Mommy in the Mirror

People will tell you all sorts of things that are hard about having kids, and they're probably all true. I can tell you from firsthand experience that they weren't kidding when they said being a parent is the hardest job in the world (granted, I haven't tried coal mining or astrophysics, but I stand by my point). But here's one thing that they don't talk about a lot, one that really gets me: kids are such good little mirrors. Yes, grace will show up from time to time and let me see that my kids have somehow caught a bit of compassion, or generosity, or some talent that I might also be able to claim. But almost daily, my beloved little sinners show me just what a monumental screw-up their mommy is.

I go to put away pajamas in my 7-year-old Natalie's drawer, and the thing is just utter chaos. Nevermind that I will have just taken the time two days ago to carefully fold each item and place it with like items in neat little stacks-- it is now an inside-out, crumpled jumble of pajamas and whatever non-like items that have made their way in. I will curse the disorderly child under my breath, or if she's around, I will yell dramatically about what a shitty job she's done of keeping together my perfect drawer. But then I go to my own pajama drawer. And wouldn't you know, it barely shuts because on top of neat little stacks of like items is a jumbled mess of inside-out pajamas. And Bad Mommy sees that Natalie is a tiny, slovenly version of herself. I hate that I have this crazy messiness gene, which clearly I have passed on, because it's not just a pajama drawer. It's life. I try to organize and stack, to arrange and make neat, but the truth is that my life is messy because my heart is messy, and I have a sneaking suspicion that Natalie's will be too.

Now, my 5-year-old Mia-- her drawers are neat, her p.j.'s are folded; I have to hand it to her, the child is organized. But I catch her being mean, really just ugly-mean, not caring at all whether her words tear down and her actions lash out, going for the kill. I'll try to talk to her about kindness and loving her neighbor, but she's far more interested in her own agenda and self-righteousness. And I look at her and marvel that such a sweet child can turn so rotten so quickly. But I have this idea that there are no bad kids, only bad parents. And when I'm in the middle of a fight with the man I've promised to love and honor for my whole life, when I'm screaming at him that he's such an asshole, I see it. I see Bad Mommy wrapped up in herself and stuck on her own point of view without a care for her opponent. I hate that I have this ability to wound and that I use it so well on the ones I love most, and I hate that my daughter has learned hate from me.

Then there's my 10-year-old Luke. This boy seriously, seriously loves his online wizard game. He will use all his spending money to buy "crowns" to advance his characters, and if we didn't impose strict time limits, I have no doubt he'd stay on the computer all day and night, neglecting homework, friends, and food. I'll try to talk to him while he's playing, and he won't hear me the first four or five times. When I finally break through the computer screen eye-lock, I will invariably be met with an extremely put-out growl. He is quite happily obsessed and I truly don't think he'd miss an outside life if we'd let him stay in his computer world. And of course, this horrifies me because it's one thing to have a computer geek for a son, but it's another thing entirely to have an addict. But when he's on there and his time is almost up and I start reminding him to hurry up and get to a saving spot, Bad Mommy starts to get frantic inside my head, rivaling the most desperate coke addict, screaming, "Come on! You need to starve your addiction so I can feed mine!" Because I need my addictions too. I need them to make me feel happy, comfortable, or important. And I will all but knock my child off the desk chair to feed them.

And there are plenty more. I could make a twenty-three-page list of all the ways I have managed to weave my ugliness into my beautiful children, but I don't know that I could bear it. Because as painful as it is to see my own sin, it is all the more painful to see it in them. But that grace that I mentioned, the one that sometimes lets me see some goodness that has rubbed off, it also lets me see something beautiful amidst the ugly reflection-- it lets me see God.

A friend once said through tears that she liked to watch her children sleep and think that God looked on her with the same tender love she felt for them. And I do think that is one of the greatest blessings of being a parent-- we get the tiniest clue about how God feels about us.

When Luke was about two or three I took him to the mall playground. He had climbed up onto the head of a foam alligator, about three feet off the ground. He was playing sweetly, and then this kid started to sort of mess with him a little. I watched carefully from the bench several feet away, to see what Luke would do. He kept on trying to play, but he was obviously bothered by this other kid and unsure how to handle him. I normally like kids a lot, but this one was an honest-to-goodness little shit. He climbed up the alligator's back, and I saw the shove coming-- he was about to knock my little boy off. I bolted from the bench and hurdled a foam turtle, yelling, "Do not touch my son!" I got to Luke just in time.

And I feel like God does this with me all the time. He lets all my sin poke at me and make me uncomfortable and He watches to see what I'll do. I try to ignore it, or I try to deal with it or make it go away, but I'm never very successful. And when it's about to knock me on my ass, when I just don't feel like there's any way I'll be able to go on or overcome, God dashes over just in time. He catches me with hope and with love.

So when I see my kids mirroring my sin, yes, I can try to change myself and I can try to help them change, but I think the biggest thing, the best thing I can do for us is to just point away from the mirror and over to the bench.