GinaMcClain.com

I hate public meltdowns.

In the two weeks we’ve lived in Knoxville two of my three kids have suffered from chronic morning meltdowns.  It seems no matter the routine, something provokes a complete loss of sanity.  Anything from sock seams to pigtails to cereal… these kids are easily provoked.

Though I know much of it is stress from our recent move, it’s still not. fun.

It’s one thing for the meltdown to take place inside my home.  It’s a “whole-nutha’ Oprah” when it takes place in the parking of our apartment…. or the school drop-off lane… or Wal-Mart.

It seems the public meltdown is far more stressful.  It’s all the stress of a meltdown… with an audience to boot.

For those that think me the perfect mom, all I have to say is, “Whatev!”  So. not. perfect.

Maybe perfectly broken.

I hate the meltdowns.  but I work through them.

I hate the audience.  but I can’t help that.

I love the brokenness.  only b/c I know that within that is a God with Strength greater than my own.

Give a parent some grace… public meltdowns are a reality.  Share the love, not the judgment.

It was his first day of daycare.  He had a great time.

Blocks

Fingerpaints

Storybooks

Snacks

As we left his teacher pointed out his folder.

A shiny, red folder.

Shiny

Red

Gleaming

Inside the folder held his work for the day and a note from his teacher.

He didn’t care what was inside.  He only cared about the folder.  He wanted to take the folder home with him.

But the folder is supposed to remain.  He didn’t like that.

And he made sure everyone in the building knew of his disagreement.  Everyone.

The next day the first thing he checked upon entering his classroom was his shiny red folder.  There it sat.

Shiny

Red

We talked about how the folder was here waiting for him.  And how it will stay here again when he leaves.  We agreed that we will take the papers within home with us, but the folder will sleep here again.  In his classroom.  He consented.

Departure was a breeze that afternoon.  He exited the building with a broad smile on his face.

Clutching his shiny red folder.

Dangling from mom’s back pocket hangs a white flag of surrender.

There’s a story I’ve heard all my life about how my big brother single-handedly saved me from a fire.

At 3 years old he woke up from his nap to the smell of something strange. He discovered the KFC bucket sitting on the stove was engulfed in flames. Racing back to my room, he pulled me out of my bed and ran out of the house dragging me behind. Our mother was in the front yard talking to the neighbor when she heard he toddler son yelling, “Fire! Fire! The house is on Fire!”

When the fire was out and the chaos cleared the damage was minimal. But it made for a great story in the aftermath. And parents love to tell stories.

Visiting my grandparents last Saturday I realized that after 15 years of marriage Kyle had never heard this tale of my brother’s heroism. So I asked my mom to share. Only this time I heard a detail I don’t recall ever hearing before. Maybe it’s selective hearing… maybe it’s selective memory… I don’t know. It’s a detail I managed to overlook all these years.

I was the one that started the fire.

Isn’t that sobering.

We had a stove top with knobs on the front. Within reach of any toddler. Back in the 70′s they didn’t have Safety 1st knob covers to prevent kids from turning them. There were 4 knobs begging to be turned. And so I did.

Who knew the KFC bucket on the burner could be so flammable.