Tag: parenting

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The Boy Must Die

By Amy Spiegel

Last month, Jim and I put our oldest on a plane to South America for a semester studying abroad. Bailey and I are pretty close considering his age and gender and I will miss him as much in my capacity as his friend as I will as his mom, but don’t tell his friends that. It would be totally not cool which probably isn’t the “in” way to say that. Saying goodbye for five months was not easy, but frankIy, I have been surprised that it wasn’t harder. Sitting at the gate, waiting for him to board, I clearly heard God speak to my tear-clenched heart and I hope that what He said will influence the way I parent forever.

When Bailey was conceived, God placed Him right where he needed to be, buried deep inside my body where he could grow and be nurtured until he was ready to hatch. When he was physically ready to meet the world, it would have been unhealthy, not to mention more than a little uncomfortable, for him to have stayed longer. He had outgrown my body. In fact, when he was born, the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck and he very easily could have died. His connection to me was literally killing him. See where I am going with this?

Once our children leave the relative comfort and safety of our bodies, they obviously still need us. We feed them and watch over them. We teach them little lessons like how not to poop in their pants and why the Beatles are the greatest rock band ever. And not so little lessons like who God is and what His plan for our lives is.

Since Bailey left, I have realized that Jim and I are in a new phase of parenting. One that involves a lot of protection and guidance but, thankfully, less bottom wiping. One that involves a lot more letting go and standing back. In a way, it is a death of sorts, the ending of one thing and the beginning of something new. The way I described it to a friend is that the boy must die so that the man must live. And this process of death and life, of metamorphosis from one stage of life to another isn’t something that should make me sad. It should be something to rejoice in. It’s the miracle I have been working toward since each of my kids first drew breath.

Since I started this post, I have had cause to regret its title. On his first day of school in Bolivia, Bailey, who is allergic to peanuts, chowed down some carrots in peanut sauce and end up in the hospital. I had anticipated the day being a challenging one, but more in the will-someone-sit-with-him-at-lunch kind of way not in the trouble-breathing-anaphylactic-shock kind of way.

As I tried not to panic, listening to the hoarse and groggy voice of my son coming from so many miles away, I had to ask myself “Who do I think Bailey belongs to?” God had told me to let go and it didn’t seem too hard a thing to do when he was healthy and safe and allergen-free. It’s easy to say “let the boy die” when it is just a metaphor for “let the boy grow up and get and job, do his own laundry and pay his own cell phone bill.” But what about when it means “let the boy make mistakes and suffer the consequences and experience pain and not have you to comfort him”?

My only comfort on the days when things don’t go well for my kids, or really my only comfort on any day is in remembering another son. It comes from remembering and trusting in the story about a son who had to leave his home and His Father. Who had to grow and learn and suffer on his own. The story that brings me such joy brought God a great deal of sorrow. In that story, the man died so that we all might live. Now it’s just up to me to believe it’s true and be brave enough to live accordingly.

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Parenting a Flesh-Eating Virus

By Amy Spiegel

Ah, the joys of parenting. Ever-changing, ever-challenging, ever-pulling-the-rug-out-from-under-one’s feet. I once compared my children to endlessly mutating viruses, changing and adapting just when I think I have them figured out. But I recently realized that comparing them to pathogens isn’t really a fair analogy. Deadly viruses, however destructive, are generally much neater creatures and will eventually kill you off in a gesture of mercy. Not so with children.

Maybe this is summer fever talking. Maybe too many afternoons spent squinting into baseball sideline sunshine or too many hours shuttling kids from one sleepover to another have addled my brain. Or maybe I have just seen the light, but whatever the reason, I have made a monumental discovery this summer with regards to my offspring. They are the worst roommates. Ever.

Nearly two decades ago, Jim and I said yes to a lifelong commitment of compromise and mutual self-sacrifice. At the time, I thought marriage was about the big stuff, sharing values and worldviews, all the “in sickness and in health” business. And of course, it is. It’s pretty hard to be annoyed with someone for leaving their socks on the floor, again, when they have run off with the mailman to join a tree worshipping cult in Uganda. But once you settle in for the long haul, marriage is really about figuring out how to make yourself as non-irritating as possible while hoping your partner will do the same. If both spouses are all in, it’s a pretty good gig. For us, it’s about diversifying responsibilities and everyone pulling their weight. “I’ll make the food most nights. You do the dishes. I’ll do the laundry when there is no more clean underwear. You mow the yard before the neighbors start to complain. You make most of the money and I will attempt, and fail, to balance the check book on a semi-annual basis.” A flawed system, but it works. That is, it did work, until we were overrun by children.

