Victory, defeat
OK. So I've been staring at the white space on the screen for almost an hour. Every few minutes writing a few words, only to delete them a moment later. See, I desperately want to share a victory in Trey's life. But to do that, I must delve pretty deeply into a stinging defeat in my own. I'm used to writing about humility. Humiliation is a different story.
But lest I skip over the good news, it must be celebrated that my Trey survived participating in the second grade musical program at school. Both performances.
We have known this was coming for a year, as we were told last year that he could no longer be excused from these without it affecting his music grade. All along, whenever it was brought up, he would give us the hand and say, "Not now." Definitely a step forward from Kindergarten and first grade's crying, screaming fits, but still in a different galaxy from his comfort zone.
For the last two or three weeks, we have pretty much had the same devotion topic over and over. To the point where Trey looks at the verse he's supposed to read for the day and just rolls his eyes. Do not fear. I am with you. Trust Me. Over and over and over. And we have had the privilege of not only going over those precious verses with Trey, not only sharing experiences from our own lives where God has proven Himself to us, but also telling Trey that when God wants us to know something, He doesn't let up until we get it.
What a joy to be able to watch God speaking directly to your child.
We prayed hard the morning of performance day. He was terrified. We quoted Philippians 4:6-7. And I shared the age-old, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Trey would take the stage with his class once during the school day and then again in the evening for the families to see. At this point last year, he was pitching a fit to stay home from school. But I got a text from Nana just after arriving at work that Trey had gone to school with no issues.
Trey called me in my car after I left work and talked to me for much of my 50-minute drive home. He had done it, and was so proud of himself. Said he kept his eyes closed the entire time. And I said, whatever works, dude. He told me that being on the stage made his stomach feel weird, like there was something crawling around in there. But that feeling went away when he closed his eyes.
So I got to tell him that he had felt the peace of God. Pretty cool.
The evening performance did not go quite as smoothly. Trey had forbidden anyone in the family but me to come and see him, because he didn't want any eyes on him. As we pulled in the school parking lot almost a half hour early, he started falling apart. We prayed in the car. He was crying as we walked through the door.
His principal, Mrs. Monroe, was the only person in the school. She saw his face, grabbed his hand, and took him into the office where she told him how proud she was of him for coming so far since the debacle of Kindergarten. She gave him a tissue and asked if they could go in and look at the stage together. He had calmed down by this point, but as they walked out of the office and he walked nearer to me, he started breaking down again and tried to bury his face in my arms.
I knelt down, put both hands on his belly, and said, "Trey, let God give you the peace we prayed for. He is with you."
Mrs. Monroe bent down and said, "I believe that too."
I pushed Trey along with her, and by the time they had gone to look at the empty stage, he returned to the hallway smiling. Well, halfway smiling. And he went through with it again. This time he was along the side of the stage, not on the risers, but he was still onstage and I could see him. Sort of. And the pride that boy felt in himself when it was over, my goodness.
So he knows now that he can do it. A pretty big victory for a boy who wishes he could disappear. And hopefully, a lasting impression on his mind that God indeed walks with him, giving him strength and peace.
I emailed Mrs. Monroe the next morning, thanking her yet again for investing in our boy, and telling her I believed God put her right there in that hallway to meet us as Trey was breaking down. She wrote back and said she believed God had called her to invest in the children, and that she was glad she had been there when Trey needed her.
Praise, praise the Lord for Godly people in public schools.
As wonderful as all of this is, it has come during a rather strained time for Trey and me. We're a whole lot alike, Trey and me. See, I'm the girl who spent much of my childhood wishing I could disappear. I'm a passive-aggressive control freak who doesn't like change. Trey is turning out to be very much like that. And though our similar personalities cause us to clash sometimes, I honestly think I could relate to him better if he was exactly like me.
But he's not. See, I'm a pleaser to the core, which is what drove me to participate in things as I was growing up, and to eventually see their great, great worth. Trey, on the other hand, seems to have inherited this couldn't-care-less-what-anyone-thinks gene from his Dad. Put that together with the type A invisibility complex he got from me, and it's a volatile combination, my friends.
I'm hard on Trey. Too hard. Admittedly. We aren't doing well lately.
And baseball is what did me in. I will say that it deeply saddens me to see the athletic ability that Trey has, not being put to use on a team somewhere. It really, really bothers me. A lot. Mostly because some of the best memories of my childhood were on a softball field. Man, I wouldn't trade those practices and games for anything in the world, even if six years in I was still vomit-nervous every time I came up to bat. I want those memories for Trey so badly.
