He scrunched up his nose, the stronger side of his face muscles causing lips to curl angrily on one side. “Bof of them!” This did not bode well.
Some days, Chase is an old soul with wisdom that brings me to tears. Other days, he has the logic and reasoning of a three-year-old, trapped in a body the size of a four-year-old, with the most of the physical abilities of a six-year-old. This means that discussions of any kind are often like trying to hit a moving target. At any given moment, he might need a pat on the head, a “quiet time”, or a higher-level discourse.
On Sunday morning, I laid out his clothes for him and went to iron Bob a shirt. Moments later, I returned to find Chase standing in the middle of the living room, his pants bustled and messed across the back where he’d failed to pull them up properly, and on his torso, he wore an undershirt, the shirt I’d laid out for him, another equally heavy long-sleeved shirt, and as I encountered him, he was attempting to frustratedly stuff his bulky arms into a navy zippered sweatshirt.
His forehead was already beginning to glisten under the furnace of clothing he’d heaped on his body and he was so mad at not being able to get his arm in the sweatshirt that I could tell he was seconds from pitching it across the room with a scream. And now, here I was gearing up to come at him with the sad truth that he couldn’t wear all the shirts in his drawer.
I hate when I know I’m right and for his own good, I need to intervene. Before I even start, nearly every time, there is the pricking sensation that it’s going to be an A++, super guaranteed, completely pitched, blood and guts battle. And on a Sunday morning too . . . because nothing says “getting ready for church” like a family fight.
Kneeling down, I started in, “Chase, honey, what happened? Why do you have all those shirts on?”
Sometimes it’s easier if I don’t assume and let him tell me in his own words, but this part takes time. And how I hate to take time.
He looked up at me simply. “Because I like them all.”
Fair enough. “Well then, why don’t you save one for school tomorrow? You may not wear both this morning. So, which is best for church? The gray one with the green sleeves, or the brown one?”
His voice grew insistent as he sensed my purpose. He would have to sacrifice at least one shirt. “Bof of them.”
“I’m sorry, Chase. That wasn’t a choice. You can wear one or the other, but not both.”
“Bof! Of! Them!” His voice raised to a scream and he played his trump card (which is only ever true about 50% of the time). “Daddy says bof of them!”
Bob’s voice came from the kitchen. “Chase, that isn’t true.”
“Bof of them! Bof of them! BOF OF THEM!!” His voice was a scream, his face red as his lips curled oddly around the “f” he substituted for “th”.
In moments like these, I want to get down on his level, and down in his face and say the four words that are always on the edge of my mind: “Because I’m the mom.” How I want to force obedience out of him as if it’s waiting to pop through just below the stubborn surface.
But at its core, the argument isn’t ultimately about his shirt, though he would have to remove at least two. At it’s heart, the argument is about all of us. Damage or not, our need to be right – to get our own way. As I looked at the “tiny” bald boy stomping his foot in anger, I found that I secretly wished him to respond better than I would have in the much the same scenario.
So often God confronts me much as I stood before Chase: Ellie , will you follow what I’ve laid out for you? I see the harm in this scenario that you do not. You can’t love me and these other things too . . . you must choose one or the other. There is sacrifice, yes, but my way is greater than you can wrap your mind around right now.
[mental angry foot stomp] No God, I want both of them! All of them! Why can’t I have everything? If you really loved me, you’d let me have what I think I want.
In the end, Chase only wore one shirt to church, the argument was diffused, and we all survived, but sometimes, in the myriad of daily battles, I find these rare moments of backing away to see my own heart in Chase’s stubborn stance. Many times, so many more than I’d like to consider, I fail miserably, but in those brief flashes of heart, I grasp just a hint of God’s loving patience with me…
…moment by moment.
For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29:11
