Wise words > bad parenting

Poor Judah.  If you read this chronicle of our (occasionally?) tumultuous life, you'll notice that he might get a little less airtime.  It's not that he isn't awesome (he's probably the most photogenic of our three, with the perfectly dimpled smile to match), or that he's inherently less lovable than the other two.  It's just that he had the misfortune of being the toughest.

It's his inherent toughness that keeps him out of the spotlight sometimes.  He takes after his mom in that it generally takes an act of God to get them to admit a) something hurts; b) something is unpleasant or in any other way dramatic; or c) get them too worked up.  They are relatively drama-free.  Elijah, Jael and I?  We manufacture drama.  Life free and easy?  For us, looks like the pot needs a little stirring.  Ironically enough, Jael might be the very best of all at this.  But Judah likes things the way they were the day before, and the day before that -- routine, order and stability.

The times when he will use his great physical strength (and occasionally unleash the best purple-- actual purple-- rages that I have ever seen) is when his keenly developed sense of justice is violated.

 

 
             An early sampling of Judah's purple rages

 

 

I triggered the purple rage a week ago, for example.  We had come home late from a friend's and full of candy and exhilaration, I swept the kids to bed, one by one, Judah being the last to go as usual.  This is our special time together, the only time he really gets Rachel and I to himself, and was already not pleased that it had been shortened.  And then I did the unpardonable.  I swept him off to bed without any food.  This would not have been a big deal (he couldn't have been hungry) save for the reasons listed above.  Food before bed is simply what happens.  And now I was telling him the very created order as he knew it was passing away.  And so the battle began.

 For those of you who have never seen Judah wage war, it's very much like my high school girlfriend used to argue with me:  repeat the same point over and over against my carefully rationed arguments until I stalk away in disgust.  When faced with the crushing arguments of truth, raise your voice and repeat your single argument LOUDER. When he stated his argument the first time, "Daddy, I need to tell you something..." I listened.  By time #5, I was ready to throw him in the trash can.  By time #10, I was threatening to take him to bed with no story.  By time #15, when the story had been lost, I was despairing of waking the other two children.  By time #20, I think he had forgotten what he wanted to tell me.  (I tested this theory between times #20 and #25.  I finally stopped and looked at him and instead of giving out more consequences (losing stories for a YEAR ?)  and said, "Ok, tell me exactly what you want."  He just repeated himself as if I hadn't even spoken,)  Eventually, around time #30, I carried him upstairs for brushing of teeth.  I should have worn full-body armor.  He's just too damn strong.  He can already take out Elijah -- I think I'm next in two years or so.  It'll be really embarrassing to admit a 5-year-old beat me up, but I'm already practicing my speech.

It was while attempting to brush his teeth that I finally lost it.  45 minutes of patience went out the window, and I started snarling back at him that he had better... or I was gonna ... and that he was leaving me no choice... and I kept praying that I did have a choice, but I couldn't think of one amidst the parenting trenches.

By God's mercy, Rachel walked by at that moment and took pity on both of us. "A word," she said, just as I inhaled for round two of snarling. "He's just like you," she said.  "You're both stubborn as anything.  You both hate change.  Why do you get to tell him that he can't eat his apple tonight?"

I had "Because I'm his dad," all ready to go, but sat on it for a minute.

She continued.  "If I told you that you couldn't eat while we watched TV tonight, you'd have a fit."

"Of course I'd have a fit!"

She looked over my shoulder to the baleful, soggy boy behind me, brown eyes glumly looking away from mine as I turned my gaze to him.  And just like that  -- I got it.  The anger ebbed from my body almost in one palpable wave.

"Judah, " I said, "would you forgive me?"

He looked at me warily.

"And would you be willing to eat your apple in bed tonight?" The eyes, lifeless for the past fifteen minutes, lit up with joy.

He took ten minutes figuring out which apple he wanted to eat -- and subsequently only ate a few bites, as we found two days later when we discovered the desiccated remains of the apple-- but the relationship was restored.  And strangely enough, the rest of the night I had his big (BIG) brown eyes burned into my vision along with the words of St. Paul from 1st Corinthians 13:4-6 (The Message) "

 Love doesn’t strut,
Doesn’t have a swelled head,
Doesn’t force itself on others,
Isn’t always “me first,”
Doesn’t fly off the handle,
Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,
Doesn’t revel when others grovel,
Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth.

