A few nights ago, my four-year-old threw a temper tantrum the likes of which I've only seen once or twice from him, ever. He screamed until his voice was hoarse, until he was no longer making any sense at all, until all he had left was huge, hiccuping sobs. At first I thought he just needed space to calm down, so I took a few minutes to settle my two-year-old, a quick book he'd been clamoring for me to read and then an episode of Thomas the Train.
I spent the better part of twenty minutes sitting behind Levi on his bed, arms wrapped tight around his little shaking body, whispering nothing of importance while he alternately screamed and cried and tried to explain why he was upset. His disobedience had been the original catalyst, but we were long past the point of any effective discipline, and the only thing to do was build the fences for him, to put up the boundaries around his emotions that his fledgling self-control couldn't yet construct.
Though exhausting and a bit overwhelming, it felt like the good work of motherhood, to work him through that tantrum. More important than the cooking or the cleaning or the laundry, to be there to hold tight and process and, ultimately, win the battle (at least, this battle!) for his sweet spirit, I felt -- well, victorious. The tantrum ended, he didn't get what he wanted through those means, and peace was restored to the household. Lessons learned.
So it was quite startling to open my garage door the next morning to find the matriarch of my many-peopled neighbor's house standing in her front yard in her pajamas, on her cell phone, screaming with the same intensity and abandon Levi had the previous night -- only, far from his nonsensical hysteria, her message was quite clear: come and take this [insert shocking obscenities] kid off my hands or I'll bury him. This kid, probably ten-ish years old, the youngest of her ten children, was also in the front yard, also in his pajamas, listening to every word his mama said. Thinking about it now, I still feel sick.
It's not like this is the first time something like this has happened. The police get called (by whom, I'm not sure) at least two or three times a month, to intervene in some sort of brotherly squabble (of the ten, only one is a girl, though she's not any meeker than her brothers). If we happen to be outside, even on the back deck where we can hear but not necessarily see, I usher my littles inside, unwilling to expose them to the language or even to the tone of voice.
And it's not like Kevin is untouched by the dysfunction he lives in. He spent most of late spring wandering around the neighborhood, unsupervised and un-cared for, having been expelled for the last several weeks of school. He and his next two closest siblings (in age) run unheeded through our yard, sometimes throwing things onto the deck, on one instance destroying toys out on the deck, physically fighting on our front lawn. It's extremely likely that, this fateful morning, his mother was provoked, and we all know how easy it is to be provoked to anger by our children. (Not that her level of anger would ever be appropriate for anyone, ever.)
But for whatever reason -- seeing a fellow mother act like my four-year-old in his worst moments, or our pastor's very recent encouragement to make a difference in the lives of our non-believing neighbors, or how delighted I've been to take up schooling and experience my children's experiences lately -- for whatever reason, that morning, instead of turning immediately to protect my own kids, my heart broke for hers.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I asked Levi if he'd heard the lady screaming outside. He said yes, so I explained that our neighbors were having trouble loving each other the way God wants us to. I suggested maybe we should pray for them, and as always, he said we should do it "right now." I cried as I prayed, feeling like I was doing about the only thing I could do to help.
I don't know how to love them. They see how I love my children -- they must, or they wouldn't congregate around my toddlers so often -- but I don't know how it will make a difference. I've thought about having cookies waiting for them after school on Fridays, or hosting a cul-de-sac party to get to know them better, or taking over a "welcome to the neighborhood" treat (three years late) and maybe finally learning the woman's name, but the demands within my own family (and my extraordinary fear of meeting new people) always seem to win out. I want to protest that this season of life is so tricky, but I know that the truth is, I've never been the sort to reach out first, and for that, I feel ashamed.
So that's what's on my heart this week. The three youngest kids in a big family in a big house at the end of the street. I don't think I've ever come face-to-face with such brokenness before. It is raw, and startling, and painful. I think of holding my own screaming child, with such confidence that he will learn how to face life without such anger, and I wonder who's going to hold that mama until she can hold her own children.
I spent the better part of twenty minutes sitting behind Levi on his bed, arms wrapped tight around his little shaking body, whispering nothing of importance while he alternately screamed and cried and tried to explain why he was upset. His disobedience had been the original catalyst, but we were long past the point of any effective discipline, and the only thing to do was build the fences for him, to put up the boundaries around his emotions that his fledgling self-control couldn't yet construct.
Though exhausting and a bit overwhelming, it felt like the good work of motherhood, to work him through that tantrum. More important than the cooking or the cleaning or the laundry, to be there to hold tight and process and, ultimately, win the battle (at least, this battle!) for his sweet spirit, I felt -- well, victorious. The tantrum ended, he didn't get what he wanted through those means, and peace was restored to the household. Lessons learned.
So it was quite startling to open my garage door the next morning to find the matriarch of my many-peopled neighbor's house standing in her front yard in her pajamas, on her cell phone, screaming with the same intensity and abandon Levi had the previous night -- only, far from his nonsensical hysteria, her message was quite clear: come and take this [insert shocking obscenities] kid off my hands or I'll bury him. This kid, probably ten-ish years old, the youngest of her ten children, was also in the front yard, also in his pajamas, listening to every word his mama said. Thinking about it now, I still feel sick.
It's not like this is the first time something like this has happened. The police get called (by whom, I'm not sure) at least two or three times a month, to intervene in some sort of brotherly squabble (of the ten, only one is a girl, though she's not any meeker than her brothers). If we happen to be outside, even on the back deck where we can hear but not necessarily see, I usher my littles inside, unwilling to expose them to the language or even to the tone of voice.
And it's not like Kevin is untouched by the dysfunction he lives in. He spent most of late spring wandering around the neighborhood, unsupervised and un-cared for, having been expelled for the last several weeks of school. He and his next two closest siblings (in age) run unheeded through our yard, sometimes throwing things onto the deck, on one instance destroying toys out on the deck, physically fighting on our front lawn. It's extremely likely that, this fateful morning, his mother was provoked, and we all know how easy it is to be provoked to anger by our children. (Not that her level of anger would ever be appropriate for anyone, ever.)
But for whatever reason -- seeing a fellow mother act like my four-year-old in his worst moments, or our pastor's very recent encouragement to make a difference in the lives of our non-believing neighbors, or how delighted I've been to take up schooling and experience my children's experiences lately -- for whatever reason, that morning, instead of turning immediately to protect my own kids, my heart broke for hers.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I asked Levi if he'd heard the lady screaming outside. He said yes, so I explained that our neighbors were having trouble loving each other the way God wants us to. I suggested maybe we should pray for them, and as always, he said we should do it "right now." I cried as I prayed, feeling like I was doing about the only thing I could do to help.
I don't know how to love them. They see how I love my children -- they must, or they wouldn't congregate around my toddlers so often -- but I don't know how it will make a difference. I've thought about having cookies waiting for them after school on Fridays, or hosting a cul-de-sac party to get to know them better, or taking over a "welcome to the neighborhood" treat (three years late) and maybe finally learning the woman's name, but the demands within my own family (and my extraordinary fear of meeting new people) always seem to win out. I want to protest that this season of life is so tricky, but I know that the truth is, I've never been the sort to reach out first, and for that, I feel ashamed.
So that's what's on my heart this week. The three youngest kids in a big family in a big house at the end of the street. I don't think I've ever come face-to-face with such brokenness before. It is raw, and startling, and painful. I think of holding my own screaming child, with such confidence that he will learn how to face life without such anger, and I wonder who's going to hold that mama until she can hold her own children.
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