This week my son buried his face in his hands and said, “no. It too hard,” twice. Once was about some of the speech development exercises we’ve been working on, and once was about the potty. I’ve blogged in the past about my personal lifelong aversion to “too hard.” Far too often in my life I have said, “it’s too hard” as a justification to not do something. Violin lessons, any sport you could mention, math, have all fallen to the god of ease. I would have never been a star athlete, no matter the work invested, but I suspect that with some discipline I could have performed far better in math throughout my school years.
The part of me that hates that part of me wants to try to force that sort of self-discipline on my three and a half year old son right now. I want to tell him that hard means try more. I do tell him that hard means worth working at. On the other hand, I have to acknowledge that these things are far harder for him than they are for other children his age. Most children literally absorb language from their surroundings subconsciously, they don’t have to spend hours each week teaching their mouth the difference between a “d” sound and a “w” sound. The Lord, in his sovereignty, has chosen to make my son’s first few years abnormally difficult, possibly to teach him the self-discipline I am too impatient (oh the irony!) to let him learn.
I am having to come face to face with the fact that my frustration when he says, “It too hard!”, my begging God just to give the boy words and and teach him to potty already, is really me throwing up my hands and saying, “no! It too hard. Stop the process of teaching him, already, because parenting him through this is just too hard!”
I suspect I’ve got as much to learn in all of this as my cheesedoodle does. Maybe more.