrite). I see value in order and honesty and contribution. I hate when people break rules or get away with lying and cheating. I can't stand when people profit from dishonesty or from hurting others. It upsets me when people do whatever they want without regard for everyone else. And yet, this pretty much describes all kids. I have a hard time with this because I recall being a "good" kid. Kept my room clean, mostly told the truth, helped out others, didn't intentionally hurt people, followed the rules, got good grades, etc. My mom tells me all the time, "You were not a normal kid. You were so good. You shouldn't expect that from your kids." The problem is that I do. I expect my kids to be just like me when I was their age. I expect them to not break everything they touch, not play dangerous games that they know will result in someone getting hurt, not talk back and use bad language, not lie and cheat and steal and every other bad thing kids (people) can do. I expect them to be perfect. And then I think, What are you, an idiot? How can kids coming from their background ever be as "good" as you expect them to be? And this is the problem. My expectations for them are wayyyyyy too high, not because of what they come from, but because they're kids. And kids do all of the things I didn't, but thankfully, that my husband did. I need to recognize that my behavior as a child was not typical and that it was probably rooted in my own childhood trauma. I need to acknowledge that what I view as bad behavior in my kids is typical behavior for their mental and emotional ages. I need to stop feeling like I need to apologize for them and let them be kids (safely, of course). I need to stop using words like "good" and "bad."

I over-value peace and quiet. I do not love my kids' curiosity. They ask so many questions, most of which are rhetorical or nonsensical or just plain unimportant in the moment, and I find myself constantly shushing them or waving them off. I think, Why do my kids have to talk sooooo much? Though I am a very social introvert I am easily and constantly exhausted by all the words that come out of my kids' mouths. I hope and long for the day when they want to talk to me less and find me boring and embarrassing. I longingly remember the days before they came to live with us, when I could curl up with a book and a cup of coffee and not be talked at for hours. I miss having silence on demand. I value all of these things more than the minds and thoughts of my growing kids.  I forget that no one listened to them before and certainly did not care about what they had to say. The reason they talk so much to me is because they feel like I listen and I care. This should matter to me more than peace and quiet. Their hearts should matter more to me than my comfort.

As I prepare to listen and learn about grace from some of the women leaders in my church, I have to reflect on these hard truths about myself and honestly make a change in how I relate to and parent my boys. I have to value them more than I value myself. This means I have to value Christ more than I value myself.

I will never be able to show the kind of grace to my kids that they deserve if I do not understand or appreciate the grace that only Jesus can and has given. And this is what seems unattainable. How will I ever comprehend grace? How will I ever be able to emulate and model it for my kids? It feels like an impossible charge, much like parenting some days.

But then I think about God, and I think about us all as His kids and how frustrating and exhausting and challenging and ungrateful and disobedient and unkind we all are. And I think, well if He can still love us and reward us and die for us, then the least I can do is look the other way when my kids do something ridiculous. The least I can do is love them anyway.

One Step Closer

Today as been borderline unbearable. My kids' annoying qualities have reached a fever pitch as we survive the last few days of summer before school starts back up next Tuesday. Owen's cold, combined with his full-fledged toddler mania, has made the last few days miserable. Little sleep, lots of whining, TONS of destruction around the house. Nothing appeases him. It's been miserable for the both of us. And the awful third-trimester symptoms are at an all-time high: acid-reflux, leg cramps, shortness of breath, forgetfulness and loss of reflexes. I have dropped so many things today. I am on my own last nerve.

Life has been hard for me recently.

Adding to that heaviness is the anxiety of knowing I will have a newborn in 7 weeks jpoiging the mix of what feels like an already crazy house; certainly a house not prepared to welcome him. I have a torn-up bathroom upstairs. Boxes everywhere. Unfinished minor house projects. Deep-cleaning that needs to happen. I feel completely ill-prepared. A "What was I thinking?" kind of sinking feeling. Why did I think I could add another baby? With no help? No family nearby?

I must be crazy.

I guess there are worse things to be.

I know this season will pass. I'm already amazed when I look back at pictures from a year ago and see how tiny Owen was. Now he's just a regular ol' toddler terrorist. And some moments I have a hard time remembering that sweet little cherub that smiled no matter what. It must be hard to be him, too. It must be so frustrating to not be able to communicate exactly what you want and how you feel. I sympathize with him, but it sure has made things hard the last few days. He just gets so upset so quickly.

And so do I.

Sigh.

I need a break.