My Wandering Angel

My darling Grace

Most days we spend a lot of time at the bottom step.  We talk about what hands are for and blow kisses and clap and high five and hug.  We practice whispering and using our inside voices.  We stand for minutes on end with our noses to the wall.  We pray.  We ask for forgiveness.  We say we are sorry.  These moments, while they are how we spend a lot of our days as of late, are my least favorite parts of the day.  Well, least favorite AFTER the incidents that mandate our presence on the bottom step.

My favorite part of the day with you is bedtime.  Not because you will soon be asleep, but because of our dear ritual.  We lube you up with Coconut Oil.  We gather your hair or braids and put on your pretty pink silk scarf.  We read a Bible story and then you and Henry each get to select a story.  Then Henry goes to his room and, here is my most favoritest part, you and I snuggle up with your lovey and Pinkie and rock in the yellow rocking chair and sing.

Generally, we sing three songs.  You always ask for ABCs.  And once we are done singing the ABC song, you ask we sing it again.  We do not.  You also love Twinkle Twinkle, Jesus Loves Me, My Bonnie, Amazing Grace, My God is So Big, and your all time favorite finale song—La La Lu (from Disney’s Lady and the Tramp).  You love La La Lu.  You are so precious as you belt out the words.  Your nose crinkles, you rub my face, as you snuggle into my chest.  You even tap my nose when you sing, “Here comes a pink cloud for you.”  

And then I tuck you in, with your head on your satin pillow case, and gather up Pinkie, your multiple loveys, and all of your stuffies—Eyore, Piglet, a sea lion, a lamb, a mermaid, an owl, a purple sock monkey, the stuffed Build a Bear dog your brother made you while we were waiting for you, and your two blankies.  Without even looking, you know if one is missing.  

That’s how I feel about you.  Even with my eyes shut, I see you.  Do you drive me bonkers?  Yes.  Because you are so. much. like. me.  You love and approach life with everything you have.  You never walk, but dance everywhere.  You shower me with kisses and snuggles and zerberts.  You have always been, and will always be, no matter how many more kids God brings into our family, my little star sweeper and wandering angel.  

Fold up your wings, close your eyes.

La la lu, la la lu, and may love be your keeper.

For forever and ever

We have entered the phase of toddlerdom that is horrible.  The only thing keeping me going is the fact that at some point, all of this will be a distant memory. 

Today I spent a cumulative three hours sitting on the bottom step with Grace.  At one point, after poking her brother in the eye for no reason other than she thought it was funny, she put herself in time out. 

I worry that I'm raising a psychopath.  She will slug Henry and then grin as if to say, "I know I'm too cute to be punished."  I will say, "Hitting is wrong.  Hitting hurts," and she will giggle and say, "No, it's not wrong.  It's funny."  And she is just so danged cute that for a little while, I believe her.  But then she slaps me as I take her hand to go back to the steps and I remember that no, it isn't funny.  At all. 

Raising a girl is different than a boy.  I remember the trauma of Henry at this age.  Grace is no more disobedient, but there is this added bossiness and sass and desire to be in control of every situation at all times that is just a part of who Grace is as a female.  It also happens to be a part of who I am, and well, there's really only room for one bossy girl in this family.

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to my son-in-law.  I tried.  Really.  All I can say that if you just do what she says, no one will get hurt.  I'm counting on the fact that during those three hours on the bottom step we prayed each and every time for Jesus to give her a calm spirit and kind hands to at some point kick in.  To say that I need Jesus to redeem my parenting is quite possibly the understatement of the year. 

Parenting any child is hard.  Providing appropriate consequences and discipline is yucky for both parties.  But parenting an adopted child of a different race adds to its complexity.  Once I add two kids who spent part of their life in an orphanage, it is going to get even trickier.

My saving grace is the fact that I see Jesus at work in Henry. 