That quotation above captures why even amidst all the failings, trials and 1st world misfortunes that this little family lives through day to day, we can go forward without fear and with confident hope for our uncertain future. 

(Tomorrow: More Judah -- more bedtime -- more injuries for me! Tune in then ... )

  

 

 

After the naughty list comes the naughty words...

 

 

 

 

 

... cause you know, every family needs a "Seven Dirty Words" a la George Carlin.

I thought the typical "F word" started our list, until the day that the firstborn was walking all around the house screaming, " I need a F***!"  When we stopped snorting so loud that we could approach him without cracking up (because he was three at the time and if we laughed, we'd hear it for the next nine months), we gently inquired where he had heard it. He said he made it up himself.  I said maybe he could say "duck" instead.  The response:  "Maybe.  Did you know that "duck" and "f***" rhyme, Dad? "  I had to admit that I did. "So it's like saying the same word.  Sometimes I'll say "F***" and sometimes I'll say duck."  Thankfully, he forgot about that within the week.

Not to be outdone is his sweet brother, whose forays into linguistic vulgarity are accidental rather than experimental.  For example, he has a most difficult time saying the "st" sound, choosing to replace it with "D."  Sometimes this makes his would-be insults less insulting, like when he gets really angry and tells us that "we acting dupid."  That doesn't quite sting so much.  Other times, though, the results can be devastating.  He loves a good tree branch as a handy weapon and can wield it quite effectively when other (larger) children attempt to forcibly move him against his will.
Still, the day he told us that "the other kids tried to beat me up but I grabbed my *stick* and hit them with my *stick* until they ran away.  Then I waved my *stick* at them one more time when they went inside.  They not fight me anymore while my *stick* is out,"  we didn't even try to stop laughing.

This last particular dirty word, however, is my fault.  I didn't even know what a rotten fellow I was. I was sharing a particularly nice post-nap cuddle with the Jaelster with Elijah neatly tucked away in the kitchen with his new Legos (Thanks Ina Tubbs!) and Judah snoring away upstairs, when Elijah hollered that he needed help constructing his massive semi-trailer.  I inwardly rolled my eyes, but Jael tucked sweetly over my shoulder and we waltzed in to save Elijah's day. On the way in she picked up her head and gave me a slobber-kiss.  Not normally the over-romantic type, I inadvertently polluted Elijah's ears.  "Awewww," I said.  "Isn't Jael such a snuggle-bug today?"

"DAD!"

"What?"

"Apologize RIGHT NOW!"

Ummm... what??"  By now I was concerned.  He had just gone  0 to 60 faster than his mother on vacation, which is tough to do.

"How would you like it if I called you a BUG?"

"Ah, I wouldn't care--"

"You wouldn't!  You're lying!  You tell us not to call each other filthy names, but then you think you can call Jael that!  How would you like to be called a bug?  Bugs are slimy!  SLIMY!  You wouldn't!  Don't EVER do it again!"

Don't you want help with.."

"Apologize to Jael now!"

So I did.... and I have never (and by never I mean not when near Elijah) called Jael a term of endearment again.  Me and my potty mouth.

On the other hand, Jael's future boyfriends should probably wait until LJ moves out of the house before bothering to show their face.  :)

 

 

 

The Naughty List

I feel a little bit bad for my kids around Christmastime.  One of the decisions that we have consciously made with our children as they grow up is that we will not knowingly attempt to make them believe what we know to be untrue.  I could write an entirely different post here, but the short version of this is that our children know who the Tooth Fairy is, are grateful for any -- and it's not much-- candy that they get at Easter, and don't believe in Santa Claus. They know who he is and represents, and they are quite familiar with his predecessor St. Nicholas, one of the perks of attending an Anglican church. (and luckily, so far, they have managed not to burst the Santa bubble of t heir cousins).

However... in a culture that uses Santa as the whipping stick for good behavior in the winter (as in every trip to the grocery store we make in December, there's at least one parent desperately begging their child to behave else 'Santa might put you on his naughty list'), it's a little harder to skate blithely through the Santa mines unscathed.  Let me break it down.

Jael = not a problem.  She can only say about ten words.

Judah = not a problem.  He doesn't approach strangers, unless it's DIRECTLY behind Elijah so they can't see him. (And generally won't talk to them even when approached. He might not be the world's most out going person, but we think he's relatively unlikely to be kidnapped).

