I remember when my "littles" were actually little.
Parents of teens would tell me to enjoy it.
If I had a dime for every time some well-meaning mother of teenager said, "When they're little, their problems are little," we'd be hiring someone to re-do this never-ending monstrosity of a kitchen instead of doing it ourselves (No. Still not done.).
Now I have three teenagers and a 'tween who is just two short months from the big one-three.
Those mothers were right. Kind of.
Anyone who has a toddler or a preschooler knows that their problems aren't little. Not to them. And when they're in a full-blown, Katy-bar-the-door kind of work up about them, not for you either. Or for the five people behind you in the Target checkout line, or for the neighbor and her toddler during the playdate, or the well-meaning grandparent who is being snubbed, or...
But the thing I remember about my little people and their problems is this: They put it all out there. I knew they were upset. And I ususally knew why. They'd cry. They'd scream. They'd throw a tantrum. They'd push things away.
But they'd always look to us (Better Half and me) to fix it. Lots of times we could. And lots of times we couldn't.
But we KNEW. We wiped tears, hugged frustrated little bodies, tried to explain taking turns, cut sandwiches in triangles instead of rectangles, applied Band-Aids, and when we had to, waited out the tantrum that ensued because chocolate chip cookies just aren't an appropriate breakfast choice. They let us KNOW what the issue was and that they expected us to solve it.
To a middle-aged adult, those are pea-sized problems. But hey. Toddlers are pea-sized. And their tantrums and frustrations that result aren't pea-sized at all.
I don't miss trying to explain to a three year-old that he can't have his best friend's Buzz Lightyear just because he likes it better than his own. Nor do I miss having to cutting the playdate short, trying to wrestle a thirty pound, wiggling, tantrum-throwing child into a five point harness carseat and listening to him scream bloody murder all the way home. Six blocks can seem like a continent away, let.me.tell.you.
But I so miss that three year-old's natural instinct to share his frustration with me and expect me to fix it.
I'm blessed. I feel like I have a pretty good relationship with my kids. The tell me things. We laugh, We joke. I hope they feel free to disagree with me (even if they are wrong. :) ) And they do tell me their problems. Eventually. Sometimes.
But it isn't instinctive for them anymore. They're changing from children to adults. They're starting to process hurts, disappointments, and difficulties internally first and then decide if they need/want to discuss it or help solving it.
And as painful as it is to help a toddler manage her frustration over something that you have no power to fix,
It breaks my heart just as much to see the hurt/anger/frustration on my young people's faces and have absolutely no idea what is causing it, let alone how to make it better.
I'm not a patient person by nature. But I'm trying to find more patience. More grace. I'm trying to listen more and give advice less. I'm trying to let my kids know--as much as I can, whenever I can--that they are strong, bright, capapble people. That humility and forgiveness go a long way. That no one is perfect. That there will be bad moments, days, weeks. That Better Half and I are always here to listen if they want.
And sometimes...
It's something we can actually make better.
Do you remember getting to school and realizing that you'd left something at home?
Something big. Like the project worth twenty percent of your nine-week grade. Or the check your dad wrote to put money on your lunch ticket. Or the permission slip for the field trip that leaves at 9:30 sharp.
That missing thing had the power to transform what could have been a good--or even a great--day into a "Terrible, Horrible, No-good, Very Bad Day."
That thing got left at our house this morning.
So today, I braved "one school for a city of over 30,000" traffic twice.
And I hate traffic. Like, my dentist is starting to get concerned about the enamel on my back molars from teeth-clenching, HATE traffic.
I also hate school office red tape. I understand it, but I hate it. Nothing gets fear going in the pit of my stomach quite like being told by a well-meaning, just following the rules, can-you-imagine-the-chaos-if-we-let-everyone..., office manager that I cannot just run said item to my child (school hadn't even started yet) to make sure it was received. I don't like being told by ANYONE that I'm not allowed to get to my kid. I don't care what the reason is.
I hate the looks I get. Like the "Helicopter Parent" radar just went off somewhere and I am well on my way to creating an entitled adult who will live at home until age 35 and never hold a job.
I've read the books. I'm a "logical consequences" parent a lot of the time. I've charged my kids for gas or for my time for this kind of thing. I've told them that it's a bummer when we accidentally leave things at home, and I hope it works out for them.
Because logical consequences are part of real life.
But guess what?
So is grace.
So is helping out a friend or a loved one even when it isn't convenient just because you can.
By the way, my child did not even ask me to bring up the item.
I did it for me.
The me that knows that even though I can't and shouldn't always try to solve their problems or even know what they are, I'm always going to want to.
The me that wanted to be the hero just one more time, because my time to hold that role is finite, and now I share it with a host of other people that I'm grateful for, but secretly?
Kind of jealous of.
I did it for love.
Mother-love. Imperfect, sometimes selfish, sometimes enabling, sometimes just exactly what is needed, mother-love.