Henry woke up with a sore throat.  He spent all afternoon cuddled on the couch, shivering in his pajamas and fleece robe watching Mary Poppins.  Grace would hit him or sit on him or toss a remote at his head.  We'd go back to the stairs.  Talk about why God gave us hands.  Pray.  Come back and apologize to Henry.  And each and every time Henry would respond, "I forgive you, Grace."  At one point, at that time of parenting when I was checking my watch wondering how early was too early to put her to bed, and he told her, "Grace, I will always forgive you.  I love you.  You are my sister.  So I will forgive you for forever and ever."

Dear Jesus, Thank you for showing me in Henry that this stage will pass.  I pray that you work in Grace's heart just as you have in Henry's.  Thank you for your continued faithfulness to our family.  Thank you for loving me and forgiving me for forever and ever. 

What 2011 Taught Me

So you see, I really suck at resolutions.  

I suck at both the making them and the keeping them.  The only thing I really excel at in regards to resolutions is the feeling guilty about breaking them.  For example, some part of me would like to resolve to cook a healthy gourmet-esque meal for my family at least 5x a week.  But what this would really amount to would be either fretting because I forgot my recipe and list when I was in the grocery store.  Therefore, I’d have all of the wrong ingredients and my gourmet attempt at low fat chicken linguini alfredo would end up being grilled chicken with a side of Pene in some type of melted parmesan rue.  Oh, and this poor attempt would also go untouched by 50% of my family.  So it would also be an exercise in how much food can we throw away.  Which would then reduce me to a puddle in the kitchen, crying for the starving peoples of China and Ethiopia, cursing myself for being irresponsible and the worst mother ever because my daughter mainly eats carbs and condiments, and yelling at my 4 year old and 2 year old because they are so spoiled and entitled and then I’d probably throw in some yelling at Sloan just for good measure.  And then after said freaking out was complete, I’d spend an entire evening and perhaps several blog posts writing about what I really need for Jesus to do in my life is make me more organized.  Because another thing I excel in is wrapping up my sins and weaknesses in pretty Spiritual wrapping paper so that I don’t have to repent of them.  I may even challenge my husband you that it is his you’re Christian duty to simply love me the way I am.  Which, to some degree IS true.  But you see, I’d spend all my time feeling guilty and yucky and irresponsible about the danged list and maybe thirty seconds feeling convicted for the snapping at my kids and the hurling of curse words at my husband.  And the ability to keep up with a list has absolutely zero to do with who I am and was created to be and then I’d need to repent of confusing my ability to keep up with things as my salvation.  

But, it is the New Year and all.  I do feel obligated to, at the very least, reflect upon the lessons God has taught me this year.  So I’m not going to resolve to do anything new but I will pray to remember lessons learned.  And here they are, in no particular order.

1.  Sloan travels a lot but that does not mean I need to be with him 100% of the time when he is home.  It will do us both a lot of good if while he is home I leave the house without the children and do scandalous things like grocery shop or grab coffee with a friend.  Or simply be in a different room than him and not glued to him like some desperate middle schooler.  Also, it is difficult to get any housework done as Siamese spouse twins. If this “break time” does not occur, I will inevitably go crazy because the house will be craptastic and instead of simply saying, “You know, I could really go for some alone time right now”, I’ll end up saying something like “Oh my gosh, I don’t even want to look at you right now.  I hate your stupid face and your Gamecock hat.  I don’t want to watch football and for the love of Pete will you please just go somewhere else?  I don’t really care where, just get the eff out of my line of sight or I’m gonna cut somebody.”  (You know, hypothetically I might say something like that.)

2.  Henry is the slowest person on the planet.  I need to remember that he is 4.  And that God is using him to teach me patience.  When it takes him 30 minutes to dress himself because he keeps getting distracted by his train table, remember that I sometimes yell at him “Come on, Henry, focus!  Put down the trains and put on your socks!” while standing in my jeans and bra on my Ipad because apparently I can’t get dressed without simultaneously updating my Facebook status.