Now here is the part where you say “But Amy, you chose to bring these beings into this world. Surely you understood the commitment you were making.” Show me someone who says they understood the demands of being a parent before becoming one and went through with it anyway, and I will show you a pants-on-fire liar. Of course, you have a grasp of the general concept, but having a general understanding of parenthood is a lot like understanding sex; you can read about it all you want, but the experience is an entirely different matter. Sure, you might understand the basics, but parenting is the gift that just keeps on giving. Like the gift of hosting a parasite.

When they were little, my expectations of my kids were pretty low. Anyone who can’t manage to get a cheerio in his mouth in under five minutes shouldn’t be expected to contribute all that much to the overall running of the household. But I now have four partially grown human beings who have no trouble shoveling copious amounts of food into their gaping maws and yet somehow they can’t manage to put a spoon into the dishwasher. Never in my wildest of wild dreams or nightmares would I have imagined parenting young people could be this maddening. It isn’t the sleep-deprived madness of the early years which is such a paradoxical mixture of soft snuggly wonder and tear-inducing disaster that only an infinitely creative and comical God could have come up with it. It is an insanity of a much more subtle and sinister nature.

To illustrate, imagine a seemingly rational person who lives in your house. A person whom you provide with not only shelter but clothing and food as well. You not only give this person a great deal of your financial resources but also your emotional resources. You love this person, care for this person, listen to this person when they try to explain the plot of a very complex TV show mostly using sound effects and phrases like “you know.” Now imagine that you approach this person, cautiously and respectfully requesting that they put away the clothes which you have not only purchased for them but which you have recently laundered and folded as well. Any normal person would assume that this well-looked-after dependent would gratefully receive the clothes and perform the chore in a calm manner. Well, normal person, guess again. In this case, the dependent is much more likely to: (a) act as if you are a mere figment of his imagination and proceed along his merry, computer game-playing way or (b) act as if you have just asked him to create a life-sized replica of the Great Wall of China using bricks made of his own sweat and tears.

Obviously, people have been complaining about their near children since Moses forgot to put his staff in the closet. But here is the mind-blowing, guilt-freeing, deeply unburdening revelation I had this summer while picking up yet another wet swimsuit off the bathroom floor: I am responsible for being my children’s teacher in life, for guiding them in the matters of right and wrong. I am not legally or morally obligated to like them all the time.

And when they, say, leave a lunchbox full of leftovers in their closet all summer long as a surprise for me to find, not liking them is probably rather good for me. It’s all part of growing up. My not so little viruses are eating away at the selfish flesh of my heart, the part of me that wants everything to be easy and tidy and not smell like gym socks on steroids. I am slowly becoming immune to impatience and frustration as the kids, hopefully, grow in responsibility and sensitivity to others. We are slowly making progress, very slowly, as in Chinese-water-torture slow, but progress nonetheless.

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Respecting the Difficulty of Parenting

By Jim Spiegel

Lately, Amy and I have been pondering the difficulty of parenting, as well as the way the difficulty is often regarded.  It is interesting to hear some people’s comments about those who express their struggles in raising numerous children.  Often, after hearing a parent lament a stressful period with their kids, we’ve heard someone say, “Well, that’s the result of their choice,” presumably to remind us all that they brought the difficulty upon ourselves by having so many kids.  Well, true, but why point out the obvious?  To diminish their accomplishments and suggest that they really don’t deserve so much credit after all?

People don’t make such remarks in other contexts, even when the struggle is largely self-serving.  When a runner reports how hard it was to run a marathon, does anyone say, “Well, that was their choice”?  Or if a mountain climber says he really struggled to make it to the summit of Mt. Everest, would anyone say, “He brought that difficulty upon himself”?  Of course not.  We recognize that, although such challenges are the consequence of personal choices, those who meet them deserve credit nonetheless.  So why are some people loathe to acknowledge the difficulty of parenting numerous children, especially when this is incomparably more valuable than even the most impressive athletic feat?  Why are some people inclined to diminish the significance of dedicated parenting?  I don’t know.

