"I wasn’t always like this…"

I said, as I tucked her into bed. Attempting to tell her that I was a child once, too.

I try not to come down too hard on her, knowing that I, too, was a child who made more than my fair share of mistakes. Some hidden. Some discovered. But, plenty of mistakes. I find myself thinking that I was probably easier to raise or never disrespectful of authority or just plain boringly perfect.


I was never perfect. I disrespected my parents. I talked back. I got in trouble. It wasn’t constant. But, I am remembering a false childhood if I think for a second that “I was some perfect child” and “what is wrong with my own kids!?”

So, I try to tell her (them) about my own mistakes- the ones I can recall and want to share. I tell them of my own hurts as a child. How my parents tried to help me. They taught me to go to God and showed me what having a personal relationship with the Lord looked like.  I remember getting really angry with my mom. Not often, but it happened. And, although I can’t remember the exact circumstances of each time, I can tell you that when I was angry with my mom, it was usually a result of my mom holding me accountable. I’d been discovered. I’d been caught. And, I was angry at the one who caught me.

I suppose that’s human nature. We tend to want to blame anyone but ourselves, even when we may be the one who is solely responsible. We are angry at the person who busted us. So, now, I am the one who busts the children in their childlike behavior. I am the one that holds them accountable. And, I am the one who makes them angry.

We are working through it.

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