God's Humbling Gifts

I feel so humbled right now. And stunned. And sad.

I just got off the phone with my son’s YMCA basketball coach. He’s told me from day one that my boy is special. Not only is he an amazing athlete, but he pays attention and does whatever he’s asked. I already knew this because his tennis and soccer coaches told me the same. And I guess I can see it myself, even though I know only the bare rudiments of these games. However, Coach Keith went on to say that he’s talked to several other coach buddies (he has coached high school and college basketball for over 20 years) about Scoot. News travels fast, I guess. To date, he’s received 8 calls from competitive coaches wanting to recruit my son for their teams.

“What?”

I hardly know what to think. He’s only 12 years old!

Coach Keith says that Scoot hasn’t had enough coaching yet to be a starter for one of these competitive teams, but give him a few months and he will. According to the coach, Scoot’s going to go far. He’s recommended a couple of coaches that will do well by him.

I am amazed at the nature...the skills and talents God has given my boy. In his first couple years of life, I didn’t believe that God would let me keep him. Not because he was sickly, but because…alright – call it superstition. Then he hit the terrible twos and I wasn’t so worried about losing him anymore. He drives me crazy when he argues with his sister or obsesses over his DS, and he is such a stickler for the rules (maybe worse than I am!). But then he stuns me once again with something like this.

My Dad would be so proud of him. I can only imagine him bundling off to each of Scoot’s games that he could, comparing statistics with him, giving him pointers about his game and hooting and rubbing his hands together over a particularly good play. And it wouldn’t matter which sport he played, Dad’d be all over it – because he was a natural athlete too and a sports enthusiast to beat all. They share so much more than a name.

So I’m humbled that God has given me such a gift to raise. I’m stunned at each new talent he brings forth. And I am so sad that my Dad isn’t here to see it all.

Telling the Truth

I remember the look of resignation on my 3-year old son’s face when he had to admit to some wrong-doing. He didn’t want to tell the truth, but he did. I hardly ever had to question him - just give him a look - and he'd tell me the truth.

So I wasn't prepared when I first caught my daughter in a lie at the age of 3. My husband and I soon learned that she hardly misses a beat when lying. And she will lie about lying. Even when I’ve caught her jaw-full of illicit sweets, she will wheedle, deny, reason and lie about how those sweets came to be in her mouth. Most of the time, it doesn’t matter if my husband and I apply law, gospel or a combination of both – she still shows no remorse. She has her view of the world and any other view is either wrong and/or incomprehensible to her.

I could not understand this trait. I thought there must be some dearth of conscience – something missing inside of her. But my mother told me she still remembers the day it first occurred to her that she was lying. She was seven years old. She realized she was telling her mother something that was not true. She had done it instinctively for years, but she never made the connection before. So maybe it’s only a matter of time before it clicks in my daughter's brain and she realizes - "I am lying!" We can pray, anyway…and keep working on telling the truth.

To tell the truth, she is better – for the most part. When I ask her if she has brushed her teeth, she will still automatically say, “Yes” - whether she has brushed them or not. However, now she will sometimes stop herself and say, “Wait.” Then she’ll look at me and say, “Oh, no. I haven’t brushed my teeth.” But then she’ll ruin it by making up an excuse: “I forgot.” 

What – you forgot to tell the truth or you forgot that you hadn’t brushed your teeth? I suppose the former is pretty accurate. We just have to work on her replacing her excuses with – “Oops! Sorry, Mum.”

The Story of the Free Spirit and the Rule Follower

My daughter and I rarely jive. If I agree to pink, she changes to black; if I suggest reading, she insists on colouring; if I give her a choice of two foods, she refuses to eat unless she has her own choice. She might end up hungry at these times, but she makes sure everyone else is just as miserable. And my daughter is only 6 years old. But age means nothing – at birth she decided she only needed to eat 2 minutes on each side and that she’d only be happy when held by men.

Part of me admires her. She is so independent and confident that she is like a tank rumbling over anyone or anything in her way. She has an argument for everything – an excellent reason for why she needs to wear that odd concoction of clothes, a perfectly rational explanation for why her rules are better in this game. But, in essence, I am a rule-follower and most of the time I just wish she’d…follow the rules.

But there are rules and then there are rules. I find myself questioning, like she does (constantly), do we have to follow this rule? Why? She doesn't accept that she has to follow a rule because her brother always has (and boy does that cause some head-butting). I have to come up with blindingly brilliant reasons for why we obey each rule. If I can't come up with one, then I either have to find a graceful (or awkward) way to back down, or it's battle time.

Battle days – those days when my daughter and I lock horns – are traumatic. There are screaming and tears and slamming doors. My son either retreats to his room or sometimes starts shouting at his sister – not helpful, though he tries. At the end of these days, I ask God, “Why me?”

Seriously – I am bewildered that God felt me capable to raise this amazingly independent, intelligent, utterly free-spirited person.