There are days when this mothering gig gets the best of me.
Days when I’m exhausted from dealing with the same issue. Again.
Days when I wish I could telepathically communicate that which I’ve learned, from mistakes I’ve made. So that she doesn’t have to repeat them.
Days when–more than anything else–I’d love to seal her up in a giant bubble. For safe keeping.
Days when I ache to impart to her the knowledge that I am obstinate only because she is more cherished than the most antique family heirloom. More important than any health care bill. More precious than every diamond in every little blue box that ever was. Ever.
But those things? Those things don’t always come across. She sees something far different.
She sees rules. Hard and fast ones. Arbitrary ones.
Only these ones aren’t.
At least not without consequence.
And believe you me that the consequences I’ve got on the table are so much less permanent than the ones I’m trying to protect her from.
You know how when you were young and you got daddy’s belt or grandma’s flyswatter, or mom’s wooden spoon and each time they said, “this hurts me more than it does you?”
I didn’t believe it then.
Because it hurt.
But they were right.
Because it hurts much more on the other side.
And I’m not talking wooden spoons here.
Yeah. There are days when this mothering gig gets the best of me.
Days when I wish I could hand it all over.
Days when I wish I could admit that I’m doing my best, but I fear it isn’t good enough.
Days when I’d give anything in exchange for “the answer”.
Days when I wish there was someone who understood.
And then it occurs to me that someone does.
So I hit my knees. And I let it all out. And I ask, “to where shall I go?”
And then I wait.
And eventually, I feel better. If only a little.
And then I remind myself that going to Him should have been my first response. Not my last resort.
Maybe someday I’ll learn.
Maybe someday she will too.