"Mama!...Mama!...Mama!...Mama!...Mama!...Mama!"
I was admittedly too distracted that afternoon. For having just seen him for the first time since 8:10 a.m., I should have been more engaged in what he wanted to say.
I broke off my conversation with the friend I'd chatted up in the after-school pick-up area and turned my face toward Calvin's.
"What is it that you need to say?"
"Two things," he replied, bubbling with hopeful anticipation. "I got two new books from the library today, and I really want to go to the store after school and buy a new Lego set."
"Well, that's fantastic news about the books," I said. "The Lego set sounds fun, too. The thing is, Lego sets cost a lot of money and you don't have a lot of money right now."
"How much do I need?"
"You'll need at least 10 dollars for the most basic set. I'm sure you don't have that much."
"I do have money!" he insisted. "I'll show you when we get home."
Later, we arrived at the house, shed our winter coats and Calvin sprinted to his room.
"Look!" he called down to me as I slid into my slippers and padded up the stairs. "I was right. I do have 10 dollars!"
I looked down at the bedroom carpet, where Calvin was sitting, and glimpsed a rolled up dollar bill and a jumble of sliver coins.
"See," he said, pinching a shining dime between his thumb and forefinger, "10 dollars!"
I reluctantly explained that a dime is worth 10 cents, and that's a whole lot less than 10 dollars. I then laid out a plan for him to earn some money over the coming weeks that he could use in part to buy his coveted Lego set.
A plan wasn't good enough. It wasn't immediate. It was unsatisfactory.
A tantrum ensued -- frantic wailing and mattress punching, mostly.
My heart hardened. Where was his gratefulness? Where was his contentment?
I spewed a few platitudes toward his top bunk, where he had retreated to flail and moan in peace -- words about appreciating the whole tray of Legos down here on the floor that he already had and that some kids don't even have Legos.
Recognizing the unheard-ness of my words, I reminded him of the plan to earn the money and left the room.
This happens every now and then. I think things are going eerily smoothly on the parenting front and then a glaring misguidance pops up in front of me.
We're all prone to greed now and then, I began to rationalize. We want, we can't have and we continue wanting. Calvin is human, just like the rest of us. Desire is a mainstay of the human experience.
But that wasn't the full picture of what was going on here. The truth is, he doesn't have a lot of practical experience with unfulfilled want. By almost every reasonable measuring stick, our family is rich.
How frequently does he go without anything? Hardly ever.
When am I ever left wanting what I can't have? Almost never.
So how is it, then, that Calvin is supposed to know how to cope with the wanting and not getting, when his whole life has been a smorgasbord? So has mine.
As a parent, I'm supposed to muster the perspective to impart the concept of contentment to him, but out of what? It's folly for me to pretend I have a clue about human suffering.
Every year, five million children in the world die from hunger. Why am I not paralyzed by that fact every time I place a hot plate of healthy food in front of my own three while I stand in the midst of sickening prosperity?
On a much smaller level, this is the kind of tug of war that is taking root in Calvin's heart: On one side of the rope is living how Christ called us to, on the other, a pile of brand new Legos. I know from experience it won't always be Legos on that one side, but there will always be something.
Our family is grappling with simplicity and contentment this month on several fronts with our church, Bible study groups and within our own home. Visit here if you are, too and want to dig deeper.
I was admittedly too distracted that afternoon. For having just seen him for the first time since 8:10 a.m., I should have been more engaged in what he wanted to say.
I broke off my conversation with the friend I'd chatted up in the after-school pick-up area and turned my face toward Calvin's.
"What is it that you need to say?"
"Two things," he replied, bubbling with hopeful anticipation. "I got two new books from the library today, and I really want to go to the store after school and buy a new Lego set."
"Well, that's fantastic news about the books," I said. "The Lego set sounds fun, too. The thing is, Lego sets cost a lot of money and you don't have a lot of money right now."
"How much do I need?"
"You'll need at least 10 dollars for the most basic set. I'm sure you don't have that much."
"I do have money!" he insisted. "I'll show you when we get home."
Later, we arrived at the house, shed our winter coats and Calvin sprinted to his room.
"Look!" he called down to me as I slid into my slippers and padded up the stairs. "I was right. I do have 10 dollars!"
I looked down at the bedroom carpet, where Calvin was sitting, and glimpsed a rolled up dollar bill and a jumble of sliver coins.
"See," he said, pinching a shining dime between his thumb and forefinger, "10 dollars!"
I reluctantly explained that a dime is worth 10 cents, and that's a whole lot less than 10 dollars. I then laid out a plan for him to earn some money over the coming weeks that he could use in part to buy his coveted Lego set.
A plan wasn't good enough. It wasn't immediate. It was unsatisfactory.
A tantrum ensued -- frantic wailing and mattress punching, mostly.
My heart hardened. Where was his gratefulness? Where was his contentment?
I spewed a few platitudes toward his top bunk, where he had retreated to flail and moan in peace -- words about appreciating the whole tray of Legos down here on the floor that he already had and that some kids don't even have Legos.
Recognizing the unheard-ness of my words, I reminded him of the plan to earn the money and left the room.
This happens every now and then. I think things are going eerily smoothly on the parenting front and then a glaring misguidance pops up in front of me.
We're all prone to greed now and then, I began to rationalize. We want, we can't have and we continue wanting. Calvin is human, just like the rest of us. Desire is a mainstay of the human experience.
But that wasn't the full picture of what was going on here. The truth is, he doesn't have a lot of practical experience with unfulfilled want. By almost every reasonable measuring stick, our family is rich.
How frequently does he go without anything? Hardly ever.
When am I ever left wanting what I can't have? Almost never.
So how is it, then, that Calvin is supposed to know how to cope with the wanting and not getting, when his whole life has been a smorgasbord? So has mine.
As a parent, I'm supposed to muster the perspective to impart the concept of contentment to him, but out of what? It's folly for me to pretend I have a clue about human suffering.
Every year, five million children in the world die from hunger. Why am I not paralyzed by that fact every time I place a hot plate of healthy food in front of my own three while I stand in the midst of sickening prosperity?
On a much smaller level, this is the kind of tug of war that is taking root in Calvin's heart: On one side of the rope is living how Christ called us to, on the other, a pile of brand new Legos. I know from experience it won't always be Legos on that one side, but there will always be something.
Our family is grappling with simplicity and contentment this month on several fronts with our church, Bible study groups and within our own home. Visit here if you are, too and want to dig deeper.
No comments:
Post a Comment