My son sends me to every extreme of my emotions. (Whether or not I have extreme emotions is for the jury to decide....:)
I am convinced the sparkle in his eye grows brighter every day. Obviously in some respects I adore that. In others, it purty near drives me over the edge.
For instance, while he is cleaning his room, he sings at the top of his lungs. He dramatizes stories. He yells. While he is singing and I am elsewhere, I can't help but smile. My heart is warmed when he sings his own versions of every kind of gospel song.....from Gaithers to Gateway, IBC to bluegrass (we have a varied taste in music). That warmth quickly leaves me, however, when I go to his room only to discover he got involved in a building project and forgot what he was supposed to be doing.
He is happy. He is carefree. He laughs constantly. He sings all the time at the top of his lungs, everywhere in the house. He tells jokes to make people smile. My heart is mush.
He is lazy. He is an invalid. He procrastinates. He over-reacts and dramatizes pain worse than a girl. He drives me mad.
Last night he complained after church that both of his feet/ankles and his left elbow and wrist were aching. His dad had some compassion and rubbed them for a while. I remained cold-hearted. I've been through these dramatizations too many times. He managed to survive through his snack. He thrived through his story. However, when he went to go to the bathroom at bedtime, the tears began. AGAIN.
"I can't walk. AT ALL!"
I remained unmoved. He continued his cries from the bathroom.
"MOM! I AB-SO-LUTELY CANNOT WALK!!!" he wailed.
I finally go into the bathroom (because I wasn't prepared to stay up all night) to find him on the floor. I tell him to get up. INSTANTLY. He somehow manages to find strength in the midst of his extreme pain and.....rises. I tell him to go to the bathroom. NOW. In spite of his protests that he can't STAND, I witness the miracle of his RISING. He finishes. By himself without my assistance.
"Mom, I still really can't walk you know. I have to hop," he protests, much less however. I ask him how he can manage to hop when he can't even walk.
"Hopping is easier. That's why," he 'splains.
We brush his teeth. He is increasingly-amazingly (bad grammar, I know) healed. So much so that he runs to his bedroom, forgetting his ailment.
We pray and do our nightly rituals. He kisses me good night.
And I do not hear a peep from him all night. Nor all day today. It's a miracle.
And that is why I rarely take him seriously.
And that is why he drives me to the brink.
I am convinced the sparkle in his eye grows brighter every day. Obviously in some respects I adore that. In others, it purty near drives me over the edge.
For instance, while he is cleaning his room, he sings at the top of his lungs. He dramatizes stories. He yells. While he is singing and I am elsewhere, I can't help but smile. My heart is warmed when he sings his own versions of every kind of gospel song.....from Gaithers to Gateway, IBC to bluegrass (we have a varied taste in music). That warmth quickly leaves me, however, when I go to his room only to discover he got involved in a building project and forgot what he was supposed to be doing.
He is happy. He is carefree. He laughs constantly. He sings all the time at the top of his lungs, everywhere in the house. He tells jokes to make people smile. My heart is mush.
He is lazy. He is an invalid. He procrastinates. He over-reacts and dramatizes pain worse than a girl. He drives me mad.
Last night he complained after church that both of his feet/ankles and his left elbow and wrist were aching. His dad had some compassion and rubbed them for a while. I remained cold-hearted. I've been through these dramatizations too many times. He managed to survive through his snack. He thrived through his story. However, when he went to go to the bathroom at bedtime, the tears began. AGAIN.
"I can't walk. AT ALL!"
I remained unmoved. He continued his cries from the bathroom.
"MOM! I AB-SO-LUTELY CANNOT WALK!!!" he wailed.
I finally go into the bathroom (because I wasn't prepared to stay up all night) to find him on the floor. I tell him to get up. INSTANTLY. He somehow manages to find strength in the midst of his extreme pain and.....rises. I tell him to go to the bathroom. NOW. In spite of his protests that he can't STAND, I witness the miracle of his RISING. He finishes. By himself without my assistance.
"Mom, I still really can't walk you know. I have to hop," he protests, much less however. I ask him how he can manage to hop when he can't even walk.
"Hopping is easier. That's why," he 'splains.
We brush his teeth. He is increasingly-amazingly (bad grammar, I know) healed. So much so that he runs to his bedroom, forgetting his ailment.
We pray and do our nightly rituals. He kisses me good night.
And I do not hear a peep from him all night. Nor all day today. It's a miracle.
And that is why I rarely take him seriously.
And that is why he drives me to the brink.
Today while I took my granny to an appointment, daddy took the kids to Mickey D's. They had quite the time playing. I discovered when I finally arrived that my son was the gallant knight. According to him, he rescued "a little cutie" (his words) from a bully. He proceeded to talk about it off and on for the next couple of hours. He also let me know that this girl was sure a "sweetheart".
He is six. SIX! And I am more grey every day.
He is six. SIX! And I am more grey every day.
Pray for me. Please.
1 comment:
What an awesome story. I would love to say that it gets easier as they get older but our oldest is 10 years old. He drives his mother crazy at times. Boys seem to be bigger babies. You are not alone hehehe
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