But one thing I do know is that I’m thankful for the hard work of good parents.  Chosen or not, and regardless of the number, raising children is a profound challenge.  And when parents do it well, their kids aren’t the only ones that benefit.  We all benefit.

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Sour Grapes and the Art of Forgiveness

By Amy Spiegel

Being a parent tends to bring out some rather unpleasant sides of one’s character that perhaps would be better left unseen, hidden beneath the slimy underbelly of one’s stone heart. It certainly would be easier for one’s self-esteem. It is surprising, too, the creative ways the human heart can find to be wicked. Most moms will confess to the occupational hazards of impatience, curtness and fits of annoyance but I have been gifted with an artistic flare for sinful behavior that goes far beyond the run of the mill “Oh dear, I raised my voice at dear Suzy.” Though this genius for immorality comes in all shapes and sizes, I have lately been contemplating the grudging way I forgive my children.

Given the offenses for which my kids must beg pardon, it might seem strange, perhaps even absurd to say that I often accept their apologies with great reluctance. Of course, I know that no justification is possible for denying them absolution but still I will attempt to do so and disguise it as explanation rather than excuse. (I told you I was wily.)

In the first place, I am rarely convinced that they actually mean it when they say they are sorry. Sure, they want Mommy to stop being upset or angry, but it isn’t as if they have taken a great deal of time to contemplate the wrongness of their actions. They could sit in timeout from here to eternity and still not understand the heart-sinking feeling I get when I hear the crash of toys on hardwood coming from the room I just straightened or the maddening paranoia I live in daily knowing they are hiding around every corner in order to scare Mommy out of her mind and then laugh at my fright. How can they know all the little sacrifices made on their behalf that go overlooked and underappreciated?

So when they offer up a pitiful attempt of an apology, the serpent in my heart rears its triangular head (that means it’s poisonous or so says Animal Planet). It hisses in my ear that I am not holding a grudge; I only want what is fair and just. I want them to fully appreciate the gravity of the situation and then I will happily forgive. But that other voice, if I choose to listen, will fill my ear with quite another point of view. It knows that I don’t really want to forgive. In fact, it knows that I swill my anger and resentment around like fine wine, savoring the taste and pleasure it gives me. (I’m not much of a wine girl, actually, but give me a Ghirardelli square and I hold it there from now till the cows come home). There is something intoxicating about the power you have in the moment when someone asks for pardon, when they stand humbled before you. But left too long and that feeling of power can quickly become more of a case of sour grapes than fermented bliss. My unwillingness to forgive reflects more my ungrateful heart than the grievous nature of their crime.

There are many stories in the Bible which make me shake my head in disbelief; those stubborn Israelites wandering around the desert, missing the point time and time again; the Prophet Elijah, boldly confronting the false prophets of Baal one minute and running for his life the next. But one that gets me every time is the story of the unmerciful servant (Matthew 18:23-35). What a jerk! Forgiven so much and yet so unwilling to forgive. I never get too far into my tirade against this poor fictional character before realizing, of course, that I am this man; that I have indeed been forgiven much and that I too am all to willing to hold a grudge tightly in the grip of my sweaty hand. But I must take heart for unlike the servant in the story who is thrown into prison to be tortured until the debt can be paid, I have been forgiven even of my unforgiveness. It isn’t God, my judge, who throws me in jail to rot. He has set me free, purchased my freedom at great cost to Himself and my deliverer Jesus Christ. No, I am the one that holds tight the bars and refuses to let go. “Forgive us our debts as we also have forgiven our debtors” (Matthew 6:12). I have always interpreted that verse to mean that God will forgive us in the same way we forgive other people. But that thought is a bit unsettling, isn’t it? If I can’t forgive my five-year-old when she steps on my foot, where does that leave me with regard to God’s account books. But I think that is missing the point. I comprehend my own forgiveness as I forgive others. My willingness to pardon is a reflection of the depth of my understanding of what has been done for me. And so I must choose to swallow my grievances or spit them out altogether. Then I will be free to imbibe the much sweeter wine of God’s grace.

