the lies i tell myself, part 4


Full disclosure, I didn’t have a great picture for today, so here’s one of Jonah that makes me smile.

OK, it took longer than I anticipated to get these four lies out. I suppose the timeline I had in mind was just another to a long list of lies… but if you need to catch the first three, you can find them here: part 1, part 2, and part 3. Which brings us to the final lie (for now, anyway):

I am the only one who feels this way.

Now, I know we are quick to blame social media for constantly showing us glimpses of other “picture perfect” lives. And yes, to an extent, the general public *may* tend to post highs rather than lows, but here’s what I have found. When I’m feeling bad about myself and I’m scrolling through my timeline, I barely give a second glance to the posts that say “today is hard, I need a hug!” I zero in on anything that looks shiny and glittery, anything that makes someone else’s life look perfect compared to my own. But this isn’t even the trickiest thing my brain does: let’s say someone posts a picture of a a family fun day. All of the kids are smiling, everyone looks like they’re getting along, and I manifest this whole story about how this family is better at family time than I am. I read so much into one tiny image that I have suddenly put this picture on a pedestal that I can’t reach. And it doesn’t matter if this family’s very next post is about a baby who never, ever sleeps or a stress overload. I don’t see those. I only see the good.

When people tell you to see the good in other people, this isn’t what they mean.

Or it shouldn’t be.

What do we say 75% of the time when someone asks, “hey, how are you?” “Fine!” “Good!” “Great!” “Can’t Complain!” So when I ask someone how they are, if I only ever hear “good!” I think: I’m the only one who isn’t good. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a cute family picture online right now. I’m the only one who hasn’t showered in four days and has really stretched the power of dry shampoo to the max. Look. I know it isn’t easy to say “actually, everything sucks and I’m really stressed, how are you?” And, you know what? I also know that sometimes things are just good. And you should be able to tell that to people without having some sort of survivor’s guilt for being in a good place.

And so, here’s my radical proposal to stop this lie: just stop. I know. It’s easier said than done. But still —

Stop the comparison. Your life is your life, and you’re doing it better than anyone else can do your life.

Stop the fantasies. Other people don’t have the picture-perfect life you assign them in your mind. Remember everyone else is as real and raw and fragile as you are, when it comes down to it.

Stop setting impossible standards. Treat yourself kindly. Treat yourself like your own child if you have to; make goals that make sense for the person you are in the stage you’re in.

Stop trying. OK, hear me out. This one sounds like basically the opposite of most self-help advice, but here’s what I mean: stop trying to be something new all the time. Stop thinking “if I can do THIS (eat paleo, run a marathon, learn a new language, etc), THEN I’ll be good.” You’re good now. Stop trying to be “better” and start being who you are meant to be.

I’ve talked to lots of human beings, and if there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s this: absolutely no one has everything figured out. You may admire certain people, and this isn’t bad on its own, but when you forget that you’re admiring qualities — portions — not a whole — that’s when you run into trouble.

This isn’t a lie that can be overturned by changing how we use social media. It isn’t a problem that can be solved by giving every simple greeting a thirty-minute therapy session on our deepest life issues. Rather, it involves looking at yourself with clear, unbiased eyes (as unbiased as possible anyway, because they’re your eyes so… just roll with me, here). Don’t let someone else’s victory equate to your own failure. Acknowledge the fact that you’re on different journeys, with different milestones, and it isn’t a competition.

But all of this isn’t even the very best way to stop this lie. All you need to do is accept the fact that it is one. Think of the most “perfect” person you know — the person you wish you could be. GUESS WHAT? They get overwhelmed. They feel inadequate. They make mistakes. EVERYONE FEELS THIS WAY — EVERY SINGLE WAY — SOMETIMES. When we compare similarities instead of differences, we find our degrees of separation are much closer than we think.

So, hey. Whatever lies you’re telling yourself? Recognize that’s what they are. If you can’t see the truth alone, talk to other people. Don’t be so afraid to show some of your mess, because other people have mess, too. They do. It doesn’t have to be the same as yours to be real.

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” -John 8:32

the lies i tell myself, part 3

Hi friends… there’s been an unexpected hiatus here. I’m sorry for that. Life gets in the way, you know? But don’t worry, I still have two more great lies to share with you. Why don’t I just cut right to the chase and give you today’s lie right off the bat? Here goes…

I can’t rest until everything is done.