So when the county rec registration form came home with him from school the other day, I sat with him for almost an hour talking about it. I explained that baseball was a slower-paced and less complicated game than basketball. A good place to start. That the kids on his team would all be his age and from his school, so he would know other people on the team. That he was already good at throwing and hitting. I told him countless stories from my time on the field. That I didn't want him hitting thirty-three years old and regretting that he didn't do more with his childhood. Told him that God wanted him to realize that he could trust God, that God would give him all the strength he needed, if he would just step out and try.
He still said no. That the only way he would play was if there would be no one watching on the sidelines or in the bleachers. Ever.
And then I told him that it was time for him to get over himself, and that I was signing him up. Period.
Words my passive-aggressive self had been itching to say for a long, long time.
I had no intention of backing down on this declaration of sanity. It was the right move, and one day he would thank me for it. One day soon. Like the second or third practice.
But as our relationship deteriorated even further over the next week or so, as he pretty much completely lost all respect for me and started throwing my passive aggression back in my face, and after receiving some uncertain feedback from wiser folks, I just gave up. Told Trey I was wrong. That even though I knew he would grow to love baseball, or really participating in anything, I didn't want to be the reason he was miserable even for a short time.
This has just wrecked me. In part because I backed down and basically proved to Trey that I'm not strong enough to stick to my guns. Not a great thing for a parent to show a child.
But so much more than that, I have seen firsthand that my son refuses to listen to any wisdom that I have.
My son. Who is seven.
And I am wrecked.
Utterly overwhelmed at the thought of needing to raise this boy well into the future, when the real issues will come up. You know, the ones a lot less wholesome than baseball.
In this moment now, any confidence I once had as a parent has evaporated. Sometimes I don't even know what to say to Trey. Our relationship is completely different. And he's seven.
I have to tell myself it's going to be OK, because surely it has to be OK. I struggled with lack of confidence for my whole life, and it's ended up OK. Better than OK. God is gracious and faithful, everything I needed Him to be then, and everything I need Him to be now.
Hey, don't write yourself off yet
It's only in your head you feel left out or looked down on
Just try your best, try everything you can
And don't you worry what they tell themselves when you're away
It just takes some time
Little girl you're in the middle of the ride
Everything, everything will be just fine
Everything, everything will be alright
But lest I skip over the good news, it must be celebrated that my Trey survived participating in the second grade musical program at school. Both performances.
We have known this was coming for a year, as we were told last year that he could no longer be excused from these without it affecting his music grade. All along, whenever it was brought up, he would give us the hand and say, "Not now." Definitely a step forward from Kindergarten and first grade's crying, screaming fits, but still in a different galaxy from his comfort zone.
For the last two or three weeks, we have pretty much had the same devotion topic over and over. To the point where Trey looks at the verse he's supposed to read for the day and just rolls his eyes. Do not fear. I am with you. Trust Me. Over and over and over. And we have had the privilege of not only going over those precious verses with Trey, not only sharing experiences from our own lives where God has proven Himself to us, but also telling Trey that when God wants us to know something, He doesn't let up until we get it.
What a joy to be able to watch God speaking directly to your child.
We prayed hard the morning of performance day. He was terrified. We quoted Philippians 4:6-7. And I shared the age-old, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger." Trey would take the stage with his class once during the school day and then again in the evening for the families to see. At this point last year, he was pitching a fit to stay home from school. But I got a text from Nana just after arriving at work that Trey had gone to school with no issues.
Trey called me in my car after I left work and talked to me for much of my 50-minute drive home. He had done it, and was so proud of himself. Said he kept his eyes closed the entire time. And I said, whatever works, dude. He told me that being on the stage made his stomach feel weird, like there was something crawling around in there. But that feeling went away when he closed his eyes.
So I got to tell him that he had felt the peace of God. Pretty cool.
The evening performance did not go quite as smoothly. Trey had forbidden anyone in the family but me to come and see him, because he didn't want any eyes on him. As we pulled in the school parking lot almost a half hour early, he started falling apart. We prayed in the car. He was crying as we walked through the door.
His principal, Mrs. Monroe, was the only person in the school. She saw his face, grabbed his hand, and took him into the office where she told him how proud she was of him for coming so far since the debacle of Kindergarten. She gave him a tissue and asked if they could go in and look at the stage together. He had calmed down by this point, but as they walked out of the office and he walked nearer to me, he started breaking down again and tried to bury his face in my arms.
