Me and My Big Mouth

I was feeling pretty sure of myself last week, however, when we had a special speaker talk to us about discipline. The speaker had read a book called Don’t Make Me Count to Three, and was sharing her experiences trying it out. We all laughed and lamented the joys of being the lead enforcer around the house, but all in all I was feeling pretty good about myself. My kids, though strong-willed (Kate) and sometimes a little too smart for their own good, are generally such good kids. So in control. I even told an example about how I just talked to Sam about how we handled an argument a few months ago, and he took it all in and we decided to make some changes. Problem solved.

I went home that night and thought about how to incorporate some of the ideas she had, like working on the root issue instead of reacting only to the specific event. For example, instead of only teaching kids to take turns with the Wii remote that just got thrown across the room, you use scripture to talk about how people are more important than the things that we have and how God wants us to love each other. Good stuff.

As the aura from the evening’s good discussion was just beginning to fade, my son lit into a huge tantrum about bedtime. Huge. Not only did he cry and throw a fit and say he didn’t want to go, he flat out REFUSED to go to bed. After a few minutes, my patience went out the window and I banished myself to my room mid-sentence to cool down before my yelling awoke Kate. I could tell you the blow-by-blow, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the textbook example that was given at our session.

I will give myself credit for ending fights well, and we always apologize and hug and talk about how to do better next time. So I went to bed feeling silly about my professed successful discipline methods, but no less secure in my parenting.

Queue the rest of the week: Sam has gone into a complete testing period where he wants to see just exactly where the boundaries are and see how far back he can move them. He has tried every technique in his arsenal, and I’ve used all of mine. The result? Frustration, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Who was I to think that I was some sort of parenting success story? I was blessed with good kids. I am blessed with a God who cares about them and cares about me, and who I believe can undo any of the damage I happen to do to them. Am I the success, or is God?

After a week of enforced bedtime, time spent in the “safe spot” at school, and a little help from Dad, Sam is starting to morph back into the well-behaved child I know. I am glad to know that he’s unleashing some of his craziness on his teacher as well, and it’s not solely for my benefit. (I told Stuart that Sam’s “not listening” trait was inherited from HIS side of the family.) I think I’ll live to fight another day.

One of the “experienced” mothers in the group asked last Wednesday, “Isn’t this all kind of exhausting?” Oh yeah.