This includes, but is not limited to: food prep, cooking, cleaning, pet-feeding, dog-walking, exercise, devotions, and laundry (which, since we are not occasional nudists, NEVER really ends so this one’s basically a joke). So here’s what I do. I make a “to-do” list that involves everything I want to get done in a given day. It’s always really long and totally not attainable, but I make the list anyway. I feel great, intense joy when I cross an item off that list. Look at me go! Dinner is prepped – check. Beds are made – check. I showered – check.

(Yes, I like to include things like “shower” on my lists. It’s who I am.)

But, as the day goes on, my checks are fewer and farther between. Ugh, remember how I wanted to clear all of the too-small clothes out of Boone’s closet? THAT’S not getting done. Oh man — and even though I logged about 12,000 steps chasing after Jonah, AND took the dog on a walk, I didn’t specifically follow an exercise routine, so there’s another thing I can’t check off. By the end of the day, I’m spending a lot more time looking at what isn’t checked off than relishing on what is. Then I begin the internal struggle: do I stay up ridiculously late crossing things off? Or go to sleep a failure?

When those are your only two options, it’s pretty difficult to please yourself.

I fully admit I’m not great at seeing my own accomplishments. I work on positive self talk and setting reasonable goals, but at the end of the day, I like a list that is fully checked off. “Make a smaller list, Jennie!” you may say. Good idea! I’ll get right on that. Today’s lie has been vanquished! I’m done here!

…OK, if it were that simple, this wouldn’t be a persistent lie. Because, you see, some days the stars align. Some days I write a huge list of things to accomplish and then — miracle of miracles — everything gets done. I go to bed with clean floors, happy kids, and absolutely nothing in the laundry baskets. And the feeling when that happens… oh, man. I can’t even explain it. It’s like I’m invincible, safe and secure in all of the work I did. While the Bible says we shouldn’t be judged on works alone, for a stay at home mom? This is nearly spiritual.

So, yes, I will spend days and weeks and months chasing after this high. The coveted “I did it all” award. And every single day that I don’t live up to this outrageous standard, I haven’t really “earned” my end-of-the-day rest.

My thinking on this was challenged by my three year old, Jonah, who truthfully challenges me on many things. One morning, he had just finished playing his long-time favorite game, which I like to call “Dump Out All of the Toys.” Since I did NOT want to add “clean Jonah’s room” to my too-long to-do list, I told him to clean them up. He balked. He whined. He looked at me with pitiful eyes and said “but mooooooom. I can’t! It’s too much for me!” I rolled my eyes and left him in his mess. When I checked in a bit later, nothing had been done. I felt myself at the brink of a meltdown, nearly ready to get out a trash bag and throw away all of the floor toys. Then his sweet little voice asked, “mama, can you help me?”

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell him to just go downstairs and I would clean his room. Hey, then I could add it to my to-do list and immediately cross it off. What sweet satisfaction! Not to mention, his room is small and I could take that tiny list-addition and complete it in no time. But I know I can’t and shouldn’t do everything for him, so I said I’d help by talking. He looked confused. I explained:

“I’ll help you by counting the items you pick up. Every time you pick up three items — since you’re three — we’ll have a tiny dance party.”

His eyes lit up at the sound of this. Not long after, he picked up his first three toys and we celebrated with a mini (ten seconds, tops) dance party. He picked up three more toys, and then we danced some more. This went on and on until —

“I did it, mama! I’m all done!”

You would have thought this kid had just run a marathon. He was glowing. He was proud of himself. I watched him complete a task that first seemed daunting but then was done in less than ten minutes. Here’s the trick, though — I knew what he could accomplish even if he couldn’t. He was selling himself short.

And I am often setting myself up for failure.

I expect far too much of my 17 or 18 awake hours each day. I realized I couldn’t keep up my ridiculous daily lists, so now I have general to do lists and daily “DONE” lists. What did I do today? I prepped meals – check. I played with my kids – check. I wrote things I needed to write – check. I can’t explain how the “done” lists have changed my mindset. I still love lists, but now my lists encourage me instead of tearing my down. And at the end of day, I can easily read through a done list… and allow myself to rest.

the lies i tell myself, part 2

the lies i tell myself, part 2

“Hey mama, do you think if you won a national handwriting contest you’d be on the news?”

