​“They grow up too fast,” I mumbled to myself as I watched my four year-old write his name for the first time. I swear just yesterday he thought green was the only color, and I was certain he would make it to high school without knowing the sky is in fact blue. Was I not up late rocking him to sleep just last week? And wasn’t it a few days ago when I had the painstaking task of potty training him?
 
That’s parenting for you. It’s like Groundhog Day for months and then in one instantaneous moment your kid sleeps through the night, or takes his first steps, or walks out the door to board his first school bus. In so many ways it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for, but in the same fleeting breath you’re trying desperately to hold on to the precious moments being left behind.
 
There is a twinge of angst that accompanies each new stage—a pit, a vacancy, a longing for one more taste of those sweet moments past. Like I wrote a few weeks ago, that twinge can often feel like guilt. It feels like I missed something or didn’t cherish every moment sweetly enough, because I will never again hear my son say “capapilla” for caterpillar or “black baby” for blackberry. (That one’s probably for the best though, because nothing is more offensive than when your two-year-old says, “I eat black babies.” You can imagine the looks.)
 
When the seasons have passed, my mom guilt sends absurd thoughts through my head, like: “I should have stared at him sleeping for one more hour” or “I should have recorded him saying ‘capapilla’” or “I should have read Good Night Moon 10 more times”. In these instances, I believe that if I had completed those tasks, my parenting appetite would be satiated, my cup would over flow and I would enter this new stage without an ounce of remorse.
 
But this can’t possibly be true, can it? Is it ever possible to get our fill of the sweet moments – especially if we must endure the difficult ones alongside of them? If God’s promise in Jeremiah 29:11 is true that God “knows the plans He has for you, plans of good and not of evil, plans to bring you hope and a future” then who am I to feel guilty about leaving behind precious seasons when He is promising me hope and a future?
 
After deeply wrestling with these feelings, I’ve discovered the vacancy that accompanies a new season is not one of guilt, but one of grace. It’s not that our kids are growing up too fast, but rather they are growing at a rate that keeps us perfectly satisfied and not overstuffed. As I analyzed this new discovery, I began to consider a world where kids didn’t just grow up too fast, but rather didn’t grow up at all.
 
Imagine parenting a two-year-old for forty years. The two-year-old never gets any older, but rather stays two F.O.R.E.V.E.R.—never learns another word, gains another ounce, or successfully accomplishes a new task. We would have enforced hundreds of time outs, changed millions of diapers, watched marathons of Peppa Pig, received thousands of two-year-old hugs, and heard the word “capapilla” countless times. There were certainly cherished moments, but would we not be painfully overstuffed from this stagnant forty-year season? I don’t know about you, but I would deeply desire a transition. After all, some of the most cherished moments are witnessing the ‘firsts’. And since every ‘first’ comes at the expense of a ‘last’, would we be willing to sacrifice all newness just to hold on to the moments we love? I don’t think I could.
 
You see, dear reader, time is both a burglar and a benefactor—kidnapping our children’s ‘lasts’ while granting permission for dazzling ‘firsts’. It can’t be one without the other. So, could it not be that this pit in my stomach is a sweet sign of grace? An endearing protection from feeling overstuffed of a season. A plan so perfect that only a loving and merciful God could create it so beautifully. Because of this twinge of grace, we are given the glorious opportunity to leave every parenting season with a sweet taste lingering in our mouth, perfectly satisfied with the amount of love and hardship the season required.  
 
In the meantime, we will experience all the flavors of a season - Sour days and sugary minutes. Moments of bitterness and Candy-coated hours. Bland weeks that will be expunged by the sweetness of the years. Our parenting stomach will always have room for one more sweet taste, but this is simply God-inspired portion control to prevent us from becoming overstuffed. Soak up the sweetness that each season has to offer, but don’t let your desire for one more taste turn into paralyzing guilt. Our kids aren’t growing up too fast, mama, they are simply growing up according to the Master’s plan – the sweet plan He promised us in Jeremiah – and that is eternally satisfying. 

It had been one of those days. You might know the kind. A day in the deepest part of the trenches.  The dark part, the messy part, the part of the parenting trenches that screams, “You aren’t doing anything right!”  As 4:00 rolled around, I knew my limit was coming.  Four o’clock is my breaking point, mamas.  It is the point in the day where the line is drawn. Either we race with peace to the five o’clock finish line (when Daddy comes home), or we begin deteriorating in a way that mimics a civil war battlefield.

On this particular day, I felt the battlefield coming on.  Britton couldn’t keep his hands off Beckett or prevent his tongue from uttering his favorite word (poopie).  I had already spent the previous seven hours disciplining this behavior and redirecting his attention - so let’s just say by 4:00 I raised my white flag. I was finished.

And so, at 4:01 I decided the only way we would all survive the battlefield was to sequester each boy in his respective room to 1) keep them from killing each other and 2) keep me from imploding due to a loss of sanity.  Since my discipline-o-meter was rendered inoperable by 4:00 p.m., putting the boys in their rooms was the BEST I could do.  But, my best felt terrible.

