When The Moment Softens.
I just had a challenging hour with one of my kids. There wasn't any screaming, no melodramatic outburst. It was the kind of challenging that felt new, older. It was the kind of challenging that felt more like two humans being a little bit off together; this wasn't a kid acting out and their grown-up reacting. It felt more nuanced, more complex, more things-are-going-to-be-like-this-a-lot-more-in-the-coming-years.
I went upstairs to take a few solitary breaths and to change into more comfortable clothes. Before I pulled the dresser drawer out, I leaned my forehead into my forearms and began to worry. What does this mean? What part belongs to me and what part to my kid? How can I get out ahead of this becoming bigger, more, harder? Why isn't simply offering love and support - without all of the largely unhelpful parenting platitudes - easier?
And then, this: I don't need to solve any problem. I simply need to feel this moment, and then move on to the next one. Life doesn't happen in neat little blog-ready packages; there isn't always a beginning, middle, and end. Sometimes there are simply challenging moments. And if I feel them, turn my head a little to the left, and open my eyes, I'm better able to see the next moment.
And it's often a little bit softer.
Lovin' on you,