“Uh, what?”

(Sigh) “MAMA. Let’s say you enter a handwriting contest and you win. Would your picture be on the news? I’m doing a handwriting contest at school, and I’m worried if I win, my picture will be on the news. If a bad guy with a gun saw my picture, he could try and shoot me for my prize money!”

I wish I could write here that I just made this little exchange up. But I didn’t. This was what Boone asked me before going to bed one night, and it caught me totally and completely off guard. I stumbled through platitudes like “we live in a really safe place,” and “no one at school wants to put you in any danger.” He was tired, thankfully, and decided it was OK to participate in the handwriting contest after all.

(I didn’t point out that the winner of a national handwriting contest probably has more thoughtful penmanship than my son, who occasionally forgets the”e” at the end of his name.)

(In his defense, this is some pretty solid cursive.)

Now is where I sadly point out that this conversation about school and guns happened prior to the recent school shooting in Florida.

And so, knowing that my sensitive, anxious child would possibly hear about this tragedy within his own school, it got me thinking. I had just told him no one at school wants to put him in danger. We just said we live in a safe place. How many parents of students at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School had had similar conversations? I had no idea what I’d say to Boone. I had no idea what we would talk about. I didn’t know how to alleviate fears while answering questions, to simultaneously prepare him for and shield him from the world. And it led me to the the next lie I tell myself:

As a parent, I need to have all of the answers.

Growing up, I was privileged to have not only great parents, but also a rich community of caring, invested, intelligent adults. As far as I was concerned, these people did have all of the answers. Logic would only follow that when I was an adult, I’d have all of the answers too. Even as a child, I loved answers. I craved knowledge. I couldn’t wait to have everything figured out.

Hi, I’m Jennie, I’m 33, and I have very little figured out.

So when I sat down with Boone to talk to him about the shooting in Parkland, I glossed a bit over the gory details and reminded him about what to do if he ever sees a gun (go away from it and find a grown up you trust) and if he ever encounters a stranger acting suspicious (again, grown up you trust). I also winced a bit as I talked about what he’d do if he were ever in a scary situation like that at school: listen to your teacher. Don’t tell jokes. Stay quiet and do exactly what the grownups say. He accepted all of this much easier than I thought he would. I felt pretty great about all of my answers. And then…

“Mom, what if I die?”

Oh, blow to my chest.

I said, “Everyone dies sometime. You’ll probably be very, very old. You’ll have lived a full and awesome life. You’ll be ready. And then you’ll go to Heaven! Which is the best place ever!”

“OK, cool. Well, what’s Heaven like?”

Guys, I don’t know what Heaven is like. I’ve never been there. And I could have quoted some scripture about pearly gates and streets of gold, but this is not what Boone was after. I know this because of his follow-up questions:

“And what will I do there? Will I ever come back to earth? Do you think once everybody dies, God will just start the earth over again? Will there be dinosaurs again? Can I see them from Heaven, do you think?”

I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know

A small part of me wanted to give him something concrete. I wanted to give an answer for every question, but I didn’t have an answer for every question. So I used an old teacher trick to buy some time: “what do YOU think?” Then I realized I needed to teach my son something. Something that isn’t related to the violence or the afterlife or dinosaurs.

“Hey bud… there are some things we can know the answers to. 2+2 is always 4. Our dog is a mammal. These are facts we know. And then there are other things… things nobody really knows. You can think about those things as you grow up. I don’t know what Heaven is like, exactly. But I do know that I will go there when I die, and it will be better than anything I could ever imagine. And I do know that I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

And we hugged, and we moved on, and I felt halfway decent until I realized tomorrow will likely bring another crisis I don’t have answers for. And when he’s a teen, getting his heart broken? Forget about it. I don’t know anything.

And I think that’s OK. I never want to communicate to my children that we can’t know everything so we shouldn’t try. I want them to know they can be 33 and still asking questions without answers. Learning doesn’t stop when we graduate from school. And I need them to know that not knowing something? It’s never a flaw. It’s an opportunity.

