(I must apologize from the start that my first post after a little bit of an absence from the blogger world is kind of a downer. Things haven't been all gloomy. It was just this one morning when things welled up and writing helps a bit. I also realize that the tone is a bit self indulgent and wordy, but that is therapeutic for me too. Thanks for bearing with me. If you want to have fun with it, try reading it in a British accent.)We were afflicted with more snow again this last week. So the day began with the battle of the boots. And the scarf scuffle. These fantastically become the most paramount issues of the moment as I am trying to get out the door to get the boys to school on time.
It all degenerates to screaming and tears. "I don't want to wear my boots (or scarf) to school. They're stupid. The kids will laugh at me." And it continues to the car. We drive along in wet eyed brooding silence that the radio offends. When we finally reached the school, Lemur wouldn't even get out of the car until we found a way he could abandon the scarf. He just couldn't bring himself to step out into view, the humiliation was so overwhelming.
He would let me ground him, beat him, toss him to the dogs before he would let me make him get out of the car wearing that scarf right then.
I ask to be given one specific article of clothing they've every been laughed at for wearing. There is none. I wonder if they have even ever seen someone laughed at for something an embarrassing article of clothing. There is teasing at school I have no doubt, but our kids have never felt the pressures to wear certain types of clothes. We never shop brand names and it's never been an issue. They just get stuff from Wal-Mart and they wear what they like. And I think that is more to the issue---personal likes and dislikes. And they dislikes those winter clothes.
It's so hard and frustrating as a parent. Life has taught me that there is an apatite in the human soul that is as desperate to be filled as the one in the physical stomach. The sustenance it seeks is encouragement, satisfaction, appreciation, inspiration, validation and unconditional love. It has to know that it's been held to a standard and that it has achieved success. This gives the soul strength. But it also has to know that there is an unconditional safety net there for when it falls or it will never dare take chances for growth.
This reservoir of self must be filled continuously. But it can also be depleted. Kindness and Respect are as fragrant and filling as a well baked apple pie. When tended properly, this part of us can become a wonderful cupboard of bounty, freely and happily giving it's contents back to the world in a never ending stream of generosity. Seeming to have more the more it gives away.
But harsh words and criticism can poison the food, even as it sits in the stomach. With enough poison, like in the physical, there comes an involuntary expulsion. And like vomit in a crowded room, those with weaker constitutions who witness this purge would only do likewise. There are times when I have spewed my own anger and frustration, typically on those I cared about most, while simultaneously looking on in disgust at who I was at that moment. My Jeckel horrified at my Hyde, but equally powerless to stop him.
On mornings like this morning, all these things come into play. And I feel the depths of my parental limitations.
Through fortune or providence, my children have come into my life testing their need against my capacity in an ever increasing gradiant of challenge. My first, my daughter, is so like me that I have no problem understanding her or being understood. She seems ever filled with light, as well as receptive and responsive to my guidance and wisdom. But with the blessing of each new child came a new set of variables that would force me to relearn my role as parent from scratch each and every time.
With my first boy I began to feel the burn, and doubt my capabilities. He has a sense of style and holds himself in a way that is the epitome of cool. People are drawn to him. The young ladies have begun to notice him (even while he hasn't entirely noticed them noticing him). He's athletic and drawn to all things that seem to have an alarming correlation to those things for which I have no skill or in which I take no pleasure. But, thankfully he also has a soft heart that can generously encompass those who could be judged as "less cool" than him. I have yet to see him turn someone away on sight. This quality is evident when you look at the grouping of friends around him ---but it's equally apparent that this grace includes his father.
And he doesn't express this quality out of pity or a sense of philanthropy. In fact, I'm quite sure that most times he doesn't even realize that he's doing it. This is my saving grace. He has such an powerful desire to be with his dad that my shortcomings seem invisible to him. He doesn't see a wobbly pass or a camping partner shivering in discomfort---he just sees dad. But his limits are not endless, and there are times of discipline that he is as horrified to look over and see me on the opposite side of the line as I am to see him on his side.
With my third, my second boy, I begin to feel the strain. When I found out that we were going to have a third, I wept, as I had every time I learned we were going to have a child. I was always so overwhelmed by the fear that I would be insufficient to give these beautiful new little people everything they needed from a father. Now with Lemur I seem to feel those fears come to fruition.
Not that he's a bad kid. I would be the first adversary to anyone of that opinion. He is such a beautiful spirit, so capable of love and kindness and laughter. Such a friend to his baby brother, and so eager to meet life head on and breath deep everything the universe has to offer. Amazingly innately physical. He inspires me just to watch him. But there are also times that I'm am acutely, painfully aware that his reservoir seems rarely full, and I find my best efforts incapable of remedy. He gets just as much love and attention as any of our kids, but it would seem that while some reservoirs are made of glass or metal, holding their contents fast, other's are more permeable, made of a fabric and subject to tremendous seepage. They have to be filled faster than they leak and I can't seem to fill fast enough.
When a situation hits the sensitivity of this deficit, I see frustration well up in him like a suffocating flood. An irrepressible wave that comes over him and sucks him under, battering him like a rag doll. Then his anger flows from every pore, but his eyes look back at you desperate for rescue. Save me from myself. And even though my arms and legs have become lead, I wade out to meet him. I have to. What else can I do. I'm his father. But the further I wade, the more I feel myself drowning with him.
If this gift of a little boy was given to me to draw me closer to God, it's working. I do find myself compelled to pray more. I feel foolish when I do this as a last resort, so I've begun to pray pre-emptively. At night I tuck him in and hold him, and pray. I hold him tightly hoping that somehow there might be some spiritual osmosis that occurs to help him find his footing. I refuse to stand by and simply let him slip away. The desperation of my love for him won't allow it.
I feel like maybe I understand God more because of this little guy, too. Nothing he does can decrease my love for him, or dampen it's intensity. But I can't be satisfied with less than the best for him. Yet, the form that the best will take needs to tailored specifically for this little man, and for him alone. One size fits all will only make him appear like a orphaned begger boy in his father's clothes.
I know I haven't really mentioned it here, but this year has been a very personal spiritual journey for me in many ways. It has been a lot about realizing that finding what I'm looking for comes in a way not realized entirely from the shotgun blast of a preachers pulpit, or popular bumper sticker brand Christianity. But in a funny way it seems like every insufficiency the world offers just provides more room for the transcendent.
And now I have a little mister number four. He's only three I'm still trying to figure out who he is inside. And if I'll be enough. I suppose I'll find out sooner that I think. Just have to remember to seek my source to be the strength in my weakness.
Perhaps I'm too dramatic. Perhaps I think in too many words. But what ever it is, it doesn't take much to melt it back to contentment. In fact, it usually happens seconds after I walk through the door at night. Three little dudes look up from whatever their doing and rush in. They stampede in with a whoop and a holler and wrap me up; one at the knees, one around my chest, and one on my back, over my shoulder from a sofa launch pad.
And it's then that I think that maybe, if we have that kind of thing going on, maybe things will just turn out all right.