3.  Gracie is just.like.me.  She does not respond kindly to being told to do something.  By default, she will rebel.  But if I simply ask her, 9 times out of 10 she will comply.  So again, I need to be patient.  She desires to please those around her, but she wants to do it on her own terms.  I need to love her even though I’m pretty sure the phrase “I do it!  I do it!” will be the death of me.

4.  Sometimes God asks me to turn on a dime and make a quick decision.  But if I’m fretting over this decision or feeling desperate or cornered, then chances are it is not God pressing in on me.  God’s forks in the road always lead to more of Him, not more of me.

5.  Eating fried foods makes me feel gross and bloated.  So don’t eat them.  This includes (gasp) Chick-fil-A.

6.  When I’m bored or depressed, chances are it is because God is at work.  I may not know it or see it, but He is still there.  And more than likely, my depression and ennui stems from complacency. 

7.  God is not concerned about my comfort, by my conforming into His likeness. 

8.  Dry shampoo makes my head itch.  And wool makes my eyes explode.

9.  God is not concerned with how often I cook or even if I remember to make a list to take to the grocery store.  He is concerned with how I love Him and my neighbor.  He is concerned with my loving others, period.  So any resolution that I may think of that inhibits my ability to love those around me is probably a pretty crappy one.

10.  God is close to the brokenhearted, the needy, the poor, the sick, the orphaned.  If I want more of Jesus in my life, I am going to have surround myself with the brokenhearted, needy, poor, sick, and orphaned.  And when I do this, I’ll find that all of those adjectives—broken, needy, poor, sick, and orphaned—apply to me as well.  To my heart.  And so I need the broken, needy, poor, sick and orphaned folks probably more than they need me.  In fact, my need for a daily reminder of my need for Jesus is so great, that I probably should just invite someone broken, needy, poor, sick, and orphaned ­into my heart and home permanently. 

6    

When I Was a Parenting Expert

Before I had children, I was a parenting expert. 

My future children were perfect--obedient, kind, silly, brilliant, clean, and wonderful eaters.  They never walked around with boogers crusted over half of their face.  They quickly and quietly gave up both diapers and pacifiers at age 2.  They were adventurous eaters; their favorite foods were things like almond encrusted salmon, green beans, and brussel sprouts.  They never stole toys from other kids, rather, from birth they were able to speak in full sentences and able to resolve all conflicts with their stellar vocabulary and winning smiles.  They always listened to me and were masters at "first time" obedience.  They never went limp in parking lots of grocery stores but skipped happily alongside me with blue birds on their shoulders.

Umm....not so much.


In reality, there are times when I am talking to my children and it is as if the wind is blowing.  Days when I feel like all I do is enforce consequences.  Disobey, consequence, repent, pray, hug.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Every ten minutes.  For the same frickin' thing.

In reality, I have found that weaning your child off of methadone to be far easier than taking away their passie.  Just when I think we've left the passie in the crib for nighttime, she finds another one.  Probably from behind the toilet.  Or I'm having to give it to her because she insists while teething to shove her entire hand down her throat, thus causing some type of teething induced bulimia.

In reality, I had to drag Grace, who was kicking and screaming AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS!!! all the way across the movie theater lobby.  She was mad at me because I would not let her unfurl the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom and I swatted her hand away as she attempted to play in the stream of her brother's urine. 

In reality, Grace has been told that hands are for hugging not for hitting so many times that she now immediately hugs Henry after hitting him. 

In reality, Gracie prefers to eat only meat and carbs.  And not even those all the time.  She has missed so many meals because I refuse to be a short order cook that it is no wonder why she only has one roll left in her thighs.   Also, I don't take kindly to a plate of food being thrown in my face.  She did that at lunch today and so went down for her afternoon nap an hour early because Momma doesn't play that game.  Not when there is an empty crib upstairs full of all the wrong stuffed animals.

