Have you ever told your kids, "You don't know how good you have it?" I have. So many times that now I don't say it anymore. The last time I said it, my youngest son rolled his eyes so far up into his head, I thought he'd turned into a blind alien. "Moooommmm....." And I'm reminded, once again, how many times I've said that truism. So now I just smugly think it.
Here's another truism I just think: Someday, I'm going to get even. Now, if I said that one aloud, both my sons would collapse in a mountain of crowing entertainment. Yeah. How ya gonna get even Mom? Make us go to Walmart and stand in line for another box of Depends? Make us push the cart for you at the grocery store while you meander down the aisle beside us, popping one, small, aeromatic "butt-bubble" with each shuffling step? Or maybe you'll have us fetch your false teeth after you absent-mindedly wrapped them in your paper napkin at a restaurant and the busboy returned them to the kitchen? What'll it be Mom? What awful thing will you be using as payback for the deplorable way us kids have treated you? I'll think of something.
And I will. In my mind, I promise, I will. Why? Are you a parent? Then you know why. In case you aren't, or it's been too many years to remember, let me give you a fine example of why.
My youngest son has carried on a bloody boxing match with his own temper all his young life, and that's been a long time because he's 15 now. And, of course (as all us parents know) it's not his fault that he's angry. It's my fault. It's Dad's fault. It's the teacher's fault. It's the dog's fault. It's the goldfishes fault. But it's not his fault. Something else causes his uninhibited explosions of unbridled rage.
Yesterday I cleaned the second bathroom in the house. The bathroom used only by my two sons and guests. Once clean, I decided to spruce it up a bit with a few new things from Walmart---a new rug, a few matching towels, a shower curtain, and a toilet lid cover. But I wanted the boys to have their choice of color and theme.
Approaching the oldest son, I pointed a finger at his chest (if I look up to find his face I throw my back out), and said in my most commanding voice, "You have an errand to run." I have to use the voice of Caesar, or I'll hear at least 3 flawless, well-founded reasons why such an errand (and, mind you, he doesn't know what it is yet) is profoundly impossible at this time.
And then I turn to the younger of the two.
"And you, (again, the finger-pointing is vital) go with him."
Sometimes it's not clear how different 2 kids from the same mother can be, but this conversation was one of those opportunities that made it crystal clear.
The oldest (22): Geeze, Mom, I was going to spend some time with Derek." Spoken quietly, reasoningly, into my face.
The younger (15): Geeze, Mom, I just got home from school. I'm hungry. Can't I eat first?" Spoken with a "I-better-give-this-my-best-shot" whine.
"I want you both to go to Walmart and pick up a few things. Here's my charge card and a list."
Oldest: (as he becons his brother, already installed on the sofa with a bowl of Top Ramen) "Okay. C'mon."
Now, here's the up-front-in-your-face difference between the two:
The oldest, fishing for his keys, heads out the door and down the driveway toward his car.
The younger hurls himself off the sofa, pounds into the kitchen, flings the Top Ramen onto the counter (noodles erupting from the cup and baptising the freshly cleaned surface) and heads for the door, shouting, "Can't even eat in peace!"
I, being the oldest and most apt to be in complete control of myself, march to the back door and shout after him, "You're going to clean this mess up when you get home!"
Here, the differences in my angels shows again.
The oldest: Grins at his younger sibling with that "na-na-nana-na" look while climbing into his car.
The youngest: Shouts back at me, "--------- ----" I won't put the expletive here. Hopefully you see what I mean.
At this point, I have a choice. I can draw my head inside the door, shrug my shoulders at my husband, who's standing open-mouthed as a witness to this. Or, I can do what any middle-aged mother with complete self control would do. I shout at the younger one.
"For that, you can find another place to stay tonight! Call a friend!"
Those words were the sound of the soft, mothering, smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom suede gauntlet I've always used with my youngest son as it whacked him squarely across his flippy little mouth. For a split second I felt nothing---well, maybe a bit smug, or a bit satisfied. Then I felt scared.
Never, ever, ever had I said to either of my sons, "Get out." No matter how hard things have been at times, the fight always remained here. This was their safe haven. The place they could say anything and there was forgivness and healing. Today I canned the Sanctuary sign and rolled up the Mommy mat.
While at Walmart, he made phone calls to friends to try to secure a place to bunk for the night. When he got home, I got another taste of my kids differences.
In walks the oldest: "Geeze, Mom, I never knew how expensive a few bathroom accessories could be. Here's your charge card. I picked these up myself. After all, it's my bathroom."
In walks the youngest: Past the table he glides, ignoring (snubbing, as in, "I'm just too upset to eat!") his dinner plate. "Okay everyone," he says, adapting a sickening-sweet, quiet, condecending voice, "Here comes the kid from Hell. You can stop talking about me now."
*SIGH*
After a long shower, he writes down the number where he will be and heads out the door. Only if you've ever "been there" do you realize what an effort it takes not to dash to the door to persuade him to "talk things over." But I didn't. I actually let him go.
NEVER LET THEM SEE YOU SWEAT. I could change that...like many moms. Never let them see you cry.
I called the number where he said he would be to check on him as I said I would. He hadn't arrived yet (even though it had been nearly and hour), andI got to talk to his friend who lives there. Here's how the coversation went.
"Hi there. This is Andrew's mom. Is he there yet?"
"No. Is he supposed to be coming over?"
"I thought you guys made arrangements. Andrew said he's be at your house."
"Oh. Okay. I guess he will be then."
*********pregnant silence*********
"_____________, are you there?"
"Yes. Uhhh....I guess you guys finally decided to make it stick, huh?"
"What?"
"Well, Andrew's told me how many times you guys have kicked him out, but he says he must be stupid because he always comes back to the same house that doesn't want him."
That one sentence changed everything. I closed my conversation and replaced the receiver. I grabbed a Kleenex and dried my face off. My son was at his friend's house for the night, and safe. I went to bed and after crying myself to sleep, I slept soundly.
It's interesting how serene you feel when you realize that you didn't do an injustice to someone else, but that the injustice was done to you. Suddenly, you aren't the bad guy---the meany---the person with the guilty conscience. Suddenly you're the one who can, with all justification, feel vindictive.
And you know, that may work for bosses and co-workers, and brothers and sisters and friends, but not for our children. For most of us moms and dads, vindication isn't an option. For our problem children, we'll resign ourselves to sleepless nights, feelings of confusion, pain and desperation. We'll build strengths we never knew we had. We'll pray for guidance until we sweat blood.
But for many of us, we'll also be drawn closer to our spouse for strength. At times, it will feel as if they're the only lifesaver thrown from the boat of life. We'll make new resolutions about how we look at things. As we get older, so will our kids. And with age, comes wisdom, we hope. Someday, if God is merciful, we'll hear those words, "Mom, Dad, I was wrong and I'm sorry for everything I put you through." AAhhh...those golden words. And maybe, if we're really fortunate, we'll get to bounce our grandbabies on our knee.
But if this all fails to take place, there's always that big RV with the multiple slide-outs. Oh, and retirement in...say, Idaho. Maybe Alaska...or...Vermont....yeah....
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