Thanks for checking out this week’s lie, and aren’t you pleased to know I tell myself so many there’s another new lie for you next week?! If this resonated with you, please feel free to like, comment, or share.

the lies i tell myself, part 1

My son, Boone, is seven. He’s incredibly bright, he loves potty words, he is, at times, extremely inattentive, and he’s an overall cool kid. For the first three years of his life, he was an only child. I was home with him full time, and we filled our days with play groups, story times, and any other kid-friendly thing that got us out of the house. And while we played, I helicoptered hard.

(Look at that toddler Boone baby. He can make no mistakes.)

I know we’re all familiar with the hovering, overprotective helicopter parent. And I think many seasoned (read: tired) parents agree that our kids can really benefit from some distance. And even as a new parent, I was aware of this. Which is why I helicoptered discreetly. I might have looked calm and nonchalant, but in reality I was side-eying everything Boone did. If he took a toy, I was quick to remind him to give it back. If he started to wander off while a librarian read a book, I would pop up to collect him and bring him back. I made quiet toy bags if we went out to restaurants so he wouldn’t bother other customers. I didn’t do this for him. I did it because I believed a cruel and unfair lie:

The lie that my child’s mistakes were my mistakes.

I just really believed that if I was parenting correctly, my son wouldn’t be rude to other kids. He wouldn’t talk back to other adults. He would be, even at three years old (or younger!) a little model citizen in public.

So I was obviously quite delusional.

Time, experience, and Boone’s little brother all worked to cool me off a little bit. I began to allow Boone to play without my reality-tv level of surveillance. I’d cringe when a situation arose, sure. I’d bite my tongue after asking him “what happened?” when we were still in public and launch into an intense line of questioning when we were in the car.

But you know what really perpetuated this lie? The fact that Boone was – is – a pretty good kid. It’s always been easy to look at the good parts of his behavior and think “yeah, I did that.” And that’s why, when Boone got his first referral at school, I screamed “WHAT THE HELL?!” and cried for an hour.

Yes. That’s really how I reacted.

Yes, really.

A note for those who don’t know: at my son’s school, a referral is a piece of paper that goes home to be signed by the parents. It explains the problem the child had, how it was handled, and if anything else needs to be done. OK, so now you’re probably thinking ok, if she screamed and cried this must have been really bad, right? Did he punch a teacher? Steal donation money? Burn down a classroom?

Umm… uh… OK. Well… ah, he was at recess, you see, and a recess monitor told him and another boy to not climb a hill. He did climb the hill. He spent the rest of recess on a bench. There was nothing further.

YES. THAT’S REALLY HOW I REACTED.

YES, REALLY.

Hindsight, yeah? In the moment, here was the perfect little newborn that I raised who was TOTALLY RUINED because I somehow couldn’t get him to listen to authority figures. How could I have led him down such an unholy path? I was clearly an unfit mother. There go the Ivy Leagues. “We’re sorry, Boone; we can’t accept you into Harvard because of your first grade referral. Pity.”

This is so insane I’m almost embarrassed to share it with you all. But I do so because every single day I watch moms and dads beat themselves up over the choices they’ve made for their kids. Public schools or private or homeschooling? Screen time or no? Local, organic veggies only or food rewards? Music lessons? Sports? Are we doing enough? Are we doing it right? Are we ruining everything?!?!

First of all: if you’re questioning and doubting and overthinking? You’re good. Please, believe me; you’re good.

Secondly – and this one may come as a surprise – your child is actually a completely different person than you. I know. I know. Let that one sink in. You could do everything correctly (oh, you won’t – this is a hypothetical; anyway) and your child will do whatever he wants because that’s how he’ll learn. And it’s frustrating and infuriating and also real life. And hey, maybe if your child doesn’t test authorities in first grade, he’ll try it when he’s much older and the stakes are much higher. Some lessons are better learned early on.

So don’t believe this lie. You will make mistakes, surely. But they’ll be your mistakes, and you’ll learn from them. Just like our children, if we let them.

Come back next week for the second lie I (used to) tell myself… and, until then, try not to tell yourself too many.

focus, part 2

This is the second part of a two part series. If you haven’t read part one yet, you can read that here.

