I have been told on occasion that I should consider starting a blog. I always thought the idea was a bit strange for numerous reasons, the least of them being that I am not an expert in any area. I am not a fitness guru, a DIY queen, or an organizational genius, although I do dabble in all these areas. I do not consider myself to be super mom or wife of the year. I am simply LeeAnn: wife, mother, part time early interventionist, brand spanking new homeschooling teacher, daughter, sister, friend. Who would read it and what could I possibly say that would be worth listening to? Most of the things I write or say are a result of struggles, trying to navigate this life journey through paper and pen. I have always learned and processed through writing or talking it out. Then I realized that maybe me talking it out can help another going through the same struggles, someone who has believed the lie that at no one feels the same way that they do. Oh, the guilt that goes with that!
In the past 11 years I have been doing early intervention, I have had the privilege of coming into contact with every type of woman imaginable. There are the ones I would hang out with had we met under nonprofessional circumstances. There are the ones who seemed to be checked out, uninvolved, or overwhelmed to the point of just getting by. There are moms who have been rejected, abused, and used by those who are supposed to love them. One thing I have found to be true: they are all looking to be understood, accepted, and affirmed. They may just not realize it yet. So, sometimes I share my stories, the ones that go past the persona that I must be a perfect mother with perfect children. The stories that prove that being a mother is hard, being a woman is hard, being a human being is hard, and we are all in the process of refining. One day I will tell the story of today, the day that started off at the DMV.
Those initials themselves should be enough to explain the making of a meltdown. Not my children. Me. I'm talking a yelling, crying fit. To be honest, the DMV was fine, uncharacteristically quick and pleasant. My kids were okay, at least no one would have called CPS. But, after the end of a week long battle of feeling underappreciated and disrespected, it only took a small amount of whining, bickering, and disobedience to push me over the edge. Fortunately, I held it together until we got in the car. We went home, I sent them to their beds without lunch, and told them I did not want to see them until we had all had a break. I felt horribly that I had allowed myself to snap. After all, I'm supposed to love them like Jesus. I'm supposed to be calm and controlled. I am the mom. I am not supposed to be like that.
Except, I am like that. Whether I like it or not, I am human, and I'm pretty sure my kids have suspected that for years. I learned today that I still have a long way to go before my first reaction is Christ's reaction. I am a forever changing, imperfect being. And that is okay. My children learned that I am not just a demand following robot. I am a human with feelings. I want to be respected, listened to, and loved. I am not so unlike them that I cannot relate to their feelings.
My daughter woke up saying she was sorry. I told her I forgave her and then she said she forgave me. That is the best part of being human. The ability to love despite imperfections. They may see a part of me at times that I despise, but I have determined that they will see the side that is willing to admit when I am wrong. To apologize is one thing. To ask to be forgiven is completely different. I am getting there, with God's strength.
Then we had ice cream for lunch, three imperfect, but growing, human beings, running this race together.
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