Raising Gladiators

I’m convinced my children are going to kill each other today if I don’t beat them to it.  (I’m being somewhat melodramatic here, so no need to call in a report.)  But seriously, I’ve done such a thoroughly perfect job of creating monsters that I could write a how-to book all about it.  I bet it’d even have a good shot at making the New York Times bestsellers list, if enough masochistic parents actually wanted little midget-tyrants running amuck in their homes.  Sigh.

I’m a failure as a mother.  It’s obvious, really.  All I have to do is sign onto Facebook to see that everyone else’s kids are perfect.  They snuggle up on the couch for movies, cheer each other on at sporting events, and practically turn cartwheels when siblings achieve some long-sought-after goal.  Not mine.  

Should we ever take our children to the Roman Colosseum, they could perform an excellent reenactment.  (Photo by Bengt Nyman)

They are gladiators, and they firmly believe in fighting to the death.  Our tiny home serves as the arena, and I, their mother, have been tasked with convincing them NOT to inflict mortal wounds and, even more impossibly, to play nice and actually LIKE one another.  Beyond this, in my heart of hearts, I deeply desire for them to LOVE one another.  Instead, I find myself the center of heated debates over which piece of cookie cake is the largest, each child clamoring for first pick.  All-out wars are waged on the basis of one child looking at another too long or sitting a few inches too close to a sibling.  Outings begin with a mad rush to the minivan in an effort to get the front passenger seat.  The unfortunates who don’t make it to the seat first are left to duke it out to determine who is most deserving of the middle row captain’s chair rather than be exiled to the apparently worse-than-a-torturous-death third row.  I can’t even help the situation with a rotating schedule, because I have five kids and only two desired seats.  Our youngest is still in a carseat and still blissfully “perfect,” happy with whatever her lot in life.  That leaves four who demand the front or middle row, only three of whom are old enough to even sit in the front seat.  Any reliable schedule is going to be too complicated for my brain, fried and frazzled as it usually is, to maintain.  And deep down, I know it’s ridiculous.  IT’S A CAR SEAT, PEOPLE!!!  FIGHTING OVER IT IS LUDICROUS!

When did this even happen?  When they were younger, my kids loved playing together.  And then one day… they didn’t.  My husband and I address self-centeredness with our kids.  We (hubby and kiddos) serve others through special projects and weekly commitments, regularly taking the focus off ourselves.  We discuss selfishness and pray that God will give us His love for one another.  It just doesn’t seem to have happened in our home yet.  

Our little gladiators get along well when privileges such as being allowed to visit with friends or earning back electronics depends on it

But there is a rather strange phenomenon that occurs around others, and I’m going to let you in on a little secret; our kids are changelings.   I suppose everyone is, to some extent.  Ali and I marvel that one adult after the next tells us how amazing our children are, that they are respectful, mature, intelligent, generous, and courteous.  We get compliments left and right regarding our offspring.  And it’s sincere!  We often stand dumbfounded, mouths agape in disbelief.  But the supporting evidence speaks for itself; in public, our little gladiators become pictures of grace and selflessness.  Ethan begs us for more opportunities to serve.  Grace is always anxious to spend her last penny on someone else.  Jonah carries on intelligent conversations with adults and helps with his younger siblings.  Each one is socially engaging and generally considerate of others.  All this must mean… THERE IS HOPE!  I even see glimpses of it in the home here and there.  In between battles, they will play cards or Monopoly together nicely (for the most part).  Five minutes after declaring each other the worst siblings ever, I’ll find a handwritten note of encouragement and expressed love from one to the other.  And of course, at night, when they are supposed to be going to sleep (probably BECAUSE they are supposed to be going to sleep), they chat and giggle like best friends, reunited after years of separation.  These glimmers of hope feel few and far between when I’m breaking up a heated argument over whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher or take out the trash.  But they are what I cling to.  Motherhood is full of hope and humility.  My children are works in progress.  And they remind me daily that I am, too.

This is getting along (I think), at least until someone gets hurt!

“My heart is not proud, O LORD, my eyes are not haughty; I do not concern myself with great matters or things too wonderful for me.  But I have stilled and quieted my soul; like a weaned child with its mother, like a weaned child is my soul within me.  O Israel, put your hope in the LORD both now and forevermore.”  Psalm 131