My first child was born with a bit of an old
soul. It isn’t that he’s especially wise
or mature. He just doesn’t often have
that childlike fascination with the little things that’s usually so common in
youngsters his age. I wouldn’t necessarily
call him pessimistic. He’s not a “the glass is half-empty” kind of person. He’s more like a “the glass is definitely half-full, but still, there’s not nearly enough
lemonade in there for me.”
My second child, on the other hand, replaced her
glass with a sparkly pink plastic cup that has a rhinestone peace sign on it. Then, she shoved the cup deep under her bed,
along with all the other things she’s currently hoarding. If she ever does fish that cup out, she will
probably decide to fill it with a dozen filthy rocks or a hundred tiny buttons
or, most likely, as many rainbow Skittles as she can find, which she will
refuse to share or throw away for the next eleven months.
Now my husband . . . his glass is eternally
full. His glass is filled to the brim
with the mouthwatering beverage of his choice, and nothing is going to stand in
his way of enjoying every last drop. In
fact, even if the glass isn’t filled with his favorite beverage, he will still
find it satisfying. He will smile when
he’s finished drinking as if all is right in the world, the way it usually is
and will continue to be. (Lest you be
tempted to think my husband is utterly perfect, please note that nine times out
of ten he will leave his glass sitting on the kitchen table for someone else,
aka his wife, to deal with.)
As for me?
Well, my main concern with any glass is drinking whatever liquid is
inside of it as quickly as possible so I can put said glass in the dishwasher,
where it can no longer clutter my kitchen, my mind, and my life. People don’t
usually call me a “glass half-empty” or a “glass half-full” kind of
person. They typically just call me
crazy.
It’s strange . . . when I read what I’ve written
about my daughter and husband, I can’t help but smile. It’s so clear that there is great beauty and
worth and uniqueness in each of them.
Adam
is wonderful and I couldn’t possibly live without him. He doesn’t worry nearly enough about anything
and I could do without the middle of the night snoring, but I find it rather obvious
that God provided exactly what I needed in a life partner when he brought Adam
and I together.
And Libby . . . well, she’s nothing
like I expected my daughter to be. She’s
strong and stubborn and sure of herself and very, very messy. She has the worst taste on the planet when it
comes to clothing and accessories and I’m quite worried she won’t grow out of
it, but she’s bold and funny and extremely decisive. She has qualities I know will serve her well
down the road, even if she never does grasp the concept of color
coordination.
When I read what I’ve
written about my son, however, my heart aches just a little. You see, for so long, I only appreciated my son’s
qualities, probably because they made life easier for me. A mother values self-control and following
rules and perfectionism and a desire to please others when she has young
children. Trust me, I was all about Charlie
being who he was created to be when he was sitting silently in a grocery cart
at the age of three while the toddler one aisle over was throwing boxes of
hamburger helper on the floor and screaming at the top of his lungs. As Charlie gets older, however, sometimes I find
myself wishing he was . . . different.
Ugh. You
know that awful feeling you have when you walk into an enormous spider web? Your whole body starts doing the convulsion
dance as you try to wiggle off the disbelief and disgust. Yep.
I’m boogying right now.
Uncontrollable shaking from head to toe as I cringe at my own words – blatant
evidence that I want my child to be someone he isn’t.
We’re not supposed to do that. Parents, I mean. We aren’t supposed to want our children to be
different. Deep down in my heart, where
decency and loyalty lie buried under all my wayward desires, I’m aware of the
fact that God created my son to be exactly who he is. I shouldn’t want him to change, and yet, sometimes
I do. Those wayward desires remain right
there at the surface, driving relentless thoughts of alteration where there
should be acceptance.
