I think it’s important that children see their parents apologizing to them, admitting they were wrong or out of line. I can still remember numerous times as a child when my mom or dad would come to me, one-on-one, and ask for my forgiveness. One time when I was in the third grade, my dad drove all the way to my elementary school, had me pulled out in the middle of my spelling lesson, and hugged me in the hallway there outside my classroom after he told me he was sorry for yelling at me that morning at breakfast. (I didn’t even remember what it was about, even then). But it’s always stuck with me that apologizing was something he felt that just couldn’t wait sometimes.
I think it’s so important that my kids have the act of apologizing modeled to them, that I have decided to take upon myself the arduous task of yelling at them and losing my patience, just so I can apologize to them and they can see how it’s done. Again. For the eleventh time since they got out of bed that morning. I think they’re going to be really good apologizers one day.
Right now, I can pull the pregnancy card and blame it all on the raging hormones, but the truth is, I struggle with a chronically short fuse, even when I’m not pregnant. I could beat myself up for the many times I lost my patience (and I still do that plenty), but lately, the best I can do is focus on the fact that my kids- Ella especially- understand that mommy is human. Mommy has a breaking point. But mommy will hopefully always admit when she was wrong, no matter how hard it is.
One evening this week, I found myself negotiating my way with Ella up the stairs to take her to bed, once again. It had been one of THOSE evenings. She was crumpled on the bottom step, begging for me to carry her up. I was feeling sick and my belly was sore, and I was in no mood to honor her request. But instead of explaining this to her calmly, collectedly, I snapped. More wails and tears followed and only by an act of God Himself, we made it up the stairs into her room where I collapsed beside her on her bed. We laid there for a few minutes, both of us whimpering.
Then came the inevitable waves of guilt. How many times had I snapped already that day? Five? Six? Probably more. I knew it was time, once again, to tell her I was sorry, that I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way. To explain to her for the hundredth time, that I just didn’t feel very good, but that it was still no excuse to lose my patience (this, by the way, has been my most frequently-used apology since becoming pregnant. And while it’s always sincere, I fear my kids might know it verbatim by now).
She looked over at me then, and said, “I get worried, mommy. Your belly is getting bigger and you won’t ever be able to hold me again. And who will hold me if you’re holding this baby and Daddy will be holding Mi-yo?”
Daggers.
Of course. OF COURSE. In those painstakingly long moments at the bottom of the stairs, I had observed my 4 yr old pulling out yet another stall tactic to get under my skin. But just then, in that moment lying on her bed, I saw my big girl who was unsure of being the big girl, wary of the future and this new baby- in spite of her excitement. I had been so absorbed in this growing-another-human-being thing, that I hadn’t stopped to consider that her acting out was more than just that.
That night, we laid in her bed and talked for a half hour- talked about the baby and how big my belly would get, about her new class at school, what she wanted to make for breakfast the next day, and all kinds of random things, like how the stars outside look so close, but we can’t touch them. And also, do princesses have night-lights in their castles too? Right now, her thoughts are a 50/50 mix of preschooler and old-soul, and I realized, it really must be exhausting to be four. Possibly even more exhausting than it is to be the mommy of someone who is four. I promised her that I would never, ever make her feel bad for asking me to hold her, ever again. I said that I would find a way- no matter how big my belly gets, or how crap-tastic I feel. Because I know what she doesn’t: that one day all too soon, she’ll be too big for me to carry, and too grown-up to want me to. And there will always be a part of me that will be a little bit sad about that.
But for now, I’m thankful that day isn’t today, or even tomorrow. Today, there might be at least a half dozen times when I might need to apologize. But I also know there will be at least that many times- if not more- when my kids will wrap their arms around my neck and their legs around my ever-expanding waist, and love me. Short fuse and all.
And that, is how my kids are teaching me grace.
The Bug, the Bean {&the Bump} 