Sometimes, my heart needs reminders too. Reminders that the awesome things that we set up for our kids are nothing if we don't spend time with them in the midst of it. That we're still learning and growing, clumsy at this, awkward. Teaching and modeling and discipling on the run. Bouncing against each others' lives like so many rocks in a polisher.
7:11 comes, and I spend hours watching them bounce into and off of each other in an inflatable boxing ring. Really watching them. Watching to know when to count down from ten when they start to get exhausted. Watching to make sure that they keep each other on their feet.
But, also watching when they pair off carefully. When kids who are bigger or stronger or faster hold off a little to give the smaller ones an upper hand. When they brag on each other and encourage each other and laugh together about things that were done. When they pay attention to the tiny details of moments and force my scattered brain to pay attention to them too.
Details that whisper that they're getting older. Still little. Mature. Growing. But, mostly, details that whisper about the trust that we have built into this thing.
"They're your kids," K*r*n shrugs as I reach in and snag a stubborn boy by the ankle, pulling him half out of the inflatable until he agrees to wear the foam helmet, "you don't want them to get hurt."
It's said casually, carefully, and the layers of truth to it catch my heart in my chest.
My kids.
I've called them that for years, at least as many years as they have called me their leader. But, somewhere only recently, they have picked it up as a form of self reference.
"Your kids are…" "Your kid…" "Control your kids!"
My kids. Running wild through the building. Playing hide and seek in all the places where they are not supposed to be. Helping me to hunt each other down and shrugging gracefully into new boundaries. Coming to me when they are hurt or in trouble or bored or confused.
Walking on the tops of chairs. Playing deaf to guest leaders who try to stop them. Glaring at me when I send them to apologize and digging in their emotional heels. But, doing it anyways, because these are our kids, which makes them stubborn as rocks, but responsible to their very cores.
Responsible enough to apologize to a stranger. Responsible enough that I find a pair of best friends split up for the rest of the night. Separating from each other rather than being seen as an item when they are not.
So much more grown up than they used to be and yet still so much younger than they feel.
"You don't want them to get hurt."
Physically, I 'll keep them safe, sure. Watch for the moment just before the boxing ring stops being fun. Insist that they wear the helmet. Hold ear rings and glasses and hats and phones until my hands are overflowing. Offer bandaids and examine bruises. Let them test their bodies and find their limits.
J*n*h (LJ) and C*lt*n ask if I'll leave them in the boxing ring for "a long time," past the exhaustion point where I normally pull them out. And, then, they aren't quite sure what to do with themselves with the protective limit removed, J*n*h finally flopping down and glancing at me with a look that suggests I just kicked a puppy. "Aren't you going to do that thing where you count down?"
There is a trust here. Trust that, while they're still learning their growing bodies, I will stop them before they go to far.
But, there is also J*n*h D, the blond head that you can just see in the backgrounds of some of the Faceb**k photos, leaned up against the bounce house beside me, talking. Reporting in on each of my kids. Where they are. Who they're with. Whenever there might be a situation that requires an extra set of eyes.
Not to be a narc, but because it is in their natures to look out for one another. To protect each other. Even when it means protecting each other from each other.
"So and so is being mean to me again," one of the girls comes up to complain, and his eyes flash fire.
"Like at camp?" He fixes me with a look that insists that I go and fix it. Fix it now, before someone gets hurt. Not because he can't or he won't, but because these are my kids, and, so much like my kiddos at school, they assume that keeping them safe is written into my DNA.
Assume that, as they are navigating these floods of hormones and this growing understanding, I will stop them before they go to far. Assume that I (we) don't want them to get hurt.
The intricate N*rf gun courses and the hours that we spent taping and stapling and preparing for their arrival mean nothing unless we care for them at least as gently as they care for one another.
So we do, or we try to. And, I'm never quite sure that we get it all right. That with this many kids running around it is even possible to get it all right for five minutes, let alone four hours. But, so long as these are our kids, we are certainly going to try.
7:11 comes, and I spend hours watching them bounce into and off of each other in an inflatable boxing ring. Really watching them. Watching to know when to count down from ten when they start to get exhausted. Watching to make sure that they keep each other on their feet.
But, also watching when they pair off carefully. When kids who are bigger or stronger or faster hold off a little to give the smaller ones an upper hand. When they brag on each other and encourage each other and laugh together about things that were done. When they pay attention to the tiny details of moments and force my scattered brain to pay attention to them too.
"They're your kids," K*r*n shrugs as I reach in and snag a stubborn boy by the ankle, pulling him half out of the inflatable until he agrees to wear the foam helmet, "you don't want them to get hurt."
It's said casually, carefully, and the layers of truth to it catch my heart in my chest.
My kids.
I've called them that for years, at least as many years as they have called me their leader. But, somewhere only recently, they have picked it up as a form of self reference.
"Your kids are…" "Your kid…" "Control your kids!"
My kids. Running wild through the building. Playing hide and seek in all the places where they are not supposed to be. Helping me to hunt each other down and shrugging gracefully into new boundaries. Coming to me when they are hurt or in trouble or bored or confused.
Walking on the tops of chairs. Playing deaf to guest leaders who try to stop them. Glaring at me when I send them to apologize and digging in their emotional heels. But, doing it anyways, because these are our kids, which makes them stubborn as rocks, but responsible to their very cores.
Responsible enough to apologize to a stranger. Responsible enough that I find a pair of best friends split up for the rest of the night. Separating from each other rather than being seen as an item when they are not.
So much more grown up than they used to be and yet still so much younger than they feel.
"You don't want them to get hurt."
Physically, I 'll keep them safe, sure. Watch for the moment just before the boxing ring stops being fun. Insist that they wear the helmet. Hold ear rings and glasses and hats and phones until my hands are overflowing. Offer bandaids and examine bruises. Let them test their bodies and find their limits.
J*n*h (LJ) and C*lt*n ask if I'll leave them in the boxing ring for "a long time," past the exhaustion point where I normally pull them out. And, then, they aren't quite sure what to do with themselves with the protective limit removed, J*n*h finally flopping down and glancing at me with a look that suggests I just kicked a puppy. "Aren't you going to do that thing where you count down?"
There is a trust here. Trust that, while they're still learning their growing bodies, I will stop them before they go to far.
But, there is also J*n*h D, the blond head that you can just see in the backgrounds of some of the Faceb**k photos, leaned up against the bounce house beside me, talking. Reporting in on each of my kids. Where they are. Who they're with. Whenever there might be a situation that requires an extra set of eyes.
Not to be a narc, but because it is in their natures to look out for one another. To protect each other. Even when it means protecting each other from each other.
"So and so is being mean to me again," one of the girls comes up to complain, and his eyes flash fire.
"Like at camp?" He fixes me with a look that insists that I go and fix it. Fix it now, before someone gets hurt. Not because he can't or he won't, but because these are my kids, and, so much like my kiddos at school, they assume that keeping them safe is written into my DNA.
Assume that, as they are navigating these floods of hormones and this growing understanding, I will stop them before they go to far. Assume that I (we) don't want them to get hurt.
The intricate N*rf gun courses and the hours that we spent taping and stapling and preparing for their arrival mean nothing unless we care for them at least as gently as they care for one another.
So we do, or we try to. And, I'm never quite sure that we get it all right. That with this many kids running around it is even possible to get it all right for five minutes, let alone four hours. But, so long as these are our kids, we are certainly going to try.