Oh, and did I mention that all of the loveys have been lost?  LaLa, our very favorite pink poodle lovey, jumped the stroller at the watermelon festival.  So she commandeered her back up lamb lovey and her brother's old blue lamb lovey.  But she lets me know that they are not LaLa.  They are simply Lovey.  And I'm not even sure where those are now at this point.  So yes, I just spent $40 on ebay for "A Pair and a Spare" set of pink poodle loveys.  Perhaps if we have three LaLas we will be able to locate one of them. 

Don't get me wrong, when Grace is sweet, she is sticky sweet like grocery store birthday cake icing.  But, boy oh boy.  When she is mad,  she is freakin' mad.  Do not poke the bear.  While she is comforted by song, you'd best hope you don't pick the wrong song to sing.  Guaranteed hits are the ABC song and Amazing Grace.  If you try to sing "You are My Sunshine" she will quickly remind you that, no, she is your little gale force wind.

I barely remember this stage with Henry.  His terrible twos were different as his temperament is much more even keeled and less demanding.  Gracie is just like me.  Which is to say she is loud, hates being told no, and can make you miserable if you cross her. 

But also, she could be possessed by some sort of two year old demon.   The verdict is still out.  The only thing I know for sure now in terms of parenting is that at some point in time we may need to call an exorcist.

Cranky is a crane, not a little boy...

A sorority sister of mine's recent facebook status was that she was moving into Meltdown City.  I responded that I owned a timeshare in Meltdown City.  But folks, we haven't visited the timeshare lately.  Or, rather, we haven't visited the three year old's timeshare.  Adult meltdowns are par for the course in Elizabethtown.  Volitile weather is one of the things Etown is known for.

We've been roughly a week on our super serious no RED40 diet.  And while I do not want to overstate the matter, Henry is a different boy.  Or rather, the real Henry has stood up.  The eczema on his arms and ruddy cheeks are pretty much gone.  His heiny no longer looks like the flag of Japan. He has consistently napped every afternoon and we have in no way been playing on playgrounds more to induce this change.  I no longer hear him chatting to himself in his room at 10pm.  He's zonked out by 8:30, having been in bed since his 7:30 bedtime.  He no longer freaks out when it is time to put up Lego Thomas and have dinner.  He may not be jazzed about it, but he doesn't fall apart. 

At the playground, when a little girl stole his sand shovel, he didn't push or shove, just said, "Hey, that Henwe's.  Say pwease."  She said please and he handed the shovel to her, promptly telling her to say thank you. 

Yes, he is still a three year old.  Tonight, we had dinner at Auntie Ann's and she made a special Cookies and Creme pudding for him.  He was excited about the pudding.  In theory.  Upon seeing it was not chocolate pudding, he snapped "No.  No thank you!"  But he did not throw it, yell at Ann to take it away or fall down.  When asked a second time if he wanted the pudding, sure, he was annoyed.  Hadn't he turned it down just ten minutes ago?

Simply put, he is less irritable.  Not more mature.  But it IS something.  A noticeable change. 

I've also begun trying to say Yes to him as much as possible.  Not to spoil him.  Just that the other day I was praying about how I could love him better and be more compassionate toward him and I thought about what his day must be like.  He wakes up and he's not allowed out of his room until an adult comes to get him.  And by this point, he's been sleeping in his own mess for 12 hours.  He doesn't get to pick his own clothes.  Or his own breakfast.  Or what to do for the day.  He wants juice to drink but is given milk.  He wants a second cup of milk but is given water.  He wants steak for lunch but is served hot dog.  (This was his complaint today at lunchtime.  I can relate.)  He wants to look at books but we have to go to the grocery store.  And yes, I know that this is just a part of life.  Learning to handle not getting what you want.  However, when I'm tired, my default answer is no. I need to listen to him more.  He's not a baby.  His opinion, while not the only determining factor in my decision making paradigm, does matter.  He has a voice and wants to be heard.  That in as much as he is sometimes going to have get in line with my schedule, I need to adjust my schedule to meet his needs as well.  He now gets to pick his breakfast.  Praise Jesus he wants Cheerios, a banana, and an Apple Cinammon Zbar.  He doesn't want me to give him his medicine.  Imagine my surprise when he put the Nasonex correctly up his nose and dosed himself and promptly downed his little cup of Zyrtec.  And when we got home from Ann's tonight, he even reminded me he needed to eat his "Singuware" candy. 