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Faith and the Friendly Skies

By Amy Spiegel

Have you ever noticed how everyday activities that you do without much thought seem rather odd when you step back and examine them? I have shared my love for carbonated beverages with you and while I am still very much attached (some might say addicted) to my Polar Pops, it is a bit absurd when you think that each day I drink a mixture of food coloring, bubbles and sugar and pay for the privilege. In my recent travels with our nine year old, I had one of those re-evaluation moments. Bailey and I were settling in for our long, overseas flight. The flight attendant was going over the emergency instructions, and I suddenly realized that I was getting ready to travel over a very large ocean for hours on end inside a flying metal box with my precious first born at my side. What was I thinking?!? You can quote all the safety statistics you want; they all seem a bit meaningless when a smiling, well-groomed young woman is explaining the procedure for hurling yourself into shark infested waters. (Okay, so I don’t know if they were actually shark infested, but at this point I don’t think I was at my most logical. Plus I watch a lot of Discovery Channel.)

While highlighting some of my submerged irrationality, this also provided a moment of clarity that was very encouraging. As I played through the scenarios of destruction, I tried to think of what I would say to Bailey if we did indeed face a life-threatening situation. Of course, in reality, I might have some difficulty being eloquent while plummeting from the sky. Still, something did strike me like a plastic bag on the head from the overhead compartment. If in fact the cabin did lose pressure—after first securing my own oxygen mask and then assisting my child—I could look him square in the eye and with all honesty say, as best one can while breathing oxygen through a plastic bag, “Buddy, we are going to see Jesus. We have absolutely nothing to fear.”

This statement may seem terribly Sunday School basic to you, but for me it marked a huge step in my faith. For though I have been affirming the happily-ever-after that awaits those who follow Him since I was knee high to a grasshopper and have seen more flannel-graph depictions of God’s plan for our salvation than you can shake a stick at, I am constantly plagued with the what-ifs that you face the other six days of the week. This especially pertains to my kids. Forget questioning whether or not I am instructing them correctly in the Gospel. Most days my prayer is that I am not convincing them of the opposite. The awesome responsibility of forming someone’s worldview from the ground up is too often a task I feel completely inadequate for. But as we placed our trays and seats in the upright position and perused the movie selection, the simplicity of it all settled over me. It reminds me of the story told of Karl Barth, the great Christian theologian who was asked by a student to sum up the most profound truth he had discovered in his life. Barth responded with the words “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” We may not know much more than that, but thankfully that’s more than we will ever need to know.  So just relax and enjoy the flight.

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The Difference Between Children and Wild Animals

By Jim Spiegel

Amy and I love our children.  In fact, we think they are the most fascinating creatures in the world.  But it sure is a lot of work trying to civilize those little people.  “Maggie, please stop making that chirping sound.”  “Bailey, don’t make fun of your brother.” “Andrew, why didn’t you tell us you needed to poop?”  It’s as if kids were pre-programmed to create chaos and generally make life difficult for their parents.  Recently it dawned on me how much easier it would be to domesticate a wild animal (just name a species) than a human child.  And, being an obsessive list-maker, I came up with ten reasons why.  So I present that list to you now for your consideration.  Bear in mind that these items pertain to various ages, basically covering the age range of our own kids at this time:  2 to 9 years.

Unlike kids, wild animals do not…

1. Have to be taught the value of work and self-discipline.

2. Fight over unimportant matters.

3. Make random noises just to irritate those around them.

4. Say or do things solely for the sake of hurting someone else.

5. Tell lies and fabricate stories.

6. Boast and brag.

7. Grumble and complain, even when all of their needs are met.

8. Envy.

9. Try to embarrass others for sheer entertainment.

10. Excrete on their own bodies.

This might seem depressing, but I take heart in the fact that I, too, was once such a savage beast.  Somehow my parents managed to tame me, so perhaps we will have some similar success with our little wild ones.  May God keep us sane as we try.  And may he bless the efforts of the rest of you zookeepers . . . uh, I mean . . . parents out there.