In hopes of salvaging some gold stars from the day, I thought I might have better luck fulfilling my spousal duties, so I began to cook dinner.  I had delicious dreams of an asparagus ricotta flatbread that would serve as an edible band-aid to my exhausting and treacherous parenting day.  Since I am a sub-par baker, the BEST I could do was purchase premade pizza dough from the commissary. But, I couldn’t help but think of those Pintastic moms clutching their pearls over the thought of store-bought pizza dough, and so, my best felt terrible.

Despite my valiant attempts to spin/twirl/toss that dough like a pro, I was missing a critical piece of knowledge: You can’t stretch cold pizza dough. Consequently, my flatbread dough looked like this when I put it on the pan.  (Seriously, this was THE BEST I could do. And oh my goodness, it looked terrible). 

Have you ever been there, mama?  If you haven’t, just keep parenting longer.  You can’t escape these years without having days when the best you can give feels terribly inadequate. When all you have left to provide is the tiniest love offering, the smallest olive branch, or the weakest handshake.  But listen mamas, even your terrible bests are terribly pleasing to God.

You see, putting my kids in their rooms was my only chance to protect them from my temper.  Buying pizza dough was the only way dinner would ever get made. And throwing my pizza dough disaster into the oven in its holiest form (pun very much intended) was my only chance at salvaging the day.  

In 2 Corinthians, Paul is dealing with a “thorn in his flesh”.  We don’t know specifically what this was (possibly an ailment, or a pair of rambunctious toddlers), but during this time he had a vision from God.   

“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (2 Cor. 12:9)

Even in my weakest moments, God’s grace is sufficient.  The grace to remove my kids from one another, the grace to be OK with sub-par, and the grace to let go of my perfectionistic tendencies.  Because Christ’s power is made PERFECT in our weakness.  Did you hear that?  Perfect in our weakness. Perfect in our brokenness.  Perfect in our exhaustion. Perfect when all we can give is our Terrible Best.  

As I threw together the holey pizza, I began to see it transform.  The delicious and appealing toppings started to cover up the imperfections of the dough, creating a HOLY reminder of God’s grace.  His beauty made perfect in my imperfections.

My terrible best became terribly beautiful right before my eyes.

These trenches are deep and exhausting and demanding, but they are also made perfect when we accept God’s grace.  Don’t let your terrible bests define you, but rather be like Paul and boast of those weaknesses so Christ’s power can rest upon you. He’s there, mama, ready and waiting to make your terrible bests terribly perfect for His kingdom. 

A week ago, my big guy turned 4! In honor of his birthday, I wrote him this letter...Maybe you can relate?

Dear Britton,

It’s a big day for you. As far as you can see, your day is to be filled with cupcakes, presents, and, only because I love you (and apparently don’t care about my own sanity), dinner at Chuck E. Cheese. These are what four-year-old birthday dreams are made of, sweet boy. Soak it all in because your toddler days are coming to a close. But, for me, I can’t help but look beyond the traditional birthday hullabaloo and focus on this new season before us. 

There is a newness that accompanies a birthday, anticipation of what lies ahead, and even you could feel it today.  Sitting at breakfast, excited about the endless birthday celebrations to come, you asked me a simple question, “Mommy, what do four-year-olds do?” 

You have a way with questions, little one.  A way that often brings me to my knees, hoping beyond hope that I can speak just an ounce of truth into your soul.  Praying I don’t waste an opportunity to encourage and disciple you. But, this simple question rendered me speechless. The reality is, dear child, that parenting you this past year has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  (If we’re being honest, you are genetically predisposed to be an obstinate three-year-old, since my parents still graciously tell stories of my epic tantrums and sassy backtalk. You are the flesh of my flesh, Britton, ain’t no denying it.)

To be fair, there were good days. Plenty of them.  Like the day you asked, “Mommy, why did God forget your penis?” (Still not sure how to answer that one, mostly because I can’t stop laughing when I replay those words in my head.) Or, the day you insisted on wearing your snorkel for every waking moment, but then got incredibly frustrated when you couldn’t eat and hold the snorkel in your mouth at the same time. Or, the moments you would snuggle up next to me just to whisper, “I love you, Mommy”.  And my favorite, as if all stars were perfectly aligned, the night you sat down for supper and said, “Wow, Mommy, this is a lovely dinner you made.”  I nearly fell out of my chair.

But, as I’ve heard from mom after mom, guiding, instructing, and disciplining three-year-olds is not for the faint of heart.  It is constant, it is grueling, and it is often without reward. The past year has been beautifully frustrating in more ways than I can recall.  Beautiful as you began to take on the world with all of the humanness you could muster and frustrating because you started taking on the world with all of the humanness you could muster.  We are broken creatures, made in God’s image with conflicting desires for things of this world, and that opposing combination exposes itself so vividly in a toddler. Every parenting moment lives in the balance, wavering between gracious obedience and passionate defiance. Your compassion can turn into rebellion in the time it takes me to pour milk into a sippy cup. (Because, of course, I poured it into the purple cup and I forgot that you hate all things purple. My bad.)