Sunday, January 22, 2012


I have decided that the ability to walk away from a frustrating situation is an art form. A form of art at which I'm woefully inept.

I'd rather talk. I'd rather explain why something isn't right, or remind someone of a task for the 384th time, or explain why two little people shouldn't argue/push/chase/yell... I'd rather get it off my chest. Walking away isn't conducive to liberating a chest.

But my chest and I agree that we're going to need to work at walking away. That's because, at my house, 8-year-olds are a breed all their own. A breed that likes to talk and ask questions, yet somehow remains utterly care free and oblivious. A breed that lives fully in the present, with only a scant memory of the past 30 seconds.

And then, as if by Divine intervention, he says something brilliant. Something so brilliant that I'm dumbfounded. I don't bother to consider that a tidbit of my pleading and cajoling and hounding and scolding and talking have managed to sink in...

Divine it must be. Speaking to me through Gavin, God is trying to direct me... directing my hands in that most difficult job of parenting, if not my feet, to walk away more often... Reminding me that to be called Mama is a name earned through sweat and tears. But rewarded in a heart filled with love.

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