“Raising children is like being pecked to death by chickens.”
That quote has hung in a family member’s home for years, probably still does. I whispered it often during the early years of raising boys, sometimes still do. In my most exhausting moments of Motherhood, that quote has served my children well. The assurance that other mothers also felt this exasperated on the journey was protection for my daring little chickens and their scissor sharp beaks.
The chickens have grown. I miss those dang chicks and their itty bitty pecking, it was really kinda cute looking from this angle. Especially since we’ve learned that raising teenagers is like riding a rollercoaster with a blindfold on. Some days it’s steady and smooth as you track up the hill on the Judge Roy Scream, only to be pushed off the top and realize the track gave way to the old Texas Giant with its wooden, rough ways – jerky enough to break your bra (a tragic true story).
There are moments of complete pride, realizing how far they have come in their maturity. There are also moments of desperately begging God for more time to train the monsters.
Recently, while I was cooking with Mason, McCray strolled through the kitchen and dipped his finger in the sopapilla cheesecake filling. Big brother yelled, “Don’t do that! It has eggs in it and you’ll get melanoma!” Hearing this, my face scrunched up and I just stared at him, wondering how he made it to through 12.7 years of school.
I held some hope that McCray, the freshman, would correct him. Instead he rolled his eyes and said, “It’s malaria you moron.” Which explains his grade in Health class. Bless you teacher. We should have sent a better Christmas gift. Would a sopapilla cheese cake suffice?
I should remind everyone here that I’ve never claimed to be a good teacher. Also, Sopapilla cheesecake has precisely zero eggs in the ingredients. I informed them the sickness they were looking for was Salmonella. To which they both shrugged and said, “Same.” It’s a wonder we fail at HQ trivia every day at 8 p.m.
Our oldest is a Senior, he graduates in exactly too soon of days. A fact I have grieved and dreaded for the entirety of his eighteen years. I can’t imagine not seeing him for longer than a week, or walking to his room for a goodnight hug. I don’t know how I will pack him up and drive his belongings down to Austin, only to get in my car and DRIVE AWAY FROM HIM. 
My baby. My first born. My boy who fills so much of our house with his unique character and audacious personality. Tears are flowing as I type this.
And yet, the same precious, growing child that I am crying tears over can drive me absolutely crazy. I’ve been told that God has a way of helping us weepy parents let go, by allowing them to act like know-it-all-fools in the last months they are in our home. This is true. The same child that can make me gush over his adorable ways, makes my head explode and my heart ache while watching him learn life lessons and navigate tough choices, sometimes making the wrong ones.
God is so gracious. How does He do this from heaven?! As Bob Goff shares, “I think a Father’s job, when it’s done best, is to get down on both knees, lean over his children’s lives, and whisper, “Where do you want to go?”
I have returned to that visual a lot this past year. Where do you want to go my son? These boys have been watered with love and light, and a pile of prayers. For the eldest, this has been the year of mom stepping back and allowing him to steer more. I haven’t done this perfectly, as every-person-in-this-house accuses me of being a back-seat driver, but we can unpack that another time.
I’m trying. I’m learning. I’m clinging to the fact that while childhood is only a chapter in their life, we remain parents forever. Once a parent, always a parent.
Which is my rebellious way of choosing joy in this season.
Choosing stubborn gladness throughout the journey of my heart being pecked to death by this thing called parenting.
