Emotional Vignettes

Parenting in scenes

In a subconscious nod to my own dramatic tendencies, I’ve undertaken some selective cultural literacy with my daughters by letting them watch Gilmore Girls.

They love the witty, midrange dialogue and being shocked by all the relational foibles. “Lorelai, nooooo!” is their frequent reaction.

I, of course, have to remind them that this is a show and not real life—except for the constant chatter part and the dying on every emotional hill part and…well, what do you know?

Art indeed imitates life.

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My boys are incapable of minding each other’s personal space.

It’s sweet from 7:00 a.m. to exactly 7:08 a.m., at which point physical proximity results in injury. It seems a twisted natural law governs siblings: every action must produce an entirely unequal, disproportionately excessive reaction.

Variations of this law apply to stubbed toes and banged shins, though the relational component is missing. Radiators are notoriously unyielding.

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The drama of our home is overwhelmingly abundant.

Jibber-jabber, conflict, everyone’s unedited soliloquies—put Shakespeare to shame.

I replay a scene in which one of my daughters, exhausted by being the age she is, melted onto the kitchen floor and indulged in silent, flowing tears. I could empathize but still had to make dinner.

I continued chopping onions and then stomped around her to throw the scraps in the garbage.

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After an intensive day of parenting tweens, I often counterintuitively scroll through my camera roll.

I feel the shape of my babies’ bodies through the screen and smell their clover-fresh pink mouths. Such innocence contrasts sharply with videos of everyone crying at the same time while I console them from behind the camera.

“What’s going on, guys? Why are we so upset?”

I sound so young, burnt out, and completely sincere as I watch the grumpy two-year-old repeatedly stick her foot in the three-year-old’s face while the screeching baby provides the soundtrack.

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History reveals we’ve always been a dramatic bunch.

Not to be left out, I have a tendency to spring an argument on my unsuspecting scene partner under the Friday Night Lights of our kitchen. Some people unwind after a long week; I ask for prosecco and validation of my passionate opinions.

It’s good that I married a man who will gently say, “hell naw,” and point me to Jesus.

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I take household management seriously.

In my more myopic parenting moments, I find myself managing not just the tasks of the house, but the people as well. Oh, that our melodramas could be organized like a budget spreadsheet or to-do list.

But emotional conflict will seep through the cracks of any system and wear down even the most even-keeled mom until she screams,

“Cut. It. Out!”

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Many years ago, I taught my kids a little song about treating others the way you want to be treated: the Golden Rule. I smile at myself now.

In reality, my son didn’t know he didn’t want to be punched in the arm until his brother did just that. I didn’t know how much I disliked being dismissed until my daughter rolled her eyes at my helpful suggestion.

This rule, it seems, will be tried, tested, and pushed to its limits.

How do you know how you want to be treated if you don’t know how you don’t want to be treated?

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Right now, I’m in the presence of a lovely still life—a bowl of bright oranges against a snowy window.

The table where I type starts shaking because my son can’t eat lunch without tapping his foot incessantly. Elsewhere, conflict brews, the results of which will either be catastrophe or laughter. Who can tell?

My body bristles at the rising volume, and Managerial Mom instincts start kicking in.

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Then I envision the Light of Christ slashing through our home, revealing all the mini theatricals performed within.

This Light penetrates and softens, leaving nothing hidden. I want to create an environment where He does not merely convict (“Cut it out!”) but also exhorts us to repent and be free.

This process takes time and constant repetition. Until a future glorious day, there’s no distinct arrival point where all of our emotions are sorted and harmony reigns.

So I will quiet myself like a weaned child. I will wait a beat.

This time, I will follow my Director’s lead.