Admit it, when your child is so happy taking a shower in dirt while wearing his nicest clothes and can't believe that you'd ever be disgruntled about it, or when he offers his boogers to a friend at the playground, or when he screams with delight because his favorite pair of underwear comes out of the wash, you are reminded that children are crazy. The fork that was the best yesterday is now the yucky one. Everything that is special is now to be called "blue." So much screaming, both happy and sad, so many things that you wish you'd write in the baby book or save to laugh about later, so many arguments about which end is up, and so many tears over three drops of water. Children are amazing, enthusiastic, curious, wild creatures. God saw fit to teach me a thing or two about childhood and so he blessed me with anxiety. Now, I freely admit that I do all I can to treat it and hope to heal it, but in the meanwhile, I'm taking advantage of the opportunity to understand. Anxiety has taught me what is feels like to be bothered by things that don't matter to anyone else. It taught me what it feels like to be treated like a crazy person when I know something is wrong. And it taught me how it feels when someone caters to my whims out of love.
Anxiety gave me a taste of being bothered by things in my imagination, that might not happen, but they could, you know? A bird could fly through the open car door and smash into my face. Or I really might puke if I look at that nasty thing in the sink again. No, the blue cup is probably fine, but yesterday it tasted weird; I'd rather use the white one and be safe. And in the meantime, please stop making that noise, when you do that I feel bugs crawling under my skin. How many thousand times a day do I look at my child and think, "does it really matter?" But when you're three? It does. When you're ten years old and you are truly crushed because you've been dreaming about it for a week? It matters. When you're a grown-up person and pretending to be an adult and you still can't help shrieking when you feel a funny sensation on your neck, then yes, it matters. Even if everyone else around you thinks you're ridiculous for having an attachment to that rock you found at the playground. One of the most loving things my husband has done for me is to hug me when I'm acting like a moron. Yes, sometimes he does roll his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking, but every effort he makes to hide that rush of exasperation at his strange wife is a way he loves me and helps me to feel more okay. The only thing that makes me feel more anxiety and more jumpy and more irritable is being told just how crazy I am. When my dear husband gives me a break and accommodates my quirks, he not only skips piling on more guilt to my embarrassed ego, but he soothes me. It is there, in the space of unconditional love, that I'm able to calm down, maybe find some rationality and see how foolish I am. There I can answer the question, "How could I have handled this better? Is that fear a possibility? Really?" And every time I panic over something incredibly minor and he is patient with me instead of critical, I'm reminded of the kind of unconditional love I should be showing my kids in all their "moments." One belated evening meal, my three-year-old needed to designate certain flowers on the tablecloth for certain people in the family. Right now. “This one is mommy’s flower. “And hm…. that one is for daddy.” We wanted to rush her, we wanted to make sure her soup wasn’t spilled in the process of pointing, we didn’t want an already late dinner to be even later. But we waited, listened, and affirmed. This was important to her. When she finished her assignments and verified her colors, she was content. She ate. The evening went on. I know, had we stopped her right there, said, “tell us tomorrow” (which often ends up as never, and kids know it), she would have become angry, crossed her arms and refused to eat her meal. There would have been a power struggle. But more importantly, we would have hurt our relationship. Sure, it’s a small chip, but those add up. I only want to crush her plans when it’s truly necessary, which happens plenty enough at this young stage of life. And since we waited, she was able to share something special with us. Sure, it doesn’t really matter to me that each person has particular flower on the tablecloth assigned to them, but it matters to her. Unconditional love is the love that doesn't come with, "Now you better... if you want my affection" or "I love you, but do get over yourself." It's the "I love you." Period. No ifs or buts. It's a love that transforms, not because it wants the best for you, but because it loves you first and that brings out the best. It often begins with the love of empathy. “This matters to me because it matters to you.” Many friendships start with the love of sympathy, "What, you too?" is the well-known phrase. Yet at some point, the long lasting friendships move deeper than that, where the love loves what it doesn't understand. Our children often adopt our habits and are born with snippets of our personality, which aside from their childishness are quirks to which we can relate. And then some are born, and their parents wonder if this child is truly of their own flesh and blood. "I just can't understand her at all!" (It often seems to be the second child, too, or is that just my experience?) I just want to console them, "It's okay! Some children will forever be strange to you!" Empathy enables us to love what is incomprehensible, and then loving enables us to begin to understand. Well, sometimes. I will never understand the fascination with putting underwear on your head. We are called to more than simply tolerating other's weirdness. We should try, as much as we can, to love that weirdness that is who they are. Their peculiarities are a gift to you. They stretch you and call you to that unconditional love. They invite you to love what isn’t easy to love. No, that doesn't mean you should let them climb the walls. Well, unless that is okay in your house. I had a great time climbing the doorways growing up. My dear mother, seeing me sitting across a doorway reading would shake her head, but she smiled as she went by me. Now as a mother myself, my daily challenge is to make an effort to understand the silly little people who live underfoot, even when they're crazy.
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JpgA mother, pondering what it means to be loved. CategoriesArchives
March 2017
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