It may not be much.  But even small steps are long strides when you are walking in a three year old's shoes. 

Especially when he wears a size 11 shoe.

Techno-Parenting

As I type this, I am sitting at the dinner table.   I actually cooked tonight--meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas.  (Write it down.)  Henry just said, "Dang it.  Dang it, Gracie stuck" because I literally just had to shake the bumbo seat off her fat body.  (Yes.  He says "Dang it."  Perhaps this is the phrase I should have given up for lent...)
So why am I blogging at the dinner table?  Why is Sloan facebooking on his Blackberry?  Because we have a little boy who won't even try his dinner.*  Not even with the opportunity to dip it in kethcup.  He has, however, eaten 4 spoonfuls of ketchup.  We're not even telling him he has to clean his plate.  He just has to try one bite of each item.  He refuses.  Sloan tried to feed him a spoonful of mashed taters and he drooled it out.  Pit.  E.  Ful.  I'm not trying to be that psyhco mom who makes her kid eat stuff, it is just that I know that he will like all of the things on his plate if he only breaks down and tries them.  We've told him we will sit at the table and wait until he tries a bite of each until it is bedtime.  If he hasn't tried his dinner, there will be no Thomas or Lightning McQueen stories.  Just toothbrushing and then lights out.


But thanks to wifi, a new laptop, and a chubby bunny now sitting in my lap, waiting until your kid eats his dinner just got a whole lot easier.

*I blame my mother for this.  She prayed I would have children like me.  When I was a kid, I could go days without breaking down. My mom would serve me the same food over and over until it rotted.  I will not be serving him meatloaf for breakfast. I seriously never ate cucumbers until college out of spite. Stupid. Cucumbers are awesome. 

Oh snap!

Sometimes motherhood is a bear.  It seems it is not enough to merely confess that I have no idea what I am doing.  I think it is more accurate to say that, indeed, I am part of the problem.  I know what to do and do not do it and leave undone the things which should be done.  (I'm pretty sure there is a prayer of confession that says just that.)  Were I to go to a deserted island, a perfect utopia, an Eden, upon my arrival chaos would insue.  Motherhood really is the blind leading the blind.  And folks, we are lost.  Lost, I tell you.  I am ever so grateful that God is far more concerned about the hearts of my kids than I am. And in fact, He has the power to do something about it and has done it.  It is not flippantly that I say "Hallelujah!" to this notion.  The big work of parenting, the dealing with sin and anger and selfishness, has been done and not by me.  Can I get an Amen?!?

I've come to this place by way of my son's mouth.  In typical 2 year old fashion, Henry is a biter.  In fact, last week at Bible Study, I saw a little girl in Henry's class with a big gash on her face and thought, "Whoa, dude, I'd hate to see the other guy."  Imagine my horror when upon picking him up, I find out that Henry is the other guy.  We explained to Henry that a)we don't bite, b)we especially don't bite girls, c) we especially don't bite on the face where everyone can see it, and d) we especially don't bite the daughters of Judges.  We laughed at the last two instructions, but as I did, I recognized that what was really troubling me, more than my son's own errant behavior, was my attaching my own value to it. The fact that I was more concerned about what people would think of me as a parent than I was the selfish heart of my son.  Because it is all about me, right?

Drat.  Double drat.

And so we are attempting to love him and discipline him through this phase without giving weight to our own embarrasment and shame that our kid is the biter.  This morning in class he pushed a kid.  I explained to the mom that I didn't mean to seem excited my son hit her son, but that at least we were moving in the right direction.  Apparently, in my mind, pushing is a more socially acceptable form of dealing with one's own anger, right?  I mean, he is two. 