 

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Once we had Boone’s diagnosis and medication in hand, he and I sat down to chat. He had complained to me about having to do school work before, so I started with that. Our conversation went something like this:

“Hey Boone, you know how  you have trouble getting your work done at school?”
“Yep.”
“It turns out you have something called ADHD. Your brain has a difficult time focusing on things. So even though you know how to do your work, it’s harder for you than other kids to actually sit down and do it.”

Boone was quiet for a little bit after this. I didn’t know if it was just his trademark stoicism, but I didn’t want to let this conversation die. So I turned the tables and spoke about me.

“Boone, did you know I take medicine because I have something called Depression that makes my brain think I’m extra sad sometimes?”
He nodded.
“So it’s almost the same — you’ll take some medicine to help your brain focus, just like I take some to help my brain not be sad. Does that make sense?”
He nodded again, and since he looked like he was digesting this information, I gave him a minute. And then —

“Hey mom?”
I was sure we were about to have a hugely deep moment here. He’d ask tough questions, I’d give clear answers, we’d bond, we’d relate, we’d really share a moment–

“Hey mom, do any of those mosquitoes live in Michigan?”
OK, this is not what I expected. “Um.. what?”
“Those mosquitoes. YOU KNOW. THOSE MOSQUITOES.”
“Um, honey, I don’t know. There are mosquitoes here, but–”
“NO. MOM. The mosquitoes. The mosquitoes that make babies sick if they’re in their mom’s tummy.”

OK our conversation about ADHD somehow turned into one about Zika? What is even happening here?

“No, buddy, we don’t have those mosquitoes here.”
“So one didn’t bite you when I was in your tummy?”
“What? Honey, no.”
“So the mosquito didn’t make my focus not work?”

A part of me wishes I could say I fictionalized this conversation for the purposes of this blog, but I didn’t. My heart broke that he thought this diagnosis meant something was just plain wrong with him.

I told him ADHD doesn’t mean your body made some sort of mistake. It’s just means you’ll have to learn and do things differently than other people, but we’re all different in some way. This is one of the things that sets him apart. It’s not good or bad, it’s just different.

In the end, he agreed to try the medication, which I gave him the very next morning. Here’s where I’ll include that the week we tried the meds, he was in an afternoon camp at a nearby zoo. The first two days of the camp, before we’d started the Concerta, I’d said “Hey! What’d you do today?!” when I picked him up and he would, characteristically, mumble “I dunno.” But on this day, the third day of camp, the day he took medicine in the morning, he answered:

“Oh! It was great! I finished an art project I started yesterday, it’s SO cool, I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s drying. And we played a game called ‘Poison Dart Frog’ which was so fun, I want to teach Jonah how to play it. Except we probably need more people, so the next time we have all of our friends over for a bonfire, I’ll teach it to them. And we fed the budgies! It was a great day.”

And it was my turn to mumble a response.

The rest of the car ride was comfortably quiet, one of us asking or answering questions every now and again.

Since the start of this medication, for us, I’ve seen nothing but improvement. In addition to the medication, however, we have also implemented new methods for his continued success. He has very clear chores expected of him each day, he has a quiet space to work on homework, and for the most part, he stays on a very regular schedule. This is much easier to do in the school year, but that’s where we are, so we are sailing smoothly.

Before I go any further — we are a fortunate case. I have friends who have personally trialed several different medications and have yet to find the sweet spot. Our only negative side effect is that Boone occasionally has a hard time calming down for bedtime. This is still nothing compared to the hard bedtimes we had before medication, but it is noticed. That said, I have seen other kids have emotional breakdowns when they begin medications such as this. What works for one won’t always work for another — all I can share is what we have experienced.

Boone’s biggest accomplishment so far came in an email from his teacher. She wrote, in an email, that Boone was keeping up with his work at school. He brought home papers that were not only legible, they were completed far beyond the bare minimum. Just yesterday, he brought home his snack saying he didn’t want to stop what he was working on to take a break and eat it. THIS IS A BIG DEAL. However, I’m happy to report that he is also still bringing home his fair share of silly comics and drawings. He is still trying to play songs from The Legend of Zelda by ear in between piano practices. He is still our creative, inquisitive, intelligent boy, just with a little extra medicated help.

