Wild at Heart in the Garland Home

As you may have noticed, being a mother to boys completely freaks me out. 

Aggressive play. 
Random wrestling moves that include having your brother by the throat.
Jumping from the highest point to the lowest point....45 times. 
Climbing the book case.
Climbing the retaining wall. 
Dragging your brother around the floor by his ankle. 
Digging for worms.
Picking up sticks and using them as swords/guns/lasers/arrows to kill the bad guys.
Making all of your toys engage in epic battle with each other. 
Becoming easily obsessed with karate moves. (Justin saw 20 seconds of a karate movie and punched the TV.  I wish I was joking.)

Every single one of these happen weekly, and each and every time, I have an instant response inside my head.  I've heard myself yell "No! Get down! There are no bad guys! Do not pretend to shoot your brother! You are going to get hurt! That is dangerous! That's disgusting!  You are going to break your neck!"  It goes on and on.  The question being constantly asked in my head is "Seriously? Why can't they play quietly like normal people?"

And I would have to admit that a great deal of my efforts are because frankly, it's totally embarrassing when my child tackles his brother or yells "I'm going to kill you!" in public.  You would guess they are watching Gladiator 24/7 in the Garland house.  The fact that I'm a therapist that loves to work with children doesn't help the judgement....or should I say, the fear of judgement.  The quiet, can't-we-all-just-get-along, coffee drinking girl inside of me longs to get my children to sit down, color something besides the wall, and make their toys help each other. 

And in the interest of time, we'll all just acknowledge that it has never worked and I'm causing myself a great deal of grief trying to turn these boys into girls. 

There, I said it. 

So I'm an avid reader (often reading a book every 5 days plus the Bible and occasionally several books at a time), and I ran into a dry spell recently.  At several recommendations, I had bought a copy of Wild at Heart by John Eldredge for Chris to read.  Turns out that Chris is actually too wild at heart to read the book, so it's been sitting around the house.  I decided to look it over, and lo and behold...it's changed my entire perspective of my boys. 

I hate giving synopses of books, mostly because I'm afraid I won't do the author justice.  However, the moral of his book is that God created man in His own image, in the wilderness, prior to the Garden of Eden.  He's built to be an explorer, a warrior, a ruler over all things.  Eldredge says "Like it or not, there is something fierce in the heart of every man."  Essentially, Eldredge argues that God made man with a tendency to seek an adventure to live, a battle to fight and a beauty to rescue. 

So as a mother, I read this book and it stung to the very core.  When I tell my boys to play nice, be quiet, and don't do anything dangerous, I feel like I can see down the span of time to the men I am creating.  Nice, quiet, fearful men who have no idea about the true identity of themselves or the power they possess.  My greatest fear is the picture of them sitting at an office job, knowing they are unhappy and not rising up and walking away.  I am afraid of my sons seeing a challenge and being so fearful that they will fail that they don't even try.  I would consider myself an epic failure were my sons to not recognize the man inside of them. 

I want warriors.  I want men who will rise up to the occasion and fight for what they believe in.  I want my sons to be fierce.  And I want them to be tender to their beauty.  And I want them to protect their babies.  And is it so much to ask for them to take care of me when I am incontinent someday?  (probably.)

So I'm going to ignore my own fear.  I'm going to stop (as best as I can!) trying to get them to settle down.  And I'm going to have faith that they won't end up in prison.  Chris and I have agreed that when they set up fights, we are going to gently lead them into a reason for the fight (like a beauty to rescue).   We are going
to acknowledge wounds, yet bolster them up to know that they can overcome pain.  We will help them to write the rules of God on their hearts, but we won't press them to be nice (that one is hard).  In short, I will step aside so that these boys grow up as God intended them to be.  And Chris?  He's going to show them how to be a man. 

My best quality is my innate, natural ability to give up control.  Not. 

And by the way, if this is being read in court in 20 years, and one or both of my boys are in trouble, can I just say this? 
The alternative was too heartbreaking to accept.   I refuse to break the spirit of my boys.
And I'd rather take my chances on God's design rather than my own.

The LORD is my strength and song,
And He has become my salvation;
This is my God, and I will praise Him;
My father's God, and I will extol Him.
The LORD is a warrior;
The LORD is His name. 
                             - Exodus 15:2-3

Preschool Combat

I'm a girl.  Not sure if that was clear, but I'm really a girl.  When I was told I was having a boy at the ultrasound for Chase, I walked away absolutely stunned.  I guess I just assumed that, while boys exist, I could only reproduce what I already was.  Plus, all the people in my family are girls, so needless to say I feel vastly unprepared to be the mother of two boys.  Everyday I am slapped in the face with their maleness and I'm totally perplexed.  I always considered myself a tomboy.  I was wrong. 

First of all, their boy parts are...*ahem*...scary.  I didn't realize how awkward I was around them until I had a daughter and realized how dramatically more comfortable I was.  I think when Chase was born, Chris and I actually had a conversation about if it was possible to break it.  As the boys grow older, I'm freaked.  I really am.  I'm about ready to just say to Chris that he needs to take care of all things with respect to their boy parts.  I just don't want to traumatize them (or myself) for life.  And when I'm trying to assist in washing body parts by batting a wash cloth at it with a terrified look on my face, I think it's safe to say that we are approaching trauma status. 

