Baby Of Mine

Forty is kicking my ass.  Typically I would not use the word "ass," but writers must choose the exact word for the moment, and "ass" is it.  I am not entirely sure how the good Lord feels about that word as a noun for the "gluteal region" rather than an animal, but perhaps we'll have a conversation about that some day.

Mid-life crisis might be a thing.

So much is happening in quick succession that I don't have time to quite recover.  The timing of all these events is uncanny and I am honestly not a fan of one thing after another after another.

I'm raising boys. There have been many difficult moments over the years, but unless I forget some key things, and God has probably graciously allowed that so as to save my sanity, middle school years trump it all to date.  I have always been pleased at the age gap of my children, but I have one entering and one departing this school year and it's more than I can take.  Many times, from those who have gone before, I have been told that eighth grade is the hardest.  It's true.  It's tough. And it's tough that the other guy who is supposed to be on my team is turning.

There is a distinct line, a pivotal, defining moment in the life of every boy.  It is the moment that his mother no longer holds the moon.  My last baby crossed that line last Wednesday and I have not recovered.  I cried the entire way to work that day.  I've cried every day since.  I keep telling myself  "You, Angela, have nerves of steel. Somewhere, deep down inside of you, you have nerves of steel that will shelter your heart from the pain your beloved child wants to impart."  I'm still looking.  I know it's there... Slightly out of reach for now.

My job as a parent is to raise two dependent babies to independent adulthood.  They need to be able to understand who God is, they need to respect His authority and the authority of anyone who oversees them, they need to be productive, hardworking, kind, generous and many other lovely adjectives. In order to be successful, I am not permitted to be friends with my child.

If my son dislikes me because I have not given him what he desires, I do not get to yield.  He may try to punish me and still I do not get to yield.  My only job is to stick to the established guidelines and not cave to emotion.

Son, I see you.  I see that you are growing and expanding your horizons.  It has been my greatest joy to watch you do just these very things since day one. It has also been my greatest joy to hold the moon for you, and your brother, although it was getting a little heavy.  It is difficult to live up to such a high standard.  I am re-living each moment that I was your first choice.  It was truly a gift. I know this separation has to happen because we are not going to be roommates until you are forty.  Going through these changes with both you and your brother, pretty much simultaneously, is, well, my least favorite event in all my parenting years.  I need to call your Grandpa and your Grandma and tell them "thanks" for getting me from Point A to Point B all those years ago.  I also need to make some apologies.  I'll expect the same from you in about thirty years.  One thing you should know, beloved son, I really do have nerves of steel.  I will not yield. Today, I am not your friend, but I hope that one day somewhere down the road that I will be.

You are so precious to me....

Cute as can be...

Baby of mine...