I heard once that parents worry about their kids as a safeguard, as a deterrent against the calamities that otherwise inevitably befall them. Those poor parents who blithely savor the everyday pleasure of their children without the stain of dread that it will all be gone in the next blink — those people won’t know what hits them when the reckoning arrives. I want to be prepared.
Another trampled morning. Another foul undressing of the scars parents carve into a child. What did they do to make her suck unbroken attention onto herself, and how does that wound ooze such caustic jealousy of our other kids? For her, attention-seeking is elemental. It’s reflexive. The whole thing is kind of nauseating. It’s pretty heartbreaking, actually, when I step back from it.
Or maybe it’s the perfume of softly aged potty, now permanently ineradicable from my youngest son’s bedroom. I peek in at night, while he’s sleeping like an innocent, angel Spinosaurus, and somehow that yuck turns heavenly sweet in my nostrils. Everyday lamenesses like this have a way of smacking me with baffling delight. The pleasure hits without warning, and there’s no use trying to figure out how.
Sharing the real-life struggles of parenthood; searching for an honest, open faith; and savoring joy wherever it might be found