I have no idea what I’m doing.

I have a pre-teen and I don’t know what I’m doing.

I didn’t know how to have a newborn 12 years ago either, and somehow I figured it out. Will I figure this new season out too?

You know what’s rotten? Being the firstborn. Sometimes I really feel sad for Asa that he has to be the one for me to learn on. Someone has to be the one.

I look back on several things I’ve done as I’ve tried to figure out how to be a parent.

Sometimes I feel like throwing myself down in front of him and crying, “I’m so sorry, Asa. I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you about that. I didn’t know how ridiculous I was being. I just didn’t know.”

Somehow he has survived my lack of knowing how to do this job and has turned out to be a really neat kid.

But now we’re entering this new stage and it’s weird. It’s different. 

He’s entering that kid-to-adult stage. He’s starting to try to figure himself out. It’s really neat, but no, not really. Oh, but yes…it really is.

I did not enjoy that stage of my own life. How do I help my son figure it out? 

You know what I’ve decided is really easy? Doing laundry. Cooking meals. Washing mountains of dishes.

But raising children? Loving your kids so much that it hurts? Trying to walk your kids through life’s changes and challenges?

Exhausting. Confusing. Painful. Frustrating. 

But joyful. 

And fun. And crazy. And hilarious. And super cool.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve spent more time in prayer about my parenting abilities in the past few weeks than I have for the entire past twelve years.

I’m so thankful that while I feel completely clueless, I serve a God who loves me enough to offer grace and unconditional love. Oh, the comfort of knowing that I’m being guided by the Perfect Parent.

Maybe I’ll be able to handle this after all.

If you haven’t been over there already…you may be interested to read a guest post I wrote for Lindsay at Passionate Homemaking on the Joy of Raising Boys. Lindsay just gave birth to her first baby boy last week!

Do any of the rest of you sometimes feel like you can just talk and talk…and nobody in your house even hears you?

Of course, I know it’s best to keep the orders short and sweet…like, “Come. Sit. Eat.” Parenting does seem to work better that way. But I guess I like to talk more than that or something. I’m better at pulling out…

“Okay, Big Guys…Mama made you some yummy food…so everyone come into the kitchen…no…go into the bathroom to wash your hands…oh…put your shoes away first…then go wash your hands…be sure to use soap….Asa, take Malachi potty while you’re in there…then help him wash his hands…then Justus, you come into the kitchen and get forks out for everyone…Elias then you please….

“Wait, guys…are you listening to me? Hey…guys! Yoohoo, over here! HEY! BOYS! YO, BOYS!!!!”

At this point I usually get a response like,

“Oh, did you need us to do somethin’?” (And of course only one of the four even says that much. The other three are likely to still be focussed in the land of imaginary super heroes.)

Sigh.

So, yes, I’ve learned to get their eyes on me first, then keep the command as short as possible (if I can possibly contain myself and reject the urge I normally have to launch into a lengthy string of wonderful detailed information about how I’d like them to carry out the task at hand.)

The usual exception to this problem is when we’re talking about DESSERT. At that time, the boys’ listening skills appear to be somewhat improved. Enough improved that I actually have hope for their wives someday.

But yesterday, I decided to let each of them have one last ice cream sandwich from our last Azure Standard order. We’ve been rationing them through the month since they are such a special treat. Which means…you’d think that when I say the magic words, “Ice Cream Sandwich” they’d…you know…HEAR me. 

So I’m in the kitchen and I say, “Hey, you guys can each have one last ice cream sandwich today.”

Nothin’.

I try again, “If you want an ice cream sandwich, I put them in the door of the freezer.”

One responder, “Oh, can I have an ice cream sandwich?”

Me, “Yes, I put them in the door of the freezer.”

Boy (who shall remain nameless…yet you can make a guess and have a one in four chance of being right), “Where are they?”

Me, “In the door of the freezer.”

Boy, “Ooh, I’m gonna go have an ice cream sandwich!” 

Me, knowing he might not remember where they are, “Great. They’re in the door of the freezer.”

Boy, standing at the freezer, “MOM!! I can’t find the ice cream sandwiches!”

Me, “They’re in the door of the freezer!”

Boy, “I can’t find my ice cream sandwich!”

Me, “THEY’RE IN THE DOOR OF THE FREEZER!!!!” (For Pete’s…sake.) 

Boy, “Oh, in the door of the freezer? Got it.”

At that point, the other boys perk up and say, “Hey, how come he gets an ice cream sandwich? I want one!” 

Me (gritting my teeth) “They’re in the door of the freezer… Eat it in the kitchen… Hey guys, I do not want a mess…take it to the kitchen and stay there…. Boys – KITCHEN!…”

Oh, to my dear future daughters-in-law…I’m trying, I really am….