Well, nobody asked, did they?

M is going through a phase. Dear God, please let it be a phase. Whenever something doesn't go exactly his way, he pronounces, in a petulant whiny way often accompanied by tears, "I am just not happy right now." My response varies, depending on the time of day, the amount of sleep I did or didn't get, and the number of times I've heard this statement in the last ten minutes. Sometimes it's: "I'm sorry, sweetie. What can I do to help?" Or sometimes: "I'm glad to hear you expressing your feelings, even if there's nothing I can do." Or, in zen moments: "Happiness is a choice." Or occasionally: "Life isn't always about being happy." Or finally, in desperation: "Neither am I, kid. Neither am I."

The truth is, every one of these answers seems reasonable and valid. I want M to know that it's good to express your feelings, that I'm there to listen and help as needed, but that not everything can be controlled or fixed based on one person's emotions. As much as I would like to see him happy all the time, I have a lot of other considerations on the table, such as health, safety, education, and general well-being. Plus I have three other people in this family to nurture. And life isn't always going to make him happy, because life isn't always fair. In the end, it really does come down to our own daily choices. As Abraham Lincoln said, "People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be."

But he's four. The thing that's making him unhappy might be as small as the side of the car on which his sister got in. I need one simple response that I can spit out without getting my feathers in a ruffle, because the last thing my happiness level needs is more arguing. But it seems like such a teaching opportunity, about how we feel, communicate, respond, and process, that I can't seem to settle on any one thing. I end up feeling overwhelmed, fumbling, and stressed. What I want is to stop the whole phase in its tracks, because regardless of the positives of the situation, I can't help but feel that the last thing I want to revolve our lives around is a four-year-old's state of happiness.

But instead of passing, as phases ought to do, it's spreading. This morning, K came into the kitchen, frowningly grumpy, and pronounced: "Juss not happy now." Right. Take a number, sweetheart, right behind me.

The Growing Boy's Diet

Yesterday
Me: Which sounds better, a burger or chicken?
M: Hmm... a bacon sandwich.
Me: Oh. Like a burger with bacon on it?
M: No, just the bacon.

Today
Me: How's your dinner?
M: Yum-O.
Me: That's good to hear. Which do you like better, the chicken or the macaroni and cheese?
M: The peel [by which he means the skin].

Tomorrow's prospects already have my cholesterol on the rise.

Holding His Hand

You'd think, after a lifetime in the church, that I would have figured things out by now. But I had an epiphany the other day. Maybe I'm just better able to focus now that both kids are tucked away in their own classes (I did have to ignore the frantic demand, "No go church! No go church!" which only makes me hope that K will forget this whole nursery thing by the time she's three. Otherwise I suppose I'll be wholly to blame for the ensuing lifetime of heathenism).

The pastor was talking about being a child of God, and a familiar stress rose within my heart. When I first became a Christian, I thought of it as something I chose. It is a choice. You decide that you will take up God's path, His plan for your life, and follow Him and do His will. As I saw it, you took His hand and became His child. But as much as my parents might have insisted that you can never, from that point on, lose this connection, I always harbored a deep-seeded fear that I could. Somehow, I could lose His hand, the way a child might get lost from a parent in a crowd. If I wasn't following His closely enough, or made a few too many wrong choices. And so I have lived under a mild but constant spiritual stress. What if I let go? What if what I did wasn't enough? How could someone like me, who did such a miserable job of being a Christian, ever really be good enough to be a child of God?

But then, sitting there doing a lot of spiritual hand-wringing--sure people could they see how weak I was, what an impostor I was--it occurred to me: I did not choose to be a child of God. I am already a child of God. I chose to take His hand, to walk with Him, to follow Him as best I can, but that has nothing to do with being His child. We are all God's children, whether or not we chose to acknowledge this or follow Him. I simply chose to walk with Him.

It would be as if M lost my hand in a busy place. He would be no less my son. And moreover, how I would search for him, if he were lost, how my heart would ache to have him back safely in my grasp. Talk about stress! But that's how it is, once God knows we're walking with Him. I might lose hold of Him, but I cannot lose Him, especially when He will be searching for me even more than I will be searching for Him.

I don't mean to be preaching. But this was such a revelation for me, something that, simple as it was, took such a stress of my shoulders. And I found that once that stress was gone, it somehow seemed easier to feel His strong hand in mine, knowing that being His child is something I am, not something I can lose. It's amazing how stress can change the simplest of things, and how losing that stress makes things all the more simple.

And now M is really up, looking for me and my hands, and there's no place I'd rather be than with him. That too makes me smile, thinking of God feeling just the same.

Happy Birthday, M!

Today, you turn four. You're no different than you were yesterday--not measurably bigger, faster, or sharper. It's just a number, even if it shoots me a little pain. My baby boy is four.

But the key there is measurably. Because every day I see these little changes in you, little things that only a few days or weeks earlier weren't there. But instead of feeling like you are growing up and away from me, I feel like I begin to see, with each one of these tiny changes, a little bit more of the full person hidden inside. Let's face it--an all-at-once reveal would be overkill, right?

And for the record, this person amazes me. The more your personality emerges, the more you make me laugh. You bring joy and happiness to my life in a way I never thought possible.

So okay, turn four. After all, you're going to do it whether I say so or not. But know that instead of lamenting the passing of these precious years, I rejoice daily in the revelation process. I would never trade the four-you--or any you for that matter--for any other age. Happy birthday, baby!