It Takes Two

Today I'm jamming with Faith Barista on experiencing God in motherhood!

Motherhood brought me to God because it brought me to my knees. 

What I mean is that I could not receive him until motherhood undid "me."

I wish I could say that now that I'm a Christian, Jesus drives my minivan and my mothering, and we mostly hang out doing crafts and praising God. 

Maybe some day.

Until then, one of God's favorite ways to say "This is the way, walk in it" is through my daughter, Liv.

I complain to my husband that she's naughty and contrary with me in a way that she isn't with him, and he just smiles and shakes his head and says, "It takes two."

Last weekend, in the park, she threw an epic tantrum.  I tried everything: reasoning with her, warning her, giving her a spank, and finally delivering the promised end consequence of taking her home early.  I tried these things because these are the things I know to try, just like when they were babies, and I ran through the list of feed/change diaper/swaddle/rock/etc to see what would work to soothe their crying.

Big boss and little boss

Liv was still in hysterics when we got home. My sister took Cody upstairs, and Liv and I sat in the car.  When she calmed down, I sat down with her on the bench of our half-blind, freshly widowed next door neighbor.  We hadn't seen her since her husband died.  She came feeling her way down the stairs just then, as her friend's Prius glided up to whisk her away for an acupunture appointment.  She didn't look surprised to find us in her front yard.

"I'm sorry," I said.  "We're having an emotional meltdown on your bench."

"Oh, it's fine," she said.  "That's what it's for."  Once she got in her friend's car, Liv was ready to talk.

She told me how angry she had been when I made her visit the public restroom and she wanted to pee in the grass, and how sad she had felt when she thought I was throwing crackers at her.  I began to glimpse how hopeless it must feel to have a powerful, domineering force like me bearing down on three-foot-tall you, refusing to take no for an answer, refusing to listen to you even as you fumble through the few handfuls of words you know to try to explain yourself. 

I told her I was sorry for the times when I've made her do things without listening to her. 

She said she'd like to have a do-over, just her and me at the park. 
Then she said, magnanimously, "It's difficult.  Because I'm bossy.  And you're bossy.  We're both bossy."  She thought about it.  Then she said, "We can both be bossy."

"What about those times when I need to be the boss, though, Liv?  Like when we have to get to school?"

She said, "Oh, well those times you can tell me that you need to be the boss.  And then later give me a turn to be the boss."

That was five days ago.  Since then, I have listened to her more.  I had to steamroll right over her agenda twice this morning, once when she wanted her breakfast to be a different shape and once when she wanted to listen to her special song all the way through a second time while we idled in front of the school.  But I listened. 

And because she graciously allowed me to boss her, I promised to make it up to her by joining her in an exciting new activity of her invention called "sad-faced dancing" later tonight. I suspect this will entail closed eyes, a soulful countenence, twirling, and possibly scarves. 

Way more fun than trying to force a kid to pee in the potty.