Confession: I am terrified of having a two-year-old.
It's not that I'm worried about the "terrible twos" or anything like that. Levi's a pretty mild kid, and I have not yet felt undone by his occasional tantrums (yet . . . ). There's a little bit of stomach-churning over the thought of potty training -- a few days ago he told me in vigorous nods/head-shakes that he never wants to sit on the potty like Mommy and Daddy and he wants to wear a diaper forever (not that he knows what "forever" means) -- but I'm even-keeled enough to recognize that someday he will, in fact, use the potty, and there's no reason to panic, or even to hurry. I have no intention of rushing to a big-boy bed, either, so really there's not too much to be scary in the upcoming year.
It just recently hit me, hard, that I am responsible for turning my children into responsible adults. Now there's a reason to panic, and maybe to hurry! All of the self-doubt that we mothers experience came down in one foul swoop, rendering me completely unable to see how I'm ever going to get from here to there ("here" and "there" both being ambiguous notions of emotional, intellectual, and spiritual development). "It's time to start," I told myself yesterday, and this morning we launched into a semi-structured day of Bible-reading after breakfast, a little "school" time on the couch, a bit of helping Mommy in the kitchen (interspersed with plenty of free play, lest you think I'm suddenly cracking a whip on my toddler).
Then I settled in to read bits of Nancy Wilson's Praise Her in the Gates, hoping for encouragement but instead getting a big dose of "I'll never be able to do this." (Not Nancy's fault, by any means.) Couple that with a 90-minute battle over one bite of meatloaf, and I was out of patience by lunchtime -- and feeling even more inadequate than before.
I wish I could tell you that I spent nap time in prayer, pleading for wisdom and grace to maneuver the rest of the day (not to mention the rest of Levi's childhood). Maybe if I had, dinner time and bedtime wouldn't have been so trying. This motherhood thing -- knowing at every moment that it is my actions and attitudes that shape the happiness of my entire household -- it's so . . . hard. (There has to be a better word. I just can't find it right now.)
Don't get me wrong: we have really good days. Even in the chaos, I am so humbled and grateful that these two little boys are entrusted to me, and not someone else. Toddlerhood, as a whole, has been a joy so far. And I'm not precisely sure why I feel so strongly that, now that he's turning two, I need to be more deliberate and consistent (things I should have been doing already!). Nevertheless, the journey from toddlerhood to manhood that has me all tied up in knots!
It's not that I'm worried about the "terrible twos" or anything like that. Levi's a pretty mild kid, and I have not yet felt undone by his occasional tantrums (yet . . . ). There's a little bit of stomach-churning over the thought of potty training -- a few days ago he told me in vigorous nods/head-shakes that he never wants to sit on the potty like Mommy and Daddy and he wants to wear a diaper forever (not that he knows what "forever" means) -- but I'm even-keeled enough to recognize that someday he will, in fact, use the potty, and there's no reason to panic, or even to hurry. I have no intention of rushing to a big-boy bed, either, so really there's not too much to be scary in the upcoming year.
It just recently hit me, hard, that I am responsible for turning my children into responsible adults. Now there's a reason to panic, and maybe to hurry! All of the self-doubt that we mothers experience came down in one foul swoop, rendering me completely unable to see how I'm ever going to get from here to there ("here" and "there" both being ambiguous notions of emotional, intellectual, and spiritual development). "It's time to start," I told myself yesterday, and this morning we launched into a semi-structured day of Bible-reading after breakfast, a little "school" time on the couch, a bit of helping Mommy in the kitchen (interspersed with plenty of free play, lest you think I'm suddenly cracking a whip on my toddler).
Then I settled in to read bits of Nancy Wilson's Praise Her in the Gates, hoping for encouragement but instead getting a big dose of "I'll never be able to do this." (Not Nancy's fault, by any means.) Couple that with a 90-minute battle over one bite of meatloaf, and I was out of patience by lunchtime -- and feeling even more inadequate than before.
I wish I could tell you that I spent nap time in prayer, pleading for wisdom and grace to maneuver the rest of the day (not to mention the rest of Levi's childhood). Maybe if I had, dinner time and bedtime wouldn't have been so trying. This motherhood thing -- knowing at every moment that it is my actions and attitudes that shape the happiness of my entire household -- it's so . . . hard. (There has to be a better word. I just can't find it right now.)
Don't get me wrong: we have really good days. Even in the chaos, I am so humbled and grateful that these two little boys are entrusted to me, and not someone else. Toddlerhood, as a whole, has been a joy so far. And I'm not precisely sure why I feel so strongly that, now that he's turning two, I need to be more deliberate and consistent (things I should have been doing already!). Nevertheless, the journey from toddlerhood to manhood that has me all tied up in knots!
My precious almost-two-year-old.
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