It has not gone unnoticed that his temper arrived about the same time as Gracie.  And he does stuggle finding the right words sometimes.  I'd like to think that once he gets a better grasp on his language this will all go away.    I've even bandied about the idea teaching him to cuss, because let's face it, isn't that what I do?  I think I'm going to teach him to say, "Oh snap!" when he is mad.  Because it isn't crass and quite frankly, it would be down right hilarious.  I tried to tell him to say, "Oh man!" but then he told me he was going to act like Swiper the fox.  No, Henry, I don't want you to be a thief. 

Someone also suggested that perhaps Henry does not know he is hurting his friends and that I needed to "bite him back."  I understand the logic in this.  And I appreciate that you think my son will be loving once he knows he is hurting people.  The problem with this idea is that I've met his mother and I've seen the way she speaks to his father and his grandparents.  And if my own behavior is any indicator, education will not be my or my son's salvation.  The fact that my words hurt is one of the reasons I say them when I am mad or when you get in my way, or when perhaps, you are unaware that this is the portion of the day where you are to be worshipping me. 

The issue at hand is that my son and I both have a problem.  A problem SO big and grotesque that God Himself had to step in and do something about it.  We're sinners.  OK, let me just confess my own sins, here.  I am a sinner.  Not just because of what I say when I am mad, but because of who I am.  A fellow parent, trying to encourage me, said that I just need to teach him a way to accept not getting his own way and how to deal with his anger.  Are there classes where they teach this?  I need this class.  If I wait around for Henry to be okay with not getting his way, we'll still be waiting when I die.  I'm not okay with not getting my own way.  In fact, I've created this whole mythical place called Elizabethtown where I am Lord apparent. 

See my problem?  See why I am the blind leading the blind?

So I am coming at this from a different way.  Yes, I am his mother and authority figure.  This authority comes not from my own wisdom or deserving of it, but from God.  Yet, I also pray to be my son's Sister.  And it is with this freedom I am approaching the situation.  Every time Henry and I meet in a bathroom to repeat the phrase "No biting" and pray for a kind and gentle mouth, I am adding my name to the prayer.  That in as much as I list things that God gave us mouths for--laughing, singing, telling the truth, praising God, eating candy, I am preaching to myself these very things.  Every time I tell Henry to ask for forgiveness for biting, I ask for forgiveness as well.  I'm not a biter, it is just my own need to be God manifests itself in more social acceptable ways--sarcasm, silence, and some phrases far more caustic than "Oh, snap!".  And yet, as I'm finding out, these ways are not just unacceptable to God, but down right offensive. I don't think that God really cares if I change my words from four letter words to the faux curse words parents love--fudge, dagnabit, cheese and rice, WTF (or What the Kiffin in my Tennessee fan mode...)--because beneath these cutesy cuss words lies the bile in my heart.  And that bile is what is offensive.  I can wrap it in a pretty bow, but it still gift wrapped poo.

But, oh snap!  How great a thing it is to know that God is still forming His image in me.  That while I am not content to let Henry bite all his classmates, God is not content to let me bite either.  That His love for me and my son is so intense and passionate, He has provided a way, in Jesus, to receive ample mercy.  That we are not only forgiven, but made RIGHT!  (Because being right is sooooo much better than simply being forgiven.)

Dear Lord, Heal the mouths of the Phillips family.  Forgive us for wanting to be You.  Thank you that we are not. 

One thing I've done right...

And no, it is not buying up all the Count Frankenberries I can find. (Although, for the life of me, I do not understand why it isn't sold year round. It is the best cereal. Ever.)

Henry has become a bit of a bully. I don't know if it is that he realizes he is weaponized with his cast (only one more week!), but he has left behind the docile little boy that will let you take his toys or play with the toys he so ardently desires. He will push, pull, and even tackle. What makes it worse is that his "tackle" is quite manipulative. Exhibit A--This morning we were at his buddy Nano's house. Nano was playing with a big 18 wheeler toy, riding around on it. Henry wanted to play with it. When told he had to wait his turn, he simply looked at Nathan and said, "Nano, hug!" at which point Nathan got up from the truck and went to hug Henry. Henry hugged Nathan down to the ground, then crawled over Nathan and onto the aforementioned big rig. Much to Nathan's dismay--"Phillips! Phillips, Henhe hugged me and stole my truck!"