As a mother, I believe my job has always
involved a great deal of guidance when it comes to behavior. From the beginning, my role demanded I lead
my children towards positive change on many occasions. When seven month old Charlie was still waking
up in the middle of the night to nurse, I had to initiate change, so I sent his
father to help him back to sleep (no mom = no milk). When toddler Charlie wanted to run across a
busy parking lot by himself, I had to initiate change, so I took his little
hand in mine and explained why we must walk together. Even now, Charlie is halfway to college, and I
still attempt to influence his behavior on a daily basis.
“Please change your tone of voice.”
“Please change your attitude.”
“PLEASE CHANGE OUT OF THOSE DIRTY BASEBALL PANTS
BEFORE YOU EVEN THINK OF GOING NEAR THAT BRAND NEW COUCH YOUNG MAN!”
Ewwww, yuck.
I think I just walked through another spider web.
Although I frequently encourage my son to change
his clothes, his manners, his choice of words, and his actions, I’m not actually trying to
transform the very core of who he is . . .
Am I?
When Charlie tells me that he doesn’t want to do
something, and I say, “Of course you do.
Come on, you’ll love it,” am I not telling him he can’t make his own
decisions? When he informs me he doesn’t
like something and I say, “But it’s so much fun,” am I not telling him his
opinions aren’t valid? When Charlie tells me he spent recess talking
about video games with a friend, and I say, “Wouldn’t you rather play
basketball?” am I not telling him he makes poor choices? When he requests a specific item at the store
and I say, “I think you should get this instead,” am I not telling him he shouldn’t
trust his own instincts? And when I
voice concerns that Charlie is too serious, too cautious, too hard on himself, too concerned
with outcomes, am I not telling my son he isn’t right? That he’s not what
I wanted? Am I not suggesting that God must
have gotten it all wrong?
Remarkable, isn’t it. Little ole’ me doubting the creator of the
universe. How bold. How brazen.
How preposterous.
Seriously, would I question the amount of purple paint Van Gogh used to create his 'Irises' painting in 1889?
Would I question the way Gehry designed the Guggenheim Museum?
How about Beethoven – would I question his decision to create the ninth symphony with Ode to Joy as the finale instead of just stopping at eight?
Charlie is a serious kid. He's cautious. He’s extremely hard on himself. He worries a lot about outcomes. Sometimes, he wants to do things I don’t
think he should. Sometimes, he doesn’t
want to do things I highly recommend.
Sometimes, do you believe the nerve of this kid, he even has the
audacity to complain that there is not enough lemonade in his glass.
When Charlie is so serious and so cautious and so hard on
himself and such a worrier, I shake my head, and I sigh a sad little sigh, and a
silent voice inside my head says, “I wish my son was silly and spontaneous and
giggly. I wish he would throw himself in
the mix and act a little nuts and be more aggressive. I wish he would break a few rules and care
less about what others think and enjoy the ride instead of obsessing over the
finished product. I wish he would throw a few boxes of hamburger helper on the
floor and scream at the top of his lungs in the middle of Publix." Wait, I
take that back – I’m SO glad he never did that.
Still, I can’t deny it.
Sometimes, that voice in my head speaks the ultimate betrayal.
“I wish my son was different.”
And then, from out of the blue, the voice of
truth whispers back.
“I made Charlie in my image. He is mine and he is perfect.”
Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’ is valued at over one
hundred million dollars. The Guggenheim
Museum is considered the most significant work of architecture from the last
three decades. Beethoven is known as one
of the most influential composers in the history of the world.
And God . . .
GOD DOES NOT MAKE MISTAKES. He is never wrong. So how can I possibly argue with him in such
a way to suggest that my own son needs a personality adjustment? Charlie is exactly who he’s supposed to
be. Sure, I’ll have to encourage him to
change his behaviors now and again. Of
course he’ll change in size and stature and intelligence. He’ll change friends and jobs and locations
through the years. His hair will change
and his clothes will change and his voice will change and he will change his
mind about everything under the sun. But
I cannot change who God created him to be.
Charlie is anxious and cautious and serious and hard on himself and a worrier and too
much like me and . . . he is perfect.
God does not make mistakes.
