Saturday, February 1, 2020

"Why do you fight me so much about all of this?" I asked her after a series of inflammatory responses to my mothering that day.
"I don't know."  A long pause.  "I just don't you telling me what to do."
I sighed internally at the truth bomb she'd just dropped.  "Who do you like telling you what to do?"
She cracked a smile at that and said, "Nobody!"
I knew that was true because I felt the same way deep in my bones.  Even though it's useful and downright necessary for God's eternal blessings, I don't enjoy (and far too often fight) being told what to do.  It feels so very right when it is a conclusion I come to on my own. 

This morning I took her to a sewing class meant for kids a couple of years older than her.  She was pretty nervous at first, but as I expected, she did a great job.  As I saw her hesitation and shaky hands, I saw her soul worried about getting it right.  As much as she fights to live life her way, she's actually quite fragile.  She's a beautiful contradiction that way.  I guess we all are. 

The strength and fierceness she carries around with her, while undeniable, is also the protection she has built to keep from admitting vulnerability. Why is admitting failure and needing help such a disgusting thing? 

After spending over 3 hours together today without the boys, she went to sleep quickly and without much conflict throughout the evening.  I honestly feel like I have no idea what I'm doing raising this girl and yet I feel like she's raising me in the process.

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