So I took Henry into the dining room for a come to Jesus meeting. And as soon as I was done laying down the law, Henry tucked in his bottom lip, folded his hands and said, "Pray." So, at the very least, and I mean the very least, my boy knows that when you mess up and need forgiveness, you pray. And so we prayed, I hugged him, told him I forgave him and that I loved him and was proud of him for wanting to pray.

And then he played nicely...for about three minutes.

Happy Henry Eve

The nap lengthener does NOT guarantee that upon converting a crib into a toddler bed that your child will stay in his or her crib.

I just spent the past hour and a half getting Henry to stay put in his bed for naptime. He loves that he can get into it and out of it at will. First we just tried telling him to stay put and then leaving. Within thirty seconds, I would hear the pitter-patter of feet and the pulling out of toys. Specifically a giant tractor. So I'd go in and tell him to get back into bed. The tractor came with him.

Then I would hear the tractor against his bedroom door. So back into the Pickle's room. I then removed the offending tractor from his room and once again explained that it was nap time and he was to stay in his bed.

Failure.

So then I got my book and hunkered down in his rocker. He stayed put in his bed while I was in the room. But would talk to me and point out all the balls in his room. Then he threw Dog and Dog-Dog on the floor. Then looked at me. I said, "You need to stay in your bed. You're a big boy now. You'll be 2 tomorrow." So he'd lay down, cantilevering over the edge of the bed, and yank Dog and Dog-Dog back onto the bed with him after it was obvious I was going to be no help. After an hour of this, I thought, "Well, he knows the deal. I can get up and clean the house before both sets of grandparents arrive."

Nope. He just waited until he heard the click of his door and Mommy was out of the room to get up. So I went back in and began again. Telling him that he needed to stay in bed. I even laid down next to him in the crib and rubbed his head for awhile. I was confident that this time was going to stick so I waited outside his shut door to listen.

Within 10 seconds, I heard him playing in his drapes. I opened the door and he went "Uh-oh" and immediately ran back to his bed before I could even admonish him.

Which told me that it wasn't a matter of understanding what he was supposed to be doing, just down right rebellion. So I informed him that if he got up from the bed again, I was going to spank him.

He waited a full minute to get out of the bed this time. So, being a Mommy of my word, I went back into his room, armed with my spatula. "Henry, you need to stay in bed. You did not. You disobeyed Mommy. You are going to get a spanking."

"No no no no no."

"Yes, sweet boy. Mommy loves you too much to ignore when you disobey." And so I spanked him. Then held him and told him I loved him and forgave him. We prayed for Jesus to forgive him and to help him stay on the bed and to fall asleep quickly. All the while, Henry is crying and rubbing his eyes. So I decided to do something I haven't gotten to do in awhile. Rock my dear boy to sleep. By the end of the second verse of Amazing Grace, the Pickle was out. And successfully made the transition to the bed without waking up.

I'm thinking that Henry Eve is going to be a long night.

Henry explora obediencia

Dora was a hit!

He wasn't afraid of anything. He clapped, shimmied his shoulders, shook his star. The best part was that he sat in my lap the whole time. Of course, this is because this was the day I discovered he has decided to make up for all of the meals he missed last week with the stomach bug. So he had to sit on my lap to eat his baggie of cheerios, baggie of yogurt melts, baggie of chocolate bunnies, baggie of raisins, and 2 dum dums. Praise God I thought to pack snacks. (Since then he has had to be fed pretty much every 2 hours or there are serious melt downs.) Unfortunately, the Dora show has caused me to be in a perpetual state of singing, "Dora Dora Dora the Explorer!" I'm driving myself crazy. He also enjoyed his Diego doll that we got at the Dora meet and great as well. He sits it on the floor next to him and then shows it all of his trains. Sometimes the trains even use Diego as a hill.

