So I'm married to the Cowboy, right?
And Cowboy's enjoy themselves a beer every once in awhile, right?
Well, it appears that their sons do too...
every once in awhile...
That littlest boy...
Why do I even act surprised any more?
I'm in the school room on a Monday morning talking to the big brother about adding numbers and I look up, and there he is.
The little guy, sitting on the floor, guzzling down whatever might have been left of Papa's beverage from the night before. He's covered in beer and grinning from ear to ear. I'm pretty sure he's gotten more on his shirt than in his mouth but I run over and take the can from him anyways.
And he gets mad.
He grabs his shirt and starts sucking the beer right out of his shirt.
"BEER IS NOT OK FOR BABIES!
NOT EVEN OCCASIONALLY!"
I tell him firmly while I unbutton his saturated plaid.
He becomes a big ball of tears on the floor.
Why is this happening to me?
I'm in control.
I run an orderly ship around here.
I have fairly mellow children who know how to keep their hands to themselves.
But this child.
Where did this child come from?
Look at that face. That sweet sweet face that keeps me in the place where I am my absolute best me...
He keeps me where I'm the me on my knees.
How to love, and not choose anger?
How to laugh, and not choose tears?
What does a Mama do when God sets a tornado right smack in the middle of the living room and gives him permission to just run a muck?
You look right into that strong, angelic face and say it out loud until it sinks into the deepest pits of your very being...
Acceptance with joy.
ACCEPT-ance WITH JOY!
Come near to God, and He will come near to you.
And there I am on my knees, the posture that suits me best.
He's there. There with me on the living room floor, with the little boy and the can of beer and this heart of mine that can't decide whether or not it wants to laugh or cry.
And He whispers it with a tender chuckle, "I send the storms, only that you might see My face, and believe that I Am ALL that you will ever need. "
I soak up what He gives, for All that He gives is good.
even in the eye of the storm.
I sweep up that bundle of boy. Slide my fingers down his teary cheek, and softly and slowly explain what seems so obvious,
"Beer, my dear, is not for babies."
He wails for awhile longer and I regain my strength on my knees.
Together we grow up in this place.
And like the dancing girl always says...
"At least he's stinkin cute Mom." :)
To which I reply...
At least he's stinkin cute." :)