September 27, 2007 | Mama Smith

apple cakes

This morning we baked apple cakes for our neighbors. From an onlookers perspective, this would have been considered a quaint, generous endeavor. Brighton and I would have been found picturesquely bustling about the kitchen, covered in flour and standing in batter that had been flung to the ground by B’s forceful stirring. Filled with love for our neighborhood and each other.

Quite the opposite. I decided to pull out the baking supplies after fighting with Brighton all morning, trying to keep the new excessive whining to a minimum. Last resort, let him bake. It always keeps him manageable for at least a half hour.

I am tired. I am culture shocking. I am not feeling social. I miss Matt & Marice and know we will not find them behind the doors across our street. But I feel an ache to get to know our little half-mile stretch of homes and feel, in some small way, as if we belong here.

So we set to baking these little cakes and hope to at least meet one or two new faces over the weekend.

180 discussion turn here. Brighton is still learning the mysteries of the potty. Some weeks he’s into it, some he’s not. Before leaving our pediatrician in Philly, he suggested a chart with stickers to keep the thrill alive in the whole “potty relationship”. After a victory in the bathroom yesterday (victory for me, because it was one less poopy butt I had to wipe), we decided to make this chart. Cookies for poop. Bananas for pee…which oddly enough is coming out of the butt as well in this depiction? Yes, bananas are still honored enough by B to qualify as a treat. Lucky us. So far, today the thrill is still in the air.

As I mentioned though, B and I have been having a rough week. He’s following in his mother’s footsteps. The mother who, by the age of 7, had become Child Manipulator Extraordinaire. Who could lie her way out of school for a week, steal $20 from her babysitter who was a single mom on welfare, and convince her little sister to rub her back for over an hour every night. The same little sister she would feed frog tongues to in seventh grade. Ahh, 7th grade science, dissecting frogs. Who would have thought frog tongues could look so much like ham in eggs?

B has begun testing the boundaries in a new way. Hiding food he was supposed to eat in a box under the table. Sneaking out of bed and attempting a mad dash back from across the room when he hears my footsteps. Obeying the “stay on the grass” until he accidentally “drops” his truck on the dirt. Dropping, in toddler language, is also known as hurling to most people. Dropping legitimates an accident occurred and therefore a trip out onto the dirt is acceptable. Whereas tossing the truck on purpose would not have been.

The list could go on and on. It is hard to see myself in B. The things that hurt so many people in my life and wore my own mom down, now exhibiting itself in my little boy. This is the fallen, broken world we live in. This week, as I fail miserably at being a compassionate, loving, shepherding mom, I am ready for brokenness to be restored. For sin to be crushed. For the beauty of who we were intended to be as Christ’s children to be uninhibited by the grime we carry from being born into a fallen world as fallen people.

And until that day, I ache for Christ to meet our family here in the muck. Here in the tantrums, the short fuses, the lack of compassion, the hidden vegetables, the leaking toilet, the frustrations that quickly fill up an entire day. I want Him to remind me that He will always be a better lover of Brighton than I will. That a hug and a sorry after glaring at B with an annoyed, disdaining look, as my off-limits coffee mug goes flying across the carpet, is exactly what He’s called me to. And not to do mothering perfectly, but to ask for forgiveness often. Not to kick myself for failing B today, but to come back and admit my fault to the face of my two year old…who more often than not, doesn’t seem to care. Remembering that Christ has done mothering perfectly. And my lack of ability to do so is exactly why He came. And is a daily reminder that I desperately, desperately need a Savior. Today, tomorrow, and on down this long road.

That is what I want my boys to grow up knowing, more than any other truth. More than that they had a mom who loved them well. Or a dad who affirmed them. But that they have a Savior who will always cherish them, regardless of their performance day in and day out. That their frailty, their weakness, their inability is what keeps their face buried in the cross, reminding them on their good days and bad days that they need this Savior Jesus.