So. Children. They're crazy.
The last four days I have been in perpetual "labor" with no progression. It's frustrating, it's disheartening and it's draining. Then there's the kids. The sick ones.
The ones that have been sick over and over and over again this season.
This week. It's been crazy.
Well, true to form this morning, we either get what I like to call "the side of James we would rather hide in a closet" or "James." This morning we got the former. He was very very angry, and no matter what I did he wouldn't stop being angry.
It all started with a shirt. I gave him two shirts to pick from. He didn't want either, he wanted a shirt that was dirty. Pick your battles right? I chose this one. I said, "No, it's dirty. You can wear one of these." Enter crazy child. He screamed, and yelled, and threw the shirts at me. So what did I do? I left his room.
And I shut the door behind me.
For the next hour and a half James banged on the door, and cried "Mommy, get back here!" and cried, and yelled, and cried, and screamed. What did I do?
I ate breakfast with Jack.
We had a wonderful conversation about dementors and the differences between the Star Wars theme song and the Harry Potter theme song.
It was relaxing, though the background noise of "get my shirt" wasn't all too appealing.
After about an hour of the charade with James, I decided perhaps it was time to try and help him calm down. (No, he hadn't calmed down yet.) I went to his door, and sat down outside of it. I just sat there, and listened to his rantings and ravings. I sat there and listened to him blame me for being mean, and alternating between screaming my name in anger, and pleading for me to listen.
A half hour I sat there, outside his unlocked door, and listened, gently saying his name over and over again. Quietly repeating, "James, I'm right here. Please calm down."
Then I softly knocked.
He stopped crying. I softly knocked again. I would like to say he knocked back, or opened the door, but no, he yelled at me for knocking and continued his fit.
As I sat there saying his name again and again, all while softly knocking, hoping he would open the door and talk to me, I suddenly saw the connection.
How often have I shut my own door and yelled and screamed at God because he wasn't giving me what I wanted? How often have I thrown blessings he wanted to give me back in his face in spite, as if to say, "I don't want your clean clothes. Give me my dirty ones!"
How often am I so upset that I don't hear him gently knocking, and softly saying my name?
Probably more than I'd like to admit. I'd like to hope that time is teaching me to calm down quicker, and look for the light faster. I'd like to hope that.
As we grow older we sometimes act as though we know everything.
My crazy kids are teaching me daily that I don't know a whole heck of a lot.
Or I'm very forgetful.
It takes time, it takes patience, and it takes an indescribable amount of faith to get a good grasp on life, then to move forward with that new understanding.
Eventually the noise fades. Eventually the clarity comes.
It did with James; it just took about two hours.
He did figure it out though.
Children. They're crazy.
But I wouldn't have them any other way.