This makes me reflect on how I, as someone who has taken an antidepressant for three years, am calmer and more at peace in general, but can still unleash a lot of emotions at, say, a church worship set, or a particularly striking Hallmark commercial.

When used correctly, medicine can help us be our best self. It isn’t a crutch, or an “easy pill” — it is simply the missing puzzle piece. 

We are just at the start of this journey. I can’t speak to how middle school, high school, or even upper elementary will look. But right now, for at least a little while, I can see how second grade looks. And I like it.

If you or someone you love can identify with Boone (or me, for that matter), please speak to your doctor and see if there’s something that could help you. It might be exactly as simple as it was with Boone. It might be a heck of a lot harder to find something that works. But if you can have a similar payoff — if you can see this person that you love live their best life — it’s worth it. It’s very, very worth it.

Come back NEXT WEEK to hear from the resident Premeditated Pediatrician (I call him “husband”) who will give you the official doctor-y rundown on ADHD and what it means from the medical side. In TWO WEEKS you’ll find tips and tricks from parents JUST LIKE YOU. We’re all in this together. Share this post and grow our village!

focus, part 1

focus, part 1

When Boone was three, he had some awful bedtimes. During that three year old summer, he would be OK during the day, but as soon as the first hint of nighttime was in the air, it was like a switch would flip. His eyes got wide, his body went tense, and it was like he wasn’t in control of himself anymore.

It was rough. But, I theorized, he was THREE. And adjusting to a new baby brother. And one day, he’d grow out of it.

When Boone was four, the awful bedtimes continued. The same wide eyes and tense muscles, the same nightly stress for his mama. “He just needs to be in school full time,” I thought. “He’ll do much better when he gets worn out from learning all day.”

When Boone was five and started kindergarten, we had some bedtime peace. After school each day, I’d ask “what did you do?” And he would mumble something like “I don’t know” and shrug when I’d ask him where he left his lunch box. Or jacket. Or shoes.

But, clearly, this was an adjustment. He was still adapting, right? Adapting to a full time school day, to school rules, to… everything. I was noticing that other kids were telling their parents everything that happened throughout their day. Boone still wasn’t… but that was hardly anything to worry about, I decided. He was excelling at academics; one of his class’s top readers, top spellers, top workers.

When Boone was six and in first grade, his teacher said to me, “he’s clearly very smart, but his focus is not there.”

Umm… what?

WHOA.

WHOA.

My smart angel precious baby child wasn’t focusing well? At first I dove into some heavy denial (maybe she’s just remembering days he was kind of sick, maybe she’s confusing him with someone else?), but then I thought about the bedtimes. Then I thought about the times he couldn’t tell me what he did during a day of school. Then I thought about all of the lost lunch boxes and clothing items. Then I remembered when my husband Jason, the pediatrician, said, “you know, I think Boone has ADHD.”

I’m very open about my own mental health. Depression, anxiety, and meds are not topics I’ll shy away from.

When they’re about me.

But with Boone… I didn’t want him to bear labels and stigmas so young. He wasn’t at an age where he could “own a diagnosis,” or so I thought, and I did not want to push that on him. And besides, didn’t ADHD give kids unbridled energy? And if he had ADHD, could he do all of the things he does, like speed through novellas and ace spelling tests? In first grade he was doing multiplication worksheets, for crying out loud!

Too cool for school (and focus issues…)?

So, like any reasonable person would do, I cried and stressed out and ate chocolate and avoided making decisions for as long as possible.

But then I realized the problems weren’t going away, despite every “focus hack” I found online or in books. While Boone could sit and read an entire book, if he were told to do something he didn’t want to do, it was an epic battle of wills. It didn’t matter if he was capable of, say, practicing piano, or writing a short journal entry, if he didn’t want to do it, it was a struggle. And not just a little, tiny, let’s talk about it struggle. Nope. It was three year old bedtimes all over again.

So I made an appointment with our pediatrician (who is not Boone’s father, by the way, going for unbiased opinions here) and after some surveys with Boone’s teacher, Jason, and myself, it was clear: Boone’s focus needed help. We had an official diagnosis of ADHD and a plan to trial some low dose medication.