More importantly, though, it should be noted that Saturday afternoon, Henry obeyed me twice! This is HUGE! He now consistently, upon being told to put up his trains, puts his trains in their basket. The rest of the toys, he doesn't touch. I think this may be because the trains just go in a giant open basket on the floor, while the rest of the toys have tubs they go in on shelves. Also on Saturday, he put away his crayons without having to be asked. I find this remarkable. When I told Sloan about it, he commented, "Wow. I don't even pick up after myself without having to be asked." No, Sloan, you do not. I've been meaning to talk to you about this...

Lord, Have Mercy on Me, a Mother

Let me first make the disclaimer that this post is not meant to sound like I'm complaining. I just want to put that out there. I only mean to say I am weary.

Henry has entered toddler-dom. As we slowly approach his second birthday, I will not be so bold as to say he's entered "the terrible twos" (because terrible isn't the right word) it is just that Henry and I are spending a lot of time dealing with wrong and right. And neither of us like it very much. The only perk to causing my son to scream and cry a lot is that it is me he wants to comfort him, and so there are lots of cuddles that follow our-- shall we say-- "boundary lessons."

On the one hand, I'm torn because I'm not quite sure how much of what I'm telling him he actually understands. But then I see how he now knows to fold his hands when we pray before meals, to lift his legs when I'm changing his diaper, to kiss me and then reach for his crib whenever I say, "Night Night, Henry, to "talk" on the phone, and that somehow, he knows where every stinkin' light switch and electrical outlet in our home is. What this tells me is that at some point, me saying "Night Night," kissing him, and then putting him in his crib meant nothing, but that my doing it every night over a period of time taught him that these things go together.

And it is very difficult. Because he does not like being told no. Or having his sippy cup taken away (because he's thrown it at me). Or having to leave the gym (and that one is especially difficult because the people are staring at you like, "Geesh, maybe you oughtta let the kid play a little while longer. And why can't you control your child?!") And sometimes I have to give in, like when we're in a restaurant and I want to keep the table across from me from calling social services because I'm not giving my son his milk. But at home, I have to stand firm. And it is difficult stuff, this molding of people.

For starters, I do not want him to think the world revolves around him, so no, he can't play any longer. I'm his authority figure, so my plan is the one we work around. Will I let him put away a few toys? Sure, but no, we're not staying another 5 minutes. And also, even if he does not want to go home, he can't just go limp as I take his hand, forcing me to either drag his limp body across the Kidz Zone or pick him up at which point he will arch his back, scream and slap my shoulder. Sure, you can chalk some of this up to immaturity and his age, but mostly, he's just being selfish. And unfortunately, you don't outgrow selfishness. So as his Mom, I need to train him to be accommodating. Particularly accommodating to his superiors.

I just finished reading a book called "Shepherding a Child's Heart" which deals with this a lot. Coming from a Biblical perspective, it basically says it is not enough to want kids who do the right thing. Our desire should be that our kids want the right things. That our actions come from our heart, and so shouldn't we be after our kids hearts more than their actions? So we have to get to their motivations. It also operates under the premise that a supple heart is a blessed heart, so if we, as parents, allow our kids to have brittle hearts, we deny them blessing. So I've got to try to get at this little bugger's rebellious, impatient, selfish heart. And I've got to do it lovingly, consistently, gently, and yet, firmly.

All the while, not letting my rebellious, impatient, selfish heart get in the way. I know what it's like to struggle with a hard heart. It gets in the way with so much, so if I can smooth the way for Henry to have a soft heart. I'll do it.

Today was hard. I'm pretty sure I upended no less than 14 minor rebellions. But I'm still a bit of a softie. Tonight, seeing as it is around 14 degrees outside and Sloan is out of town, the little rebel is sleeping with me. So I had to go buy some of those bed railing things. And because he pointed to them and clapped, we are now the proud owner of yet another Thomas train, Duncan.