Day 54

    The last week or so has been a little less-than-stellar for us. The kids are working on listening, Phill had his surgery,    and I find myself feeling rather defeated/tired/annoyed/overwhelmed more than usual. Perhaps we’re just having an off-kilter phase. In any case, I think we’re on the upswing; I have plans for scripture-reading and productivity tomorrow that I hope will chase away the mild gloom that seems to have settled over us. Tonight I doled out my least-favorite of all discipline: I took away Reed’s privilege of a bedtime reading. We had agreed (Phill and I) that it wasn’t something up for loss or gain—that we wanted to always read to them at night—but tonight, well, I’d had it. And I couldn’t think of anything else. And though I was relatively calm, I regretted the fact that I’d gone back on my word and revoked that special privilege from Reed. (Though I felt mixed about it, too—like I just didn’t know what else to do to convince him that good behavior is the way to go….?) Anyway. Phill talked to him so kindly, so gently, and so thoroughly while I gathered my wits about me—something I’m so grateful for, because I just don’t think I had it in me! Afterwards, I was out here at the desk trying not to feel guilty. A long while later, Reed came out with a smile and this letter. It’s strange and amazing to me that he knew I was feeling a general sense of being overwhelmed—that it wasn’t just about the discipline, but about my overall feeling of being at a loss. So this letter is evidence of his incredible tuition and compassion, and it made me feel that maybe, even with all this indecision/inconsistency/frustration we’re experiencing with regard to teaching good behavior to the kids, they’re learning—still—and we have some incredible children entrusted to us.

Translation of Reed’s phonetic (and tired, punctuation-free) writing:

Dear Mom,

You are the best ever. You do my laundry, bring me to school. You are always there for me. I love you so much. You do great things and you always make a difference in my hard times. You are the lady of the house. You are a great parent and you should know that. You do so much for me, like, you read to me, give me loves, and you’re unequaled in all ways. You are a star, the only kind [?]. You are the light in my path, too. When you pick me up from school, I feel terrific.

Sincerely, Reed

I should add that a few days ago, Reed and I were running errands together, and he was talking up a blue streak in the car with me. He was talking about his biggest fears (Chucky and Bloody Mary), and then when he had finally gotten it out of his system, he asked me sincerely, “Mom, what’s YOUR biggest fear? I mean, besides us dying.” I told him that my biggest fear was failing as a mother or wife, at the two roles I hold most dear. He said with confidence and love in his voice, “Mom, you just….you just need to put that out of your head. Because you’re not failing, and you won’t.” I countered that I will fail in some things, that it can’t be helped, and that I was afraid he would one day not remember how much I love him when he saw all my failures. He said with perfect assurance, “That won’t happen, Mom. You’re worrying about something that won’t happen. Okay?” I barely formed an answer without a huuuuge lump in my throat, but finally said, “Okay, Reed. You sure make me feel better.” I am truly in AWE of the fact that I carried that boy in my womb for nine months. I feel honored and humbled beyond description.