My questions still lingered. Where was all of his energy? Oh yeah… at bedtimes. How could he read so fast? Oh yeah… he was choosing the books he wanted to read. What about the multiplication?! Oh yeah… even though he could solve the problems, getting him to sit down to work on it was a chore, to put it mildly.

I had a little more research to do, but I was ready to help my son reach his full potential in any way I could. I filled a prescription for Concerta, said a prayer, and began to watch and wait.

For part two of this post, come back to this blog NEXT WEEK, Wednesday, September 27.

the long con

If you’ve ever seen any heist movie ever, you’re likely familiar with the long con. Designed, as the name implies, for long term implementation, the “long con” is some form of deceit that sets up over month or years, truly earning the victim’s trust. Perhaps it’s the shifty troublemaker who superficially befriends an old wealthy woman, convincing her to leave all of worldly possessions to him when she inevitably passes away. Perhaps, in a nutshell, it’s parenting.

This is what parenting looks like.

Boone has all of the potential to be an amazing human adult someday. He’s kind, he’s smart, he’s funny. But right now, he’s also six. And stubborn. And strong-willed. And truly lacking in the focus department. We, as parents, fight battles with our kids everyday, and sometimes we forfeit. Kids refusing to wear pants? Hey, if we’re aren’t planning on leaving the house anyway; fine, go and be free. I’ve also been known to occasionally turn a blind eye (or ear) to the verbal explosion of potty words. The old saying is true: pick your battles.

But parents, sweet parents, you know as well as I do that we cannot constantly wave the white flag. 

A few weeks ago I was flying solo at church with my boys. My husband works a lot of weekends, so this isn’t particularly unusual. But on this Sunday, I was scheduled to sing with the praise band. Before I can continue, can I just say? I love singing with the praise band. I love adding harmonies to songs of praise and watching the congregation engage in the worship experience. But when I sing, I want to be fully present. And this Sunday a few weeks ago… I couldn’t be. Boone and Jonah ran around wildly while I tried to rehearse. I worried about them instead of letting the words of praise wash over my soul. When I could finally bring Jonah to his classroom, I thought things would improve. But instead, Boone continued to run around. To complain. To distract. I threatened to take away his screen time for the day — it made no impact. I tried to reason with him — to absolutely no avail. So I took away his beloved, newly purchased, hot-item-of-summer, the fidget spinner. I put it in my back pocket while he whined and protested. I was tempted to just give it back and say “fine, THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE, TAKE THE %$*#ING FIDGET SPINNER” (because I, a loving Christian mom, am not above swearing through clenched teeth in church, but Jesus loves me). But I didn’t. I left Boone with my friends who probably deserve a medal and I went on stage to sing.

This is what parenting looks like, too.

God… I prayed, this… sucks.

You won this one, He responded, so keep going.

I won?! I’m seriously worried Boone will rush the stage for the beloved fidget spinner while I’m trying to lead the church in worship. I do NOT feel like the winner here. 

He’s sitting with friends. They will watch him. I will watch him too. Just focus on me.

And this is when I realized the children aren’t raised in a day. Bad behaviors aren’t corrected once and then forever perfect. I stood on the stage and sang “Holy Spirit, you are welcome here,” but I knew the Holy Spirit was already present, watching over my moody kid. And when I sang the line “your glory, God, is what our hearts long for / to be overcome by your presence, Lord,” I was, completely, overcome. When I sat back down, I felt the fidget spinner in my back pocket. I understood that the long con of parenting is simply soldiering on, day after day, because children grow up. Through correction and discipline, even when we feel like they aren’t reachable, they learn. They absorb. It is our resposibility to keep aiming to win the battles we can, but also to realize that even when we cannot, parenting is a long game. 

We probably won’t see the final version of our kids, even if we watch them get married and start families of their own. We are all constantly adapting  and evolving, or we should be. But if we color whatever phase of parenting we are in with the thought that it is not a quick fix, I think we’ll realize the long game really is the way to go. 

Don’t let the hard days of parenting be the only ones you remember. Instead, see the difficult days as stepping stones in a part of the long con – the con to turn your crazy kids into tolerable human beings.

And this is also what parenting looks like.

You were a crazy kid once.

Somebody long-conned you good.

Pass it on.