Some Lessons Teach the Teacher

The little girl walked up to me. Mommy, I accidentally wrote in the book.

Well, Abigail, what does that mean?

She hangs her head, A spanking.

Yes, what book did you write in?

The Apple Strudel Soldier.

A library book.

Why did you write in The Apple Strudel Soldier?

I thought it was a coloring book.

I could tell she was searching for a reason that sounded acceptable. A coloring book is an appropriate place to write. Things were getting out of hand, I had to tackle the “accident” and the writing and if we continued this line of questioning I am sure we would get into lying and other subjects this Monday morning mother wasn't prepared for.

We were sitting face to face--she on the couch, I on the ottoman. She was worrying over the consequences. I wanted to address the disobedience and “tweaking” of the truth.

Abigail, you knew this wasn't a coloring book. It is your favorite library book. We will have to tell Miss Diane when we take it back.

Do I have to have a spanking? She asked tearfully.

Yes, Honey, you have to have a spanking. You know you are not allowed to write in books.

A quiet voice--Ask to see what she wrote.

Abigail, show me where you wrote.

She opened the book to the title page and pointed to a pen mark not a centimeter in length. Eyelashes are longer. The frayed edges of this old book are longer.

Oh, Abby. I can't spank you for this.

Relief covers her face. There will be no spanking.

Mommy, I'm sorry I wrote in the book.

Oh, Sweetheart, I forgive you. I am sorry I scared you, that I was going to spank you without cause. Will you forgive me?

Yes. She replies.

Mommy, I'm sorry I wrote in the book. Will we need to tell Miss Diane?

No, Honey, we won't.

Her eyes give it away. Her body tense beside me gives it away. She isn't convinced. Not of the forgiveness. Not of the love. Not of the relationship damaged in disobedience, but repaired in forgiveness.

To read more please visit A Lettered Legacy.

I'm a Mom

Sometimes my children wipe some sort of slime on my purple sweater and it looks like a snail slid across my chest.
Sometimes I wear that slimed purple sweater into public places, not because I want to be a slob but because the trail is in a place I can't see.

Sometimes my children scream in the grocery store because I won't give them what they want, like cookies.
Sometimes I see the other people looking at the woman with the screaming children, and know they are wishing they could shop in peace. I wish I could shop in peace, too.

Sometimes I want to cuddle on the couch and watch a fun romantic movie with my husband, but the laundry still needs folded.
Sometimes he helps me as we watch the latest reality show, I count it as a date.

Sometimes there is an unidentifiable red splotch on the kitchen floor, but no one sticks to it.
Sometimes I don't mop for a really long time.
Sometimes the red splotch fades away carried in tiny parts on socks.
Sometimes I think that is gross and I mop.
Sometimes I think that is gross and want to mop, but there are books to be read, babies to be fed, and I'm the only one who sees the splotch.

I'm not perfect.

But as you look at this slimed woman with the screaming children who folded laundry into the night and hasn't mopped her kitchen in a while, remember

• she was slimed because she gave a child a hug or comforted a babe,
• she cares more about the character of her children than their momentary happiness,
• she will sacrifice her wants for her family's needs and find the blessing in what she has,
• she is going to chose those books, babies, art, walks, and smiles over the mopping, not everyday but enough for her children to know they are loved,
• she is going to keep a home clean and peaceful enough for her husband to know she loves him.

I am a mom. Perhaps I should tack this to my mirror.

Dreams & Nightmares…and Imagination!

My youngest, Ethan 3, has been experiencing nightmares lately. Not fun.
Last night his crying sent my heart in full panic mode! I rushed to his room to see his arms fully extended waiting for me and I when I got to him he squeezed me so hard and just cried and cried.
“What’s wrong buddy?”
More crying. No answer.
“Ethan why are you crying?”
More crying. No answer.
“Did you have a scary dream?”
Even as his up and down motion of the head confirmed my suspicion, I still do not think he understands what is going on with dreams. So, if he can’t even comprehend (which lets face it, it’s a hard thing for even an adult to understand) it, how can mommy explain it and then fix it?
I dislike nightmares very much. The unconscious mind of children should be a happy place!
I have prayed with him when this happens and that does seem to help. We pray for dreams filled with footballs, puppies playing, racecars, balloons, and pizza!
The one good thing about nightmares in a child is that they are, forgotten by morning. It’s only in adulthood that they stick with you longer! However, I have begun to wonder if those cranky dreams make for a cranky little boy? Hmmmmm? Will I ever know any of these answers?

What is so amazing about the imagination of a child, however, is the pure power of it! Conscious or unconscious, the imagination is a wonderful thing! You cannot tell your child that what they are doing is just “pretend.” When their imagination is working on overtime you better prepare yourself to “step only on the island (carpet) so you won’t sunk” or watch what or who your try to toss in the garbage “NO don’t throw the princess away! (a Kleenex tied with a string!)”

Ethan woke up in the wee hours Thursday morning calling for me. Another nightmare? I didn’t hear fear in his voice. Down the stairs I go and as soon as I reach his room, he begins to tell me all about this really tall and really cool bean stock.
“I think you had a dream buddy!”
He replied very sleepily, “NO it’s real mommy. I will show you.”
“Okay Ethan. Where is it?”
When he didn’t respond I looked down to see that he had fallen back asleep. A few hours later when it was time to ACTUALLY wake up, I had forgotten about the bean stock and I thought he had to.
We were walking out of our front door to take Brenna to school and Ethan stops and looks down our little road. I could not help but notice the very confused look on his face and watched him adjust his head as if to get a better view.
“What do you see Ethan?”
“Mommy!! The bean stock is GONE!” He explains pointing.
“Oh!”
“It was right there on the road mommy. It was really big and tall.”
I waited to see what reason he would come up with for the “disappearance” of the bean stock.
“Some one must have moved it.” He concluded.
Obviously.
As I was loading him in the car, I said, “Maybe the bean stock was just your imagination?”
He looked up at me thought for a minute put on his cutest face managed a little giggle and said, “Yeah, it was just my magination mommy.”
As I closed the car door and went to walk around the car, I glanced back to see his face pressed against the glass and his eyes searching!
I just love imagination!