Lest you think that my weekend was a magically perfect, Christmas memory making wonderland, I assure you that in the midst of decking the halls, lighting up a warm, holiday welcome at the front of our home, and celebrating one amazingly talented and handsome young mans 17th birthday, we had our fair share of trauma and nightmarish madness.
You see, I’m not perfect, and neither is my life. I am the mother of wounded children. Children with a past. Children with pain. Some days, I pull the right tools out of my tool box, and I love them well. Sometimes I care for their wounds like a pro, and other days I blow it.
Sometimes I stomp my foot and throw it back, just like that wounded child. Sometimes I get offended and take it personally, and even as I write, my heart is reminding itself that it’s not about me. I’m just the punching bag called mom. And with lots of amazing adoptive-parenting teachers out there handing out tools and modeling good parenting, I don’t want you to feel like a failure when you forget the rules.
I forget the rules a lot. I lose my calm voice, I forget to whisper, and I scream back at the screamer. I try to rationalize with the irrational. And worst of all, I sometimes lose my sense of humor.
I’m guessing, just guessing, that I’m not alone. So all you blog-reading friends, all of you parents out there walking through life with wounded kids, I get it. It’s hard, it’s really hard, and I’m not perfect. I promise you, I’m not.
Some days my love is weak. Sometimes I choose to love a child that I don’t like at all.
Once, when I was close to giving up because it seemed way to hard, my brother Derek told me, “Trace, your weak love is better than no love at all.” So, I keep loving, with my weak, imperfect, not-so-Christmas-magical love, and I whisper prayers asking for grace and strength.
And I remind myself that tomorrow is a new day, and I get to love again, with all my imperfections.