Ever Notice How Patient Children Are. . .

Have you ever noticed how patient children are?  How when waiting for something exciting to happen, they clasp their little hands, don't make a sound, don't ask questions, sit calmly and quietly, and exonerate an insurmountable measure of patience and self-restraint. . . . .yea, me either! We must not be referring to MY little monsters! As much as I can tell from my own experience, this "waiting period" for anything from a childhood's perspective is never a time of self-control.  The usual scenario goes a little something like this:

"Mr. Grouch, wait a minute.  I will give you (said snack) as soon as Mommy gets off the phone."

Chaos ensues. First comes the wringing of the hands in violent frustration and the glaring glances. Then comes the over-achieving sighs of annoyance. The dancing in place begins, proceeded directly by groans of "Huuuuurry up, mommyyyyyy!" to which I politely (yea, right) reiterate that I am on the phone and he will need to wait.

Jumping up and down, grabbing my arms and swinging around, sitting at my feet, continuing sighs of dissatisfaction and impatience follow. This goes on until he decides, I should get her attention another way. This is my favorite part. . .

Mr. Grouch starts running circles in the house, leaping off train tables and knocking items off the table. Before I can grab him he's dive-bombing off the couch onto a mountain of pillows in the floor. And he does all of this in absolute silence. . .NOT. (Yes, I just brought that phrase back.)  The squeals and laughs and shouts for attention overwhelm the obviously important phone call that I'm in the middle of. I try to shush him down, but he is persistent on getting me off that phone and onto snack time.  By this time, I am beyond over giving a disrespectful child anything sugar-related.

I can just see the wheels in his little monster brain turning as I walk out of earshot so as to hear the person on the other line. This tactic is not working. . .desperate times call for desperate measures! I'll just have to get this snack myself! He proceeds to the kitchen, pushing a dining room chair across the floor and up next to the cabinet. Climbing onto the chair, he then lifts a knee and crawls successfully onto the kitchen cabinet. I just stand there and watch in general frustration.  Let's just see how this goes down.  Opening the cabinet, he finds a cereal box and pries the top open and sticks his little grubby hand in. Grabbing a handful, he pulls it out and stuffs it in his mouth as I hang up the phone and come into the room, my hands on my hips. Realizing that he's been caught, he stumbles back onto the chair, it tipping to the side, spilling the rest of the cereal box onto the floor where the dog generously devours each and every little piece.

Mr. Grouch looks up at my disapproving glare with a mouthful of Fruit Loops and eyes of shame. And just as I'm about to tear into him for being impatient and over-anxious and disobedient, it hits me like a ton of bricks just how much like his mother he truly is. He's a child. Waiting for something that seems so far away, yet just out of his grasp.

This is me lately. Guilty eyes with a mouthful of Fruit Loops, apologizing repeatedly for taking matters (of God's) into my own hands because I'm just too anxious to wait any longer for Him to come through.

Waiting is brutal.  Whether you are a child or just a child in the eyes of God who has repeatedly told you to Wait patiently. All things will come together at the proper time. Don't we always assume that NOW is the proper time and that God is just dragging His all-knowing feet. Lately, we have been asking God for many signs and plans to come together that will dictate the future of our family. Open doors, supply resources, orchestrate divine intervention in our lives. . .shine Your light on the next step of our journey! I'm ready for my dang SNACK already!

I'm starting to get it, as I pick Mr. Grouch up off the floor and let him know that he should have waited on me to get his snack.  Explaining to someone who doesn't see the future, doesn't understand the risks of doing it himself instead of waiting on my experience. He doesn't get the fact that waiting is a sign of obedience.  He does, however, now apprehend how easy it is to wreck a situation when you try to take matters into your own hands. Now for kitchen clean-up!

