Yesterday was the first day of my son's soccer season. Practice started at 5:30 and was expected to run until 6:30 {OF COURSE--dinner hours are NEVER sacred in our culture anymore...but I digress...}.
I plan ahead, especially since I am flying solo this week.
I feed all three kids a healthy dinner of spaghetti and meatballs with milk.
I allow time for Turbo to change clothes, put on his shin guards, socks, and shoes.
His soccer ball is already in the van...and has been for 3 days.
A lawn blanket is at the ready for me and the girls to use while we watch the practice.
Ice waters are poured in individual to-go tumblers and ready to go.
It is 5:15--time to get mobilized and get everyone in the car.
But there is a slight problem. Turbo has decided, after putting on his shin guards (which are attached to a support sock with an under-the-foot-strap-thing-a-ma-jiggy), knee-high soccer socks, and tennis shoes, that everything "feels funny" and he does NOT want to go anymore. In a frustrated rage, he has torn off all said articles of clothing and is in a red-faced heap on the foyer rug.
AWESOME.
I did NOT sign up for this.
After attempting to reason with him, switching the order of the socks/shin guard/shoe layering process, tucking all extraneous flaps of material of the socks either under, to the side of, or on top of his foot...he still does NOT want to go.
I threaten.
I bribe.
I look at my watch.
I text my husband.
I gather up all shoes/socks/guards, grab my son's crocs and then order all the kids into the van to "sort this out when we get there."
He is sullen, angry, and frustrated.
I stew. And drive.
The girls fight over who gets to read what book from their carseats.
I stew some more. And pull into the soccer practice parking lot. Late.
Turbo refuses to get out of the car. The girls hop out and I ask them to carry the lawn blanket, Turbo's ball, his shoes/socks/guards and again threaten. I have no choice but to leave the ice waters in the car.
I cajole. Threaten. Bribe.
Somehow, by the grace of God, he relents and gets out of the car wearing his crocs. We proceed to the field and are told by a bystander that we are to walk to the other side of the sports complex because this is the travel soccer team side to practice. Somehow in the chaos of trying to get my children out of the van, I have failed to notice the hoards of teenagers that have either driven themselves or been dropped off by parents for their soccer practice.
AWESOME.
I consider getting back into the van to move it, but the thought of coaxing everyone back OUT of the van makes me want to hurl chunks.
So the four of us walk to the 5-and-under soccer practice area of the field. Now it is really late. I walk up to the coach, make introductions, and then explain that we WERE dressed, but now we are not because everything felt "funny" and now we are simply HERE.
And did I mention it is late-August and HOT AS HADES in the blazing late-afternoon, shadeless sun??...But I digress...
My son plops down on the picnic table next to the stack of lime-green jerseys. The coach plays it down and we chit-chat for a bit while he distributes the jerseys and has everyone line up to start drills. I put the socks/shoes/guards beside my son and wait. And then I scan the crowd of other moms and dads and try a weak smile. And attempt small talk. And try to ignore my three-year-old who is now crouching in the dusty sand, picking up the dirt by fistfuls and letting it go in the wind to ensure that she, along with all those children and adults standing behind her, are now thoroughly covered in dirt.
AWESOME.
Guess it will be bath night again tonight.
And, after what seems like EONS, my son finally grabs for his gear and asks me to help him put it all on, but this time with the shin guards on TOP of the socks. I restrain myself from reminding him that we DID that back at the house. Fine. We do that combination and he grabs one of the last jerseys on the table and hands it to me. Do you want to wear it? Like EVERYONE else? No. He shakes his head and runs off. Naturally.
I try not to notice. Why? Because in my heart-of-hearts, I know that my righteousness--my right-standing before God and man--has everything to do with Christ and NOT with me or MY KIDS.
But, oh....how my flesh CRAVES this.
And I take a deep breath in, as I see that Turbo has joined in with the team drills, and I carry the lawn blanket into the shade by the woods, open it up, and ease myself down to rest for a bit.
This motherhood thing is TOUGH STUFF.
AWESOME.
And then, God has done it again. Completely slayed me.
And I wish I could say that the kids and I reunite after practice and everything is right with the world again. But I can't. I would battle another tantrum (or two, okay, three...but I try not to count for sanity reasons!), this time from my three-year-old when I drag her AWAY from Bruster's Ice Cream because she was NOT content after having her own strawberry cone and getting MORE from her brother and I (I did mention the fact that I used bribery, right?)...and then wailed in the car because she did NOT want to come home to get a bath and go to bed, and then after I disciplined her for unrolling an entire toilet paper roll when she was supposed to be getting ready for her bath, and well...
TOUGH STUFF.
And suddenly I realize the reason why we had read the story about Joseph and the colored coat in our Jesus Storybook Bible that morning. It was not for them. It was for me. To remember to FORGIVE, even when they are mean, and ignorant, and selfish, and foolish, and childish, ungrateful, and stubborn. When it is undeserved. Like Joseph did for his brothers. Like Christ did (and continues to do) for me.
And again...I am completely undone.
God, you are SO good, and you are SO faithful.
And this is TOUGH STUFF. But I am so grateful that YOU have got this.
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