He stares at me from the back seat with eyes hot, red, determined, defiant and desperate to be understood. I stare at him through the rear view mirror with eyes that echo his own blue exactly and match his mood perfectly.
I am just as angry as he is.
The only difference is that outright temper tantrums with the snot and tears and whiney mouth aren’t really navigable for grownups steering a minivan to school. I want him to just quit it. I want him to be rational. I want him to understand how mad he’s making me.
He just wants to wear the red striped shirt instead of the orange one.
Last minute battles when we’re all but out the door crush a day before it even begins. The rehab can take ages. Even when he’s finally found his way to a small island of calm and the teacher has hugged him and I’ve admired his sprouting bean, his eyes are still hot and we hug each other good-bye almost angry at how much we love each other.
The mother job is hard. Because every time I look his temper squarely in the eyes I see the reflection of my own.
I’m sharing this story over on (in)courage today —>click here to join me.
When my son, who is now nearing 40, was young we started each morning (for about a month) having a power struggle because he wanted to come to the breakfast table wrapped in his quilt from his bed. I look back now and have no idea why that should have bothered me so much. So many wasted mornings that could have been spent cuddled together in his quilt!!
This day has been full of toddler tantrums. Thank you, thank you for this. My heart has been heavy and I feel like God just gave me the grace to make it through bed time. I will remember “Chosen” written across us both.
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