Perfectionism can be the sneakiest of beasts, bleeding not only the pages of our own stories but marring the chapters of our children and grandchildren’s stories as well. Not long ago, I had the privilege of visiting a beautiful riding ranch for children with disabilities in northern Arkansas. This equestrian center is set up like a miniature western town, complete with a post office, general store and chapel. Children, and even adults, with a wide range of disabilities come each week for riding lessons and
It seems like yesterday I was welcoming you into the world. I thought you would always be in diapers, watching Sesame Street and learning your alphabet. I blinked and suddenly we’ve traded Cheerios and sippy cups for makeup and iphones. And now, much to your father’s dismay, your heads have begun to turn when a handsome boy gives you a wink and a smile. Boyfriends will come and go. You’ll face heartbreak and joy, tears and laughter. As someone who is, ahem, a bit older
Back and forth I went. Kitchen to bedroom, bedroom to living room. Every time I sat down to write, it seemed I heard yet another cry. “Mom! I need you!” “Mom! The dog just peed on the floor!” “Hey, honey, have you seen my socks?” “Momma! I want candy!” Through the chaos of barking dogs, calling children, buzzing dryers and ringing phones, I couldn’t suppress the inner voice bearing down on me. You have to get this book finished by the end of summer. You’re
Wild child. Stubborn. Headstrong. Independent. Strong-willed. Although, having been one of those myself, I suppose I’ve always preferred the term “steadfastly-minded”. You know the type of kid I’m talking about. If you’re not sure, here’s a checklist. You might have a wild child if… -You’ve considered purchasing a taser as a disciplinary tool. Okay, not really. (But maybe.) -The medical personnel at the ER know you and your kid by name. – Your kid can unlock any child-proof device invented in under 3.7 seconds.
Judging by the outcry, you would think we had banned our children from candy or something. Last Wednesday evening, we pulled out of the church parking lot and headed home. While the kids were busy gabbing about life in teen/preteen-land, my husband looked over at me and mouthed, “Half-price shakes at Sonic”. I smiled and nodded. We didn’t say a word but I anticipated how excited the kids would be when we pulled up to their favorite shake place. But when we passed the road
by Tara Johnson “You need to wear your son out.” I blinked slowly, trying to understand what the older woman who had approached me had said, a task made difficult by my son’s screams of temper and my own strangled nerves. I felt frayed. Exhausted. At the end of my rope. The excursion into Walmart was not going well. I’d had high hopes for the grocery store run. After all, my son’s terrible two fits were getting better. I had been diligent with him at