It's amazing how much these crazy little people in our lives can continuously teach us life lessons. It's quite aggravating, actually, I'm not gonna lie. I hate the sinking feeling that I have almost daily when I catch the little bugger doing something that I'm guilty of on a much grander scale. Really clever, God. . . .teach the teacher her own lessons by using her students. Nothing like putting me in my place and reminding me that God still sees me as a little child. But honestly, thank heavens for that! I still have a lot of things to learn, and could regularly use a healthy heap of patience as I constantly try to get God "off the phone" and onto snack time. For now, I'm going to practice clasping my hands in my lap, sit calmly and quietly, and exonerate an insurmountable measure of self-control. . . . .hopefully.

Maybe a few jumping jacks, squeals, and sighs will do the trick too.

Once Upon A Tantrum

Both of my boys have always been ecstatic about bathtime. Until they turned two. Whoever named the "terrible twos" obviously had children like mine.  I'm not entirely sure what happened. One day they are splashing around, squirting little boats, and getting their superheroes lost in bubbles, the next day TERROR. One day, right around age two, Stinker simply refused to get in the bathtub. So I didn't force it.  I let him crawl into bed with a days worth of sweat and "boy-ness" and fall fast asleep. Day two rolls around and I run the bathwater. TERROR sets in immediately. First the refusal.  Then the shreiks and tears and wiggling to escape the bathrom entirely. I relented again and just washed the oldest monster, scrubbing the dirt away for the both of them. What's one more day? Maybe tomorrow will be better. . .  On Day three, we began the process again.  Night after night for at least a month we would go through the same motions.  Let me set the stage:  I ask Stinker to get in the bathtub, to which he politely replies, "I no want a bath." In my sweetest Mommy voice I explain that he is two years old and that he doesn't always get what he wants.  I tell him that baths are good for him and everyone has to take a bath.  He simply looks at me, totally taking it all in.

Not to be deterred, I try a new approach, excitedly exclaiming, "Come on honey!  Look at all the bubbles!  Let's play in the bubblebath!"  At this point, big crocodile tears start streaming down his face and the shreiking commences, "No bath, no bath, no bath!!!"

I ignore the tantrum, lift him to his feet and practically drag him down the hallway to the bathtub.  Fright turns to anger and then to infuriation. He makes his best "I hate you, Mom" face, turning beet red as I pick him up, kicking and screaming and eventually get him into the tub.  And then, a funny thing happens.  As he splashes water on himself, he remembers: Hey, I like the bath!  The bath is fun after all!

By the end of the whole process, Stinker likes the bath so much that he doesn't want to get out. After all, the bathtime struggle isn't really about the bath at all. It about obedience. Stinker is two years old and just simply doesn't want to obey. He thinks that he should be the one to decide whether he gets in the tub or not.  He is young and testing the boundaries. He's trying to figure out just how much control he has in his little life.  At this point, that's not much.

It's so hard to discipline him for his disobedience, though I know I'm doing the right thing by forcing him to obey.  It would be so much easier if he would just obey on his own. As I'm reminded nightly of his disobedience, I realize just how much little Stinker reminds me so much of myself.

I hate to think about how much I've dirtied my life up daily because of my disobedience.  I am so thankful that God, in His grace does not always allow me to win.  Because usually the fight is not really about what He is asking me to do.  It is not about the bathtub.  It is about me, trying to figure out just how much control I have over my little life.  At this point, not much.

I would love to say that I am an obedient child of God, but I would be lying to you. I don't always do what He asks of me. Though I am getting better day by day, there are moments that I shreik in TERROR at the unknown of life.  I kick and scream and try to wiggle free and escape his will just like a disobedient two-year-old, because at times, it seems just too much.

So God picks me up, exhausted from struggling and plops me in the center of His will for my life.  And then a funny thing happens. As I kick and scream and wail, I remember:  I like being in the center of God's will for my life. God's plan is usually pretty amazing, and usually a whole lot better than the one that I had planned.  I am so glad that He does not allow me to win. 

And so I will continue to win the nightly bath time struggle. And continue to remember to parent the way God is parenting me. With patience and gentleness and grace. Long live the "terrible twos".