Look Up

I’d forgotten what it was like to be a child.

I’m sure that is not hard to imagine, and if you’re over the age of seventeen you can relate to that notion as well. It has taken me over a year to adjust to this space and I’d be lying if I said that I could remember our first few days together, as a family of three with vivid accuracy.

I wish I could recall more and maybe one day I will, but being in that fight or flight—coming off a high-risk, bedridden, and traumatic end to a pregnancy only to lead into toddlerhood—Well, it was kind of like being on a roller coaster in your driveway while your family and friends had a party in your house.

You were there, but you just couldn’t stop spinning long enough to soak it in.  

I’ve found lately that the parallels between boyhood and motherhood are grasping, palpable.

Boyhood is falling, failing, learning, scraping knees, and being brave enough to cry and do it all over again until you understand how to run on your own.

Motherhood is the same.

The quirks and squirms, selective hearing (not sure if that ever goes away), and that constant curiosity that collides with pushing limits—let’s see what I can get away with today. Let’s see if I’m as tall and strong as I think I am, who will catch me if I misstep?

Boyhood and motherhood. We are learning together, my dear boy.

Discipline is a strange territory of motherhood and boyhood.

We want freedom and growth, independence and security, stability and recklessness.

I was reminded of all these intricacies last week.

Our sweet two, very close to three-year-old miracle boy was pushing limits, and buttons. Between scaring the dog, coloring on walls, and slamming doors all while running a low-grade fever—nothing would entertain or satisfy his curiosity and restlessness.

Our timeout carpet got more action than I have in the last week (sorry, Kyle), and we were all hitting our limits. As I would explain rules and boundaries and warn of the timeout carpet, I would notice his selective hearing kick in.

 My boy, my explorer, my sweet miracle—he would flat out ignore me. If he wasn’t pretending to not hear me or just dismiss my commands, he wouldn’t even make eye contact with me and he would barely turn his face to meet mine. A lot of my directions and rules were rooted in safety.

No, my baby. We don’t jump off the back of the sofa.

No, my son. We can’t stick Buzz Lightyear in the oven.

No, Buddy. The dog doesn’t like to be ridden like a pony and she really doesn’t like it when you “tickle” her eyes.

All my no’s were born from a place of him not getting hurt.

I, as the parent, do know what is best after all. At least for this season of life.

Our disagreements over what was considered safe boyhood fun crashed into each other when I snapped as he reached for a knife on the kitchen counter as I was making dinner.

My tone startled him, and it startled me, too.

I called him over to explain that he can’t go reaching at every little thing on the counter and that’s when he did the thing.

The I’m-not-looking-at-you-because-it’s-too-much-for-me-and-if-I-look-at-you-that-means-I-have-to-listen-so-I-will-stare-half-way-down-and-half-at-you-for-a-few-seconds-before-I-run-away- toddler thing. And that is when it hit me.

Oh, my God I do this with God.

My Father. The Creator of the universe.

I know that He knows what is best for me, I know He has a better (and much safer) plan for me, I know that He has intended good for me, but I just can’t look up at Him because it is overwhelmingly too much. Like looking straight into the sun. Like gasping for air when I’m underwater, too much.

The brightness of His spirit, the all-consuming love, the knowing that He is right and I’m wrong…I do that move, too.

Just like my toddler.

If only my son would know to turn around and look at me sooner, if only he knew that my rules are rooted in a level of love that I will never be able to explain.

If only I knew that looking at Father Almighty first would save me so much headache and worry and backtracking my way out of spiritual trouble.

If only I knew.

Yes, the similarities of boyhood and motherhood are electrifying, and too many to call by name.

But I will teach my son and myself, over and over again, to just look up a bit sooner.