Second, they try to kill each other everyday and are best friends.  I think I'm starting to get the rules of brother combat, but I clearly live in an alternate universe of dolls and playing house.  For example, did you know that a pencil can be whipped across the back of your neck and leave a red mark for a few hours? 

These seem to be the rules of combat in our house, though take account for the idea that I'm female and only an observer. 

• If you profess your love for any object in the home, you can essentially kiss it goodbye.  Your weakness has been identified by your brother/best friend/enemy/competition.
• If you are playing with a toy...any toy at all, you are asking to be tackled from behind, thrown to the ground and the toy to be ripped out of your grip. 
• If you are the person that tackled the other, you better run for your life. 
• If you are the child that happens to run for your life, you should run to your mother and stand by her, ever so nonchalantly. 
• If she happens to ask you in a frustrated tone "What are you guys doing?", you both must look at her ever-so-innocently and say "nothing mom". 
• If you are wrestling and somebody wants to poop, all you have to yell is "I have to go poop" and the other immediately releases.  Both smile and wrestling is paused until the pooper returns.  
• Each boy has their own art form.  Chase is cool until he grits his teeth and wraps his hands around Justin's neck.  You know that Chase has crossed the line at this point.  However, if he's just swinging a baseball bat and hits Justin in the buns, this was "just fun".  Justin on the other hand is always having fun until he starts screaming a guttural growl wherein he starts swinging his arms in a crazy fashion and running after the other.  This appears to be the moment when the grown up is supposed to dive on the Justin and take the blow.  Because Justin will swing.  And you will be hit.  And it could be funny, or it could not be funny to him.  You never really know until you release and he either laughs hysterically or screams like a wild child. 
• Apparently the goal seems to be that you fight just enough to make your mom wonder if she'll accomplish anything at all today besides keeping you alive.  This is a intricate dance of fighting just enough so that she thinks accomplishing something was possible, yet she's interrupted enough to fail. 
• Time out is really just an opportunity to harass the offender who is stuck in a chair for a predetermined amount of time.  Just make sure that anytime your mom turns around, you are again looking ever so innocent. 
• Being in time out together is hysterical. 
• If you are angry at each other, this lasts for 14 seconds.  Just enough to make the other person cry. 

I don't get it.  I'll never get it.  They hold hands and punch each other with the free arm.  They jump off of beds, collide, wrestle to the ground screaming and then laugh.  Any object is a potential weapon.  I'm just the lady on the outside trying to argue for sanity to two insane little testosterony boys who just hear "blah blah blah".  Then they turn, smile with big dimples and say "Hey mom? Justin colored the wall with red marker.  And also the couch.  And his face.  Can I have some milk?  Why does your face look like that?"

The Evolution of Brothers

I will readily admit that as the mother of two boys very close in age (20 months apart), I often feel like this is their house, and I'm just the chaperon.  I'm constantly aware that they could overtake this home at any point if they knew the power they possess.  Thankfully, they don't.  Yet. 

To give you an idea about these boys, consider the following:

Around the time that Justin moved into a toddler bed, there was much havoc in our home as Chris and I tried to do anything and everything to convince the boys that bed time was time to rest.  Justin was freed from the crib, and they were literally climbing the dresser, jumping off the bed, trying to climb the closet, and throwing every single piece of clothing out of the dresser and hamper into the same pile.  They would both cry when we put them back in their bed, and I just couldn't understand how two children could stay up that long.  One night, Chris and I decided to just let them play and make noise until they passed out from exhaustion.  This took 2.5 hours and when the room finally went quiet, I went back there and found that they had moved Justin's bed across the room so that it was now touching Chase's bed.  They slept a lot better after that. 

When Justin was potty training, my celebration at his success was met with lukewarm response.  I would be jumping around in the bathroom yelling "yay Justin!" and Justin would run by me with glee to find Chase and give him the big news.
 


It's tough to put this into words, but they move in nearly complete harmony.  Chase translates Justin's words.  Justin worries where Chase is and doesn't seem to value any "special time" with me or Chris unless Chase is there.  Chase calls Justin his best friend.  Justin asks Chase to kiss his owies to make them better.  Justin can't celebrate something without first telling Chase.  (This morning, it was the news that we were in fact having pancakes.  Justin jumped in the air, and then ran out of room yelling "Chase! Chase! We're eating pancakes!")

The boys are moving into a new era of brotherhood as Chase has started preschool 3 days a week.  Justin started bringing comfort items to his daycare because Chase wasn't there.  Chase actually seems okay, but I've noticed the reuniting is more difficult.  They seem to fight a bit more.  I know it's normal and I'm just hanging back watching as they navigate a big change.  It's an honor to be part of their story. 

However, if they ever do figure out how much power they have combined, I'm moving out.