I knelt down, put both hands on his belly, and said, "Trey, let God give you the peace we prayed for. He is with you."
Mrs. Monroe bent down and said, "I believe that too."
I pushed Trey along with her, and by the time they had gone to look at the empty stage, he returned to the hallway smiling. Well, halfway smiling. And he went through with it again. This time he was along the side of the stage, not on the risers, but he was still onstage and I could see him. Sort of. And the pride that boy felt in himself when it was over, my goodness.
So he knows now that he can do it. A pretty big victory for a boy who wishes he could disappear. And hopefully, a lasting impression on his mind that God indeed walks with him, giving him strength and peace.
I emailed Mrs. Monroe the next morning, thanking her yet again for investing in our boy, and telling her I believed God put her right there in that hallway to meet us as Trey was breaking down. She wrote back and said she believed God had called her to invest in the children, and that she was glad she had been there when Trey needed her.
Praise, praise the Lord for Godly people in public schools.
As wonderful as all of this is, it has come during a rather strained time for Trey and me. We're a whole lot alike, Trey and me. See, I'm the girl who spent much of my childhood wishing I could disappear. I'm a passive-aggressive control freak who doesn't like change. Trey is turning out to be very much like that. And though our similar personalities cause us to clash sometimes, I honestly think I could relate to him better if he was exactly like me.
But he's not. See, I'm a pleaser to the core, which is what drove me to participate in things as I was growing up, and to eventually see their great, great worth. Trey, on the other hand, seems to have inherited this couldn't-care-less-what-anyone-thinks gene from his Dad. Put that together with the type A invisibility complex he got from me, and it's a volatile combination, my friends.
I'm hard on Trey. Too hard. Admittedly. We aren't doing well lately.
And baseball is what did me in. I will say that it deeply saddens me to see the athletic ability that Trey has, not being put to use on a team somewhere. It really, really bothers me. A lot. Mostly because some of the best memories of my childhood were on a softball field. Man, I wouldn't trade those practices and games for anything in the world, even if six years in I was still vomit-nervous every time I came up to bat. I want those memories for Trey so badly.
So when the county rec registration form came home with him from school the other day, I sat with him for almost an hour talking about it. I explained that baseball was a slower-paced and less complicated game than basketball. A good place to start. That the kids on his team would all be his age and from his school, so he would know other people on the team. That he was already good at throwing and hitting. I told him countless stories from my time on the field. That I didn't want him hitting thirty-three years old and regretting that he didn't do more with his childhood. Told him that God wanted him to realize that he could trust God, that God would give him all the strength he needed, if he would just step out and try.
He still said no. That the only way he would play was if there would be no one watching on the sidelines or in the bleachers. Ever.
And then I told him that it was time for him to get over himself, and that I was signing him up. Period.
Words my passive-aggressive self had been itching to say for a long, long time.
I had no intention of backing down on this declaration of sanity. It was the right move, and one day he would thank me for it. One day soon. Like the second or third practice.
But as our relationship deteriorated even further over the next week or so, as he pretty much completely lost all respect for me and started throwing my passive aggression back in my face, and after receiving some uncertain feedback from wiser folks, I just gave up. Told Trey I was wrong. That even though I knew he would grow to love baseball, or really participating in anything, I didn't want to be the reason he was miserable even for a short time.
This has just wrecked me. In part because I backed down and basically proved to Trey that I'm not strong enough to stick to my guns. Not a great thing for a parent to show a child.
But so much more than that, I have seen firsthand that my son refuses to listen to any wisdom that I have.
My son. Who is seven.
And I am wrecked.
Utterly overwhelmed at the thought of needing to raise this boy well into the future, when the real issues will come up. You know, the ones a lot less wholesome than baseball.
In this moment now, any confidence I once had as a parent has evaporated. Sometimes I don't even know what to say to Trey. Our relationship is completely different. And he's seven.
I have to tell myself it's going to be OK, because surely it has to be OK. I struggled with lack of confidence for my whole life, and it's ended up OK. Better than OK. God is gracious and faithful, everything I needed Him to be then, and everything I need Him to be now.
It's only in your head you feel left out or looked down on
Just try your best, try everything you can
And don't you worry what they tell themselves when you're away
It just takes some time
Little girl you're in the middle of the ride
Everything, everything will be just fine
Everything, everything will be alright
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