Elijah = trouble.  This is the same child who asked permission to 'say hi' to the neighboring children at the grocery store, and when granted permission, ran directly to them (they were at least two years and twenty pounds older/bigger than him) and said, without pausing, "Hi-my-name-is-Elijah. Isn't-this-an-awesome-car? I-know-you-want -one- so maybe- if- you-ask-your-mom-nice-like-I-asked my-dad-then-you-could-have-one-too?-Well,-I'll-see-you-soon."  and ran away before the stunned preteens could say anything.  Yup, trouble.  And trouble that is willing to talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere.  (You could say he's "socially fearless."  Yeah, that's it.)

Anyways, this particular adventure started out when the two knights and I went on a 'special trip with Daddy' -- this would be running errands on my vacation day-- and ended up at the bank.  They insisted on coming up to the counter with me for their lollipops (we don't know how Judah is SuperFreak strong and ripped; his diet is like Buddy from Elf: candy, candy canes, candy corns...and syrup. I'm sorta kidding.) and voila, a friendly teller decided to talk to Elijah.  Well, she decided to talk to both of them while she rang my deposit through, but Judah decided that today was a good day to have eyes only for his lollipop.

"Hi, you guys!"

"Hi, what's your name?"

"Um, Laura, what's yours?"  I think she was a little startled by Elijah, who ALWAYS asks for a name.  He used to ask, "what's your real name?" (i,e. not Mama or Daddy) until we taught him that freaked people out, like he had just discovered they were CIA or something.

"Elijah. Elijah Wilson Nimon."

"Mmm-hmm.  Have you been a good boy this year, Elijah?"

"Not really.  Well, I can be when I don't have sin in my heart.  So maybe good and bad."

"Oh."  (Pause, regrouping)  "Well, I'm Santa's friend.  Should I put in a good word for you?"

Elijah, nonplussed, shrugged his shoulders and looked at me.  I can't read minds, but his face looked something like: Does she know Santa's not real?  Who's her friend that's pretending to be Santa?  Do you want to tell her, Dad, or should I?"

I felt an unexpected theological discussion coming on and opened my mouth to say something to potentially avert it, but before I could, Laura spoke again.

"Well, I help him make up the nice list and the naughty list.  Have you been so bad that I should tell him to put you on the naughty list?"

LJ nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders.  "I guess so," he said. "If you have to."

Stunned, she gave it one last go.  I had to ask for deposit slip after all this, which was a pinch awkward.  "Well, you want me to tell Santa to put you on the good list, don't you?"

Elijah gave it one last thought.  "I think the naughty list is fine," he said. "Besides, my mom and dad have already bought me presents."

Look on teller's face = priceless.  And I'll take Parenting 203 for the win, Alex.

"What has one good joint and..."

So one of the few special advantages that I have in life is being able to laugh at the children when I should probably have torn my (graying) hair out and ran screaming into the nearby parking lot.  I'm really good at that.  I mean, really good. I've even taught them how to laugh at their own foibles. It's heartening to come in a room where there's one person (that would be number #2) sobbing on the floor, face looking like he lost a fight to a steamroller, and next to him the firstborn is saying with a straight face, "It's ok Judah... sometimes that happens when you put the slippery socks on and won't wear shoes.... it won't hurt for more than an hour!"

 

It feels good (pun not really intended) when Judah runs full speed while looking backwards, crushes himself into the doorframe at Mach2, slides down the door like his new favorite cartoon character Wile E. Coyote, and while I am steeling every nerve in my body not to sprint over to him and scream," Are you ok?  I don't want to take you to the hospital!", bounces right back up and says in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, "It ok... I not hurt..."   At those moments I feel like I might have done something right, that when I am long gone they might look back fondly on their memories of me and think that their old man was once something other than just old.

I feel triumphant (and strangely disgusting, all at once) when the oldest accidentally dunks his favorite stuffed animal into the "loo" that he has forgotten to flush for (drum roll, please) his league-leading forty-fifth time in a row, and I do not just throw him into the john to join the hippopotamus named Rhino in traversing the effluence.

