Bring It On

Originally uploaded by nancybcrow

It’s 9p.m. on a choir night, and I’m upstairs on bedtime duty while Christian makes tomorrow’s lunches. I hear the TV go on. “Christian,” I say in That Voice (you know the one).

He knows that tone. “There’s something on the news I’ve got to watch for work,” he calls.

Alex pops his head out of his bedroom wearing his most patronizing air. “Mommy, if he has to watch it, then he has to watch it!”

“Alex!” I say sternly. “You are dangerously close to sassing.”

His mouth opens and closes. “I don’t know what that means,” he says, and then, without warning, he dissolves into tears.

“What are you crying about?” I say. Ordinarily, tears are not how he handles scolding.

“I—just—HATE when my brain does that!” he sobs, and flings himself facedown on his bed.

I sigh. He’s so tired. I look at the two bare bottoms in need of diapers, then turn my back on them and draw my big boy into a fetal-position cuddle.

Slowly, I coax out of him that he hates it when he says things that make other people angry. And as we snuggle, the glow-stars on the ceiling whirl and suddenly I’m comforting myself at another point in my life. I think of the months-long argument with my sisters, the one I’d forgotten about until I reread my Journals and realized how much it entwined with the first, bewildering, pre-public days of infertility. I think of the painful lessons in humility and in not saying everything I think, in learning to consider other people’s feelings before reacting, that came as a result of that conflict, in the context of that suffering. And I think of how often I still fail in all those areas. How do I tell my son that this struggle he’s only just identified is one that is going to dog him his entire life?

I stroke the thick unruly hair, so much like mine, only cut too short to curl. “Alex,” I say, “you know that no matter what happens, no matter what mistakes you make, I’m always going to love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

He sniffs and snuffs and doesn’t answer.

“You know how often you get yelled at for something you’re not supposed to do, and you tell me ‘I forgot’?”

Soft, wiry brown stubble bobs beneath my hand.

“You know the right thing to do. You just have to think before you start talking, okay?”

He sniffles, nods again.

I disentangle myself, get the little ones in bed, and return to tuck him in. I turn the light off, and we snuggle again. It doesn’t seem like a night for formula prayers. I want to pray for him to learn to think before he speaks, but I don’t want to bounce lectures off Heaven. So I settle for, “God, please help Alex to grow into a strong, holy man.” We lie quietly for a minute. I can tell he doesn’t feel like doing his usual thank-you/please bless, either. So I tell him, “You know, there are other things we can ask God for, too. What would you like to ask God to help you with, to help you become a better person?”

He pauses, then taps his head. “A better brain,” he says.

“Oh, you don’t need a better brain,” I say, “you just need help to remind you to think.”

He nods.

Here in the darkness, I realize that I have things to confess, too. “You know how when I’m really mad at you guys, I stop and close my eyes and take a deep breath? What do you think I’m doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m praying,” I say. “I’m asking God to help me be patient, and not to get mad for no good reason. Grownups need God’s help, too. Sometimes even more than kids do.”

He seems to feel better now, so I kiss him good night and slip out the door, wrapped in a glow of grace. I love the moments when the opportunity to teach the faith appear out of nowhere. These are my favorite parts of parenting. Yesterday, a friend warned me that as kids get older, the hands-on care gets easier, but the questions get harder. I know it’s inevitable that someday I’ll hit one I don’t want to answer. But for now, as I cross the hall to my bedroom to get ready for bed, I think:

Bring it on.