Whose kids are they anyway?
I catch my husband’s eye and sigh in annoyance; can’t someone control these guys?
My husband gives me a knowing look and nods, sharing my frustration. Where are the parents?
But I look around at the crowd and see that it’s pretty obvious; the secret is out, and I can’t pretend much longer. After all, they kinda do look like their father.
It’s our monthly community dinner and it’s apparent that everyone, my kids included, are enjoying themselves. One is lounging under the table, one is eating chummus with his fingers, oblivious to the guy sitting near him. Hmm, I notice his seatmate leaning as far away from him as possible…I don’t blame him, looks like his suit is dry clean only. Brothers 3&4 are in middle of a game of who-can-finish-all-the-soda-in-this-room-first. Thankfully the two little ones are home with the babysitter!
Yes, they’re mine, and I’ll take care of it.
Can I control them?
Actually, no, I can’t control them. More accurately, I don’t want to control them.
I want to teach them.
Guide them.
Discipline them.
Love them.
Reprimand them.
Praise them.
Kiss them.
Hug them.
Influence them.
Motivate them.
Be a good role model for them.
Listen to them.
Talk to them.
But I won’t control them. I won’t control my kids.
There are many things in my life I do control; like my laptop. When it’s acting impudent or pushing my patience, I control it. With a click of
the lid, I snap it shut and I win. I control it.
When my oven starts overdoing my food, I just hit cancel and ta da, its off. I’m in full control.
When my phone rings and I’m not talkable, I swipe the decline icon and just like that, I control my phone.
I have higher expectations for my kids; I want them to be successful, passionate adults. I don’t want them to grow up and be little gadgets or robots; ones you can control by switching them on and off.
I want them to thrive. I want them to be people.
And so I won’t control them.
But I will continue to teach them to eat chummus with a spoon.
Little Yellow Notepad 