I have in my mind the kind of mom I want to be- gentle, nurturing, organized, and never chaotic. I want other women everywhere to want to be like me. And to keep it spiritual, I just want to be like the Proverbs 31 woman. That’s not asking too much, right?
So the other day, I was at someone’s house with my kids, enjoying a cup of coffee and conversation with a couple of friends while our kids played sweetly together outside. If running around in circles and making lots of noise could be considered sweet. Actually, I have no idea what they were doing, because when I have COFFEE and FRIENDS, I block out the rest of the world. True story.
In walks my Jordan, a 4-year-old bundle of sweetness and dirt, who can’t sit still and frequently is upside-down, because that’s how he rolls. He was holding the top of his head, and had that look on his face that said “I want to cry but I’m going to be brave because there are other people around.”
I was compassionate to his pain, but if I had been at home, being true to MY STYLE, I would have simply asked what happened and told him he was going to be fine, assuming there was no blood or concussion. Yes, I know how to check for concussions- I have 3 boys.
But because I was with my FRIENDS, drinking COFFEE and otherwise ignoring the world, I decided to step up my “mom game” and be that gentle and nurturing mother. So I gathered him in my arms, and kissed the top of his head.
Poo. Dog poo. There was no other possible explanation for the smell that immediately went up my nose and on my lips as I kissed that sweet head of blond hair. I’m not sure what I looked like, but I calmly, ever-so-calmly (because I’m that Proverbs 31 woman who doesn’t lose her cool) marched that stinky child to the bathroom to deal. And to regather my sanity and wash the POO off my face and out of his hair.
He wasn’t hurt. He was embarrassed and didn’t want to see my coffee-drinking FRIENDS to know what was in his hair.
Moral of this story- be true to your style. If God gave me the natural reaction to keep my child at arm’s length and tell him he would be fine, then I should trust my instincts. It would have been a lot less gross, and my child would still know he was loved. Because who doesn’t love a sweet mess of blond hair and dirt and upside-down-ness?