Ten bags.
Five storage bins.
Today, I decided to accept the inevitable and pass the boys' clothes on to families who can use them. We have been tremendously blessed with almost a year's worth of clothing for Violet: so much that I can count the outfits I've purchased for her on one hand. I wanted to do the same for other families, and everything the boys wore in the first two years of their lives was quickly claimed.
I sorted through the clothes as the boys played with their train set, pausing occasionally to scold them as they scattered the piles I'd just sorted. So many emotions cling to those tiny onesies; it is hard to believe that Eli wore the striped monkey shirt and brown pants, but I can still picture him decked out, with his brown dress shoes and his tiny belly pooching over the waistband. He fell asleep on his changing table in that outfit, his tiny fists clenched above his head. I took a picture because it was the first time he fell asleep without a battle...and it didn't happen again for a long time. There's the tank top onesies; I loved how they showed his little guns...er...fat rolls. Those were heady days, the early months of parenting. I truly didn't believe I'd survive. I existed in a sleep-deprived haze of fear and driving perfection; I wish I'd known then what I know now. But what do I know now?
There's three tiny newborn baseball outfits. Eli wore them, then Caleb for a few days. I have a picture of Caleb sleeping in the red one, his old-man face scrunched up into a pout. Caleb was the polar opposite of his brother: sleepy, dreamy, easy. I savored parenting: Eli had reached a fun age, and Caleb was a dream baby. Life was scary: a new house, a lost job, an unkown future. But we named Caleb for the spy who saw the potential in the promised land, not the size of the giants. He believed in his God and he was not afraid.
And we were taken care of, far more than we could have imagined.
This time around, this third time, parenting is challenging again. I'm used to the daily toll of diapers and laundry and spit-up, though I'm still more tired than I remember being before. The boys, however, have hit the stage where I am disciplining them. Constantly. For everything. If they're playing, they're destroying something. If they're eating, they're making a mess. Or complaining. If they want me, the want me loudly, over and over again. I can't quite find my rhythm. I feel like I'm spinning out of control; my temper surely is. I pray constantly now: for the courage to breathe in and out, to hug instead of spank, to stop and slow down and pay attention to the most important work I will do. I have to believe that eventually I will get it. That God will create rhythms, just like He did when Eli was a baby. That God will provide for us financially, just like He did when Caleb was born. That God will bond us together as a family, that He will show me how to teach these children to value their siblings.
The thing about parenting is that it has taught me so much that I previously could not understand about God. It is no accident, I believe, that He gives us the image of Him as a father. When my boys throw tantrums because I'm not giving them their way immediately, they don't see the good gifts I am preparing to give them. They don't trust that I have them covered...that I have already prepared a way. And I love them anyway. Sometimes I'm even patient with them. Our God is a heavenly father, and I can see Him parenting me the same way. When I connect with God as a father, I can understand the love He has for me. Sometimes I can even begin to trust the father God. Because daddies take care of their babies. They delight in what gives them joy. And my God delights in me.
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