I was talking on the phone the other day to a friend about the difficulties I'm having lately with the great mystery of life: mothering my sweet 3 year old. In our conversation I told a story about something embarrassing I had experienced.
It involved me on all fours navigating a mega play tube at McDonalds as a cadre of children followed me around while my daughter laughed because I couldn't reach her. It also involved me sliding wicked fast down a tube slide and feeling the heels of 4 sets of children hit me in the back while I tried to retrieve my daughter.
It took two tries of going up the intestines of this wicked configuration before I figured out which section she was hiding in. By the time I had found her, I had a parade of youngins giggling with glee that an adult had joined them and one rule-follower who sternly warned me that I "wasn't allowed up here." They were all operating under the notion that I wanted to be there.
All I wanted was to stand respectably on my two feet without my bum hanging out for all to see. That's all I wanted.
In retrospect, the story sounds amusing; if I pretend the story isn't about me, it's a riot to think of some woman trying to use her best sign language skills (none whatsoever) to convey to her impish 3 year old in the sound-blocking clear tube that she-needs-to-come-down-right-now. It's even more amusing to see the 3 year old raise one eyebrow, smile and say with her eyes, "Come get me."
When I conveyed this story to friends, they didn't seem to think it was that funny or embarrassing and I began to think that maybe I self imposed some of it.
But parenthood is that way, isn't it? We all have those issues that touch us too close to our heart.
"My daughter is a tomboy," said the mother who was a ballerina and learned a proper English tea by age six.
"I have all girls," said the mother who lost her father to cancer and desperately wants to name a boy after him.
There's the child who learns to crawl in a funny way.
There's the child who is sweet and selfless yet can't manage to sit down or stop talking.
There's the "extra truthful" child who is the son of a pastor and likes to update people on the family's affairs.
It seems to be that God, in his wisdom, has challenged our love by expanding our view on what love can be. The father who was captain of the football team won't understand why his son wants to be a history major. The dad who is CEO of his own company doesn't realize why his daughter wants to wipe noses in a nursing home.
If we're not careful, we start to put up our defenses. My sweet bald baby Eve didn't grow a good head of hair for the first few years of her life. I cringed when well-meaning older men called her "Ike" in the grocery store; you'd be surprised how many men did this.
Several days ago my front doorbell rang. As I opened the door, a little dog and an energetic boy entered my house. "Whoa, there..." I said as I ushered them back outside. The little boy I had remembered from the pool. He's a sweet boy of about 6 years who has the mental capacity of someone much younger. And because he has some mental challenges, God saw fit to give him an extra big heart. This little man will come right up to you, violate anything considered "personal space", smile extra big and start playing with you. I love seeing him.
His mother came running a few seconds later looking relieved to find him (hey--he's a fast runner!) and we spoke ever so briefly. Exchanged names. I saw the pride (and the energy) she has for her son. When she left I stood at my kitchen sink for a while processing how much joy this mother had for her son. I want that joy, that delight for my children.
Perhaps my McDonalds play tube adventure wasn't so bad. Perhaps it was just a search for joy, all wrapped up in an impish smile.
