Fits and Failures

Dear Hildegaard

Dear Hildegaard,

We should be at church right now.

Instead, we are back home on the couch and you are blotchy from crying and out of breath from anger. I seem calm but, inwardly, I am stewing. I have your brother at my breast, and can feel his hot tears against my skin. You want to be held but you also want to push away. It’s complicated. I get it. You settle for the opposite end of the couch. I’m trying not to speak.

My inner monologue is something like: I should be singing right now, saying the Lord’s Prayer, listening to your Dad’s sermon, and taking communion. This hour is my only chance each week to exist without feeling like a hunk of playdough cut into too many pieces, rolling off the kitchen table. You tease me sometimes, when I can’t juggle all the demands at once:

Mom, are you an octopus?

NO! I shout, laughing. I only have TWO arms!

But what if you had eight?

I laugh and respond: But I don’t, do I?

Nevertheless, here we are, the tear-streaked three of us, huddled together under one blanket in our church clothes (you decided to move in closer). Your desire for connection after a meltdown is endearingly obvious, and I am disappointed at how long it takes me to get my frustration in check. Perhaps it is because my own fight or flight gets triggered, and I refuse to take the same deep breaths I preach to you. Or maybe it’s just because I’m sinful and impatient.

I am full of the very same fits and failures you displayed this morning, and the only difference is that I can hide them better than a three-year-old.

Richard kicks at you as he nurses and you rustle around until you find a cozy position on my arm. My body, just like my life, is not my own. I want to pout or maybe even try to cry because it’s probably unhealthy how seldom I cry. Oh Lord, have mercy upon us. Instead, I get up and make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. You eat the entire thing, then fall asleep. You and your brother are both snoring. Of course you are. None of us got any sleep last night - not with the baby waking the entire house up six times.

It all started with a yellow suitcase. We bought an entire set in school-bus yellow because your Dad and I love van Gogh, and we also wanted to be able to pick our luggage out of an airport carousel. You immediately claimed the smallest of the three, filled it with toys, a blanket for Richard, and some snacks. I’m ready to go! you told me later that night, around bedtime. I had to tell you that we had no current trips planned. But for the next few days, every time we went somewhere in the car, you tried to take your suitcase, hoping our trip to get bananas and milk would turn into a full-fledged adventure. This was weeks ago.

Finally, the day came when I told you we were going somewhere overnight, two hours away. You spent the morning re-packing your suitcase, adding more toys for Richard, and your Pooh Bear pillow. I tried to explain that we were going to church first. I told you over and over, but I could tell you were too excited to hear me.

And so, it all seems so obvious now. You were hungry, tired, and ready to go on our trip. So you ran from me, screamed, and smacked around the nursery workers. All pretty basic math. And yet…I am the pastor’s wife. And even if I weren’t, my friends and fellow church family witnessed me unable to control my child. Again. And I am not an Octopus. I cannot chase you - at least not successfully - while holding your brother and all our bags. You, my love, are a wild thing; constantly in motion. Your dad and I live in awe of you, and just want to love you, train you, and channel your energy in the right direction.

But I’m a people-pleaser. And days like this hurt. You did not want to be in the nursery. You did not want to go to Sunday school. You didn’t want to use the potty. You did want to run up and down the aisles during the service. You did want to give every person who said hello the stink eye. I could hardly catch you and get you buckled into your car seat to drive home, let alone interact with other congregants and visitors in any meaningful way. I was curt with the nursery gals, visibly flustered, and angry with you for embarrassing me.

You seem to save up your orneriness for Sundays.

Maybe you and God have cooked up some sort of sanctification bootcamp for me. If so, I am failing miserably.

When people-pleasers have children, they have a choice. They can remain the same and feel constantly anxious, disappointed, and embarrassed. Or, they can change. The more I sat there thinking about what I should be doing at church, the more I realized that it was on me to usher in worship right then and there in our living; for my own tired heart, and for my babies, who were just acting like babies. So I began to sing the Doxology, followed by Be Thou My Vision.

Richard went slack in my arms. I took a breath. You listened, with eyes closed. I switched to Jesus Loves Me, and added a line for you:

Jesus loves me and forgives me too, because he loves me through and through…

You relaxed, too. I know you care about these things. In the moment, when you were melting down, kicking and screaming, it didn’t feel like it. But afterwards, you whispered:

I wish I was better.

My heart broke in half.

Oh, baby. You don’t need to be better. Jesus is better for us.

Am I preaching forgiveness while living out some sort of moralism? Am I heaping shame instead of grace on your baby shoulders? I realize that, so often, your anger is disappointment with yourself. You wanted to do better, but the big feelings overwhelmed you. The tiredness broke down what little self-control a toddler can have. When you had bad days at preschool this year, you always came home and told me exactly who you hit and how many times. Childhood disobedience feels like chaos, but you remember everything. Your little body and heart are already asking: How many times can I sin and still be loved?

As many times as it takes for you to realize that Jesus’ love is a well that never goes dry. But I, too, wonder: How many times can I fail as a Mom and still be loved? Is there enough water to cover my selfish pride? Because I should know better. I should prioritize your feelings over my reputation or comfort. I should be calm and teach you how to self-regulate. I shouldn’t use the curse words I do under my breath and in my head and sometimes out loud. I shouldn’t raise my voice. I should control my tongue when I am angry. I shouldn’t be angry at a child.

I should.

I shouldn’t.

I should.

I’m so tired, little one. But not of you. Never you. I’m tired of failing and forgetting that His love doesn’t run out. I’m tired of being merciless with the failings of others when I have been forgiven of so much. I’m tired of caring more about what other people think than I care about people. I’m exhausted by my unrealistic expectations, and I am sad over my sin.

I wish I was better.

When Daddy gets home from church, we pack up the Bronco and you check to make sure we packed your little yellow suitcase. I pop open the trunk to show you exactly where Dad put it. You are satisfied. We settle into our seats, you with your blanket, your teddy bear named Ed, and a blue water bottle, and you announce:

This is going to be great.

Sometimes His mercies are new in the morning. Sometimes, they are new after a nap.

Oh God, thank you for sending Someone better.

Thank you for loving us, just where we are.