Self-Realization

I am THAT mom. And by that I mean that mom that screams at their child from the sidelines of whatever sport they're playing. That mom that expects their child sit still through a sermon when the pastor announces there will be no children's church that Sunday. That mom that expects PERFECTION from their child...while she, herself, fails miserably every day.

When I got the letter saying Isaac scored high enough to start testing for the gifted program, I just knew it was a slam dunk. I mean, of COURSE my child was gifted. So when the counsellor called today to tell me he didn't qualify, I'm pretty sure my voice took on a tone of defiance. But what was even worse, was that I began questioning what he had done wrong...he knows better, he could have done better, was he applying himself...all these things I thought about my 1st grader. Who does that? What kind of mother puts that pressure on a 7 year old?

The counsellor began to explain that it was his math score, and while high - just wasn't high enough. "But, Jillian, Isaac's reading scores were amazing." Yes, I know. Of course I know. Just like I know he could have done better in math. What is wrong with me? How do I differentiate between wanting my child to succeed to his full potential, and putting too much pressure on him that he begins to withdraw?

I look at him - when he fixes his own lunch everyday for school, when he puts away all his and Milo's folded clothes, when he makes his own DINNER and Milo's, too, when he puts the dog in her kennel every morning before we leave for school, when he lets her out every night when we return home. How is it that I want more?

I am so humbled that God has given me a child who sees me through forgiving eyes, who loves me with an open heart, who knows me with a discerning mind...because I am his mom. He, who is 7 years old, knows that I will fail...he knows that I will act like a crazy, that I will always say I'm sorry, that I will always admit to my faults. He knows this, and expects nothing more from me.

My Thinker

There are certain moments of your birth that I remember. But the one that sticks out is when the Dr. brought you to me while I was laying on the operating table. I looked over at you, not knowing what you would look like, and one single tear fell from my eye when I saw your crazy red hair and heard you crying. You were my first. There will never be another you...another first. And because of that - you are so special. I learned with you how to be a better person...a selfless person. You became the reason I wanted to BE. Everything I did...and still do...is all for you.

You are a thinker. You have an explanation for every idea and thought that you have. How amazing and rational our world would be if we all had that logic. Creative, oh yes!!! Drawings upon drawings cover the refrigerator and dishwasher and washing machine...I love that about you. It reminds me of myself...and what I wish I hadn't lost. You are such a chatterbox! And one day the world will listen. You are going to do great, great things. Loud, passionate...sassy, of course. You are your mama's boy. But I think you do a better job of it than I.

I am content with how I've raised you, but I am PROUD at who you've chosen to become. Happy 7th birthday to my interesting, never boring freckle-faced first. I love you more than you will ever, ever know.