Sometimes, though, my willingness to laugh bites me in the butt. Like this morning.  I will say as an aside it's not cool to make fun of disabled people, but when you parent one, you get a free pass now and then.  It doesn't diminish my love for little Jael ("the Yelpster") when I crawl one-legged across a room in her signature style or do the robot in front of her to watch that whip-smart little girl imitate me perfectly because it's the only way she can dance--yet. And I say "yet" because against all odds, limitations and expectations that I had for her when she came out as flat and flexible as an ironing board, she's walking at the same time our first two beautiful crazies did.  It was against this backdrop that this minor indiscretion of mine occurred.  She was driving me crazy by attempting to crawl downstairs from every room that we placed her while I tried to finish up getting ready for work.  Rachel was doing hand-to-hand combat with Judah over oatmeal and had finally won (I think?) when I noticed Jael working her way free again and ka-plunk!ing herself over to the stairs yet again.
"Rach," I yelled, "Get her before she falls."  Rachel gave a look that every woman should have in their arsenal for recalcitrant males... something between "do-it-yourself" and "you lazy donkey."   And then the humor kicked in.  "Hey," I said, trying to lighten the mood as Jael pulled herself over to the top stair, "What has one good joint and goes ka-blump, ka-blump, ka-THUMP!"

From downstairs the ethereal voice of Elijah floated up,  "That's easy, Dad-- JAELSTER!!"

Maybe I should just stick to the old classic, "Do as I say, not as I do."  They might have a better chance.  At least they know they're loved.

Baby Steps

It felt like a scene from Rocky. Or not.  "Ladies and gentlemen, in one corner, leaning against the fridge, the princess with the dancing eyes, the one -- the only -- Jael Juliana!"  The little lady balanced her tiny butt against the fridge, standing straight and tall as she beamed at her brothers and I.

"In the other corner, a mere three feet away..."  yours truly.  For, Jael, though, the three feet could have been a mile. She had never taken an unassisted step on open ground, never mind four.  She looked at me as she swayed, eyes never leaving mine. As she went to take a step, she looked down at her legs, which started swaying like a sailor returning to port after a night on liberty... and much like the aforementioned sailor, down in a heap she went.

I propped her up against the fridge again, and her eyes never lost the giggle that danced in them.  This time she didn't look down, but put her arms out and one... two... three steps and fell forward into my arms.  "Good girl!"  I couldn't help it; I started clapping.  Then Elijah came running around and patting her on the back and clapping.  It was like a party.  She couldn't stop grinning and clapping for herself (at one it's still adorable); I couldn't stop crying.  It was the culmination of a year's hard work (for both of us) and prayer (by the hundreds of saints that have surrounded us and help us up before the very throne of God when we were too tired or fearful to do it ourselves).  AND IT WAS WORTH IT.  Oh, it was worth it.

 I realized that day, as the glow faded a little and I plopped her into her walker to continue the hard work (if chasing her brothers giggling can be considered hard work) that had made that last moment possible,  that watching her triumphant steps is a bit of a parallel to what my entire year has been like. Today is my birthday (a lady never tells her age, but Elijah follows no such social niceties... he's been running around bellowing at anyone who will listen, "my mom's turning [redacted] today!  How old are you?") and this passage has given me a bit of pause to reflect on the year that was and process some things that the insanity of daily life in the Court would otherwise blur.

This last year, if you will, was full of unforeseen challenges: we got through Jael's first surgery, added 5 new specialists and 2 new weekly therapies as well as a research program for immobile children (while balancing our two other children and their homeschooling).  Oh, and Micah had to switch careers mid-stream in the meantime.

But I am learning that through the heartache and challenge comes a great and surpassing kind of kind of joy. While I was excited that Elijah could walk at 13 months, it was nothing compared to the waves of relief and joy that I felt when Jael began taking her first steps in her walker, in no small part because of the physical challenges we'd worked through together to get her there! And much like Peter on that dark night in Galilee so many years ago, I am learning to keep my eyes on Him who is enough.  Like Jael, looking down at my own wobbly legs leads to collapse.  I am not strong enough to fight all the paper tigers that loom up at me daily with their fearful  thoughts of her future and the challenges that lie ahead of us, known and unknown.

But like Jael, I don't have to look down.  I can look straight ahead, surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses (funny to think of Elijah and Judah that way), and with confidence take my faltering steps, knowing that these words still ring true: "Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you." Isaiah 46:4.  I couldn't be prouder of that little girl, and our family as a whole.  I look forward to another year of being blessed -- not blessed by getting everything that I want, but blessed to learn the lessons that mean the most: that perfect love drives out fear, that slobbery kisses might be a better birthday present than a new car, and that three small steps might just make a year's toil and trouble WORTH IT.