I knew from the moment he plodded into the van and plopped into his booster seat that something was wrong. After nine long hours at church camp, Charleston would usually be buzzing with excitement and flooding me with anecdotes from the day. Instead, I was met with silence. I told him I’d missed him all day, and he said he’d missed me too, another red flag: he usually chuckles apologetically when I say I’ve missed him, admitting he was having too much fun to miss me back.*
Charleston barely spoke on the long drive home, but when we all sat down to dinner that evening he said that he had something he needed to show Luke and me, something he didn’t need to be excused from the table to get it. Then, with tears welling up in his eyes, he proceeded to open his mouth, revealing a back tooth that was literally hanging from his gums by a nerve.
To give you the full context of this moment, you need to understand something about me: I DO NOT DO LOOSE TEETH. I can handle nearly every other gross thing that parenthood has thrown my way: diapering and potty training and their associated fluids are a walk in the park; I can manage the throw-up and the slobber and the snot; small cuts and scrapes don’t faze me. But I’m not great with lots of blood, and loose teeth—especially bloody ones—is where I draw the line. Charleston knows this, and sometimes he’s teased me by wiggling a tooth in my face to watch me cringe, but he’s generally sympathetic to this sensitivity of mine and has shielded me from the most grotesque moments of his tooth losses (which is all but maybe one or two of his baby teeth at this point).
With this in mind, you can imagine that I did not handle his dangling tooth well. AT ALL. I gasped (maybe screamed) and covered my eyes and struggled to swallow back the bile that rose in my throat. Thankfully Luke handled the moment much better than me and was able to comfort Charleston, who was clearly distraught about this tooth that was not doing the usual fall-out thing and had him worried. He told us that the tooth hurt too much to pull and he feared he’d done serious damage when he had loosened it while eating chips at lunch. The poor guy had spent the rest of the day agonizing over a possible trip to the emergency room for what he was certain would be a painful and expensive tooth extraction. Through tears, he told us how scared he was, and how sorry, and how he knew it would cost a lot of money to remove or repair, but he was willing to forgo Christmas presents in order to pay for the medical bills.
Our dental office was closed for the day, but after doing some online research we were fairly sure that, while this situation was an unusual way for a baby tooth to fall out, it was not something requiring medical attention and would likely fall out on its own in a few days.** We reassured Charleston that we would take care of the situation, and if it did require a trip to the dental surgeon, it wasn’t something he had to feel guilty about and we definitely wouldn’t expect him to foot the bill.
Once the tears had stopped flowing, I asked Charleston why he had waited so long to tell us about his tooth. And this was the part that broke my heart: he said that he hadn’t wanted to tell me at the church because he was worried I would pass out at the sight of the blood and would be unable to drive home. He strategically waited until we were all seated at the table to show us his tooth so that if I did pass out, I wouldn’t have far to fall and Luke would be there to catch me. I love that he thought this through. And I HATE that he had to. . . because he’s not wrong. While I didn’t pass out at the sight of his tooth, my reaction was terrible. What he needed from me in that moment was steady reassurance, a level head, a calm word, and a big hug. Instead, I screamed and looked away in a manner that was dramatic, unkind, and likely isolating towards my son when he was craving comfort and connection. I responded with fear, thereby elevating his (already daunting) fears and drawing concern from his onlooking siblings. It was a MASSIVE parenting fail.
I’m glad that Luke was there to give the response that Charleston needed. And after I had a few moments to collect myself, I too was able to provide that hug and reassurance that the situation demanded. I acknowledged the validity of his decision to wait on telling me because he was right: my reaction was not a good one. And I apologized—for my reaction towards his tooth, and for my previous overreactions that had led him to keep quiet this time. I told him how sorry I was for the wedge that my emotions had put between us, giving him a reason to distrust me. I expressed how proud I was that he had handled this situation so well and been so considerate of my feelings, but I acknowledged that this is not something a ten-year-old should have to do for his mom. I want him to feel comfortable to come to me about ANYTHING, even the scary or gross or awkward stuff. I promised Charleston that I would try to be a softer landing spot for him in the future. And I want to make good on that promise.
In a way, that tooth incident was a gift: it forced me to confront the ways that my emotions and my reactions have sometimes created a caustic environment for my kids, leading them to walk on eggshells with me. I’ve yelled when they’ve spilled their milk or spoken unkindly to each other; I’ve been impatient with tears over broken toys or lost papers; I’ve screamed with fear when they’ve gotten in harm’s way; I’ve laughed when they were distraught over having fallen into the toilet (poor Sully will be in therapy over that one for years to come); and I have shuddered and looked away when they’ve come to me with a bloody wound. Most of these reactions have been instinctive, and changing my gut responses will not be an easy fix. It will require honesty—first with myself and then with my kids—about the times when I mess up. There will need to be plenty of quick, sincere apologies and reassurances. Prayer will be involved, on the front end (asking God to give me patience and steadiness for each day of parenting) and afterwards (as I seek the Lord’s forgiveness and wisdom in navigating how I can make amends).
The tooth situation was still fresh in my mind when I read a gut-wrenching story about a mother whose young son was swept away by the river in the recent Texas floods. (This is a tragic but worthwhile read, but be aware that it will absolutely make you cry.) Any woman would be forgiven for falling to pieces when faced with this nightmare, but this mother didn’t: she remained steady