Three Turn Four

I have a stack of parenting books on my bed side table and also I have a little secret that I will share with you.  Leaving the books in a neat pile on my bed side table has done little or nothing to make me a “better” parent.  That really disappoints me.  Apparently, you have to read the books and then make changes to current parenting strategies and/or implement new toddler tactics.  I think that if one takes the time to search “parenting books” on Amazon, browse literature selections, place a paperback in the shopping cart, and then make payment…then the knowledge in the book should flow from the pages into the children, parents, and household.  Who’s with me?

I did read something I liked once.  It stated that infertility can lead certain parents to believe that God did something extra miraculous by finally bringing a child into their family and that belief creates a layer of crazy pants in the parents’ decision making process. I jumped on that faster than a Kenyan marathoner…because I love to blame infertility for my crazy pants.

I still battle the belief that I have to “show” God I can be a good parent.   During our pregnancy struggle I heard people say over and over and over, “God has a reason for everything.”  I took that to mean, “God doesn’t think you have the social, intellectual, and/or emotional capacity to parent and that is why He hasn’t blessed you with a viable pregnancy.”  I know that is not true.  But infertility is a naughty little bugger.  She puts foolish thoughts in your head and a pair of crazy pants in your sock drawer.

So this week, when The Trifecta turned four, I found myself pulling on my XXXL crazy pants…and they felt TIGHT.  Aren’t parents supposed to feel happy on birthdays?  I did not.

All week long my brain felt broken.  Every time I looked at The Trifecta my chest got tight.  Because the time I have left with them at home before they start the rat race of formal education is ticking faster than green grass through a goose. 

I went to Campus School to place them on the list for the 2014 school year, knowing that with our March birthday, we have little to no chance of three spots on the kindergarten enrollment list.  But I went.  The sweet lady behind the glass handed me a clip board and three forms.  Name?  Date of birth?  Address?  Phone numbers?  Simple enough.  All of a sudden my hands began to tremble and my palms began to sweat and I felt very shaky and some throw up crept into my throat.  A stranger stopped, put her hand on my shoulder and asked, “Are you ok?  Do you need a glass of water?” I declined her offer, tightened up my crazy pants and filled out the forms.

After the girls went to sleep I gave Chris Jackson a 45 minute presentation in which I shared my fears and hopes and also an awesome plan to move to the mountains of North Carolina and teach The Trifecta math skills through seed planting.  My husband listened intently.  He then offered a calm, rational, and thoughtful reply.  I don’t remember most of it, because by that time of day my Adderall has worn off.  My brain began weaving, “How does this man have such faith?  How has he managed to remain un-medicated after all these years? He really has lost A LOT of hair. I love this guy so much.  When he finishes talking I am totally going to kiss him on the lips.”  Chris Jackson interrupted my day dream, “Amy?”  “Yes,” I replied, “I have heard everything you just said and I could not agree more.  We are going to pray about this.”  Then I kissed him on the lips.

Currently, I’m ready Trophy Child, by Ted Cunningham.  If you are a sane parent with reasonable expectations and high parenting self-esteem, this book is not for you.  If you own one or more pair of crazy pants in size M-XXXL, I think you may find some comfort in the pages and words of this paperback.  The author instructs me to attach my children to Jesus and not to me.  I wrote, “I am not convinced of this,” in the margin.  It’s probably true though.

I love my three little four year olds.  I want to keep them close to me and I don’t want them growing up any more.  Right now they are attached to me and I love it bunches and bunches. I know I’m not supposed to say that.

There may or may not be a book to “help” someone like me.  I may or may not get over my feelings I have to prove my parental worthiness to God.  I will probably always need Adderall. Someday I may or may not exchange my XXL crazy pants for a smaller size. But, I worry that I will always want my three miracles attached to me. 

Happy Birthday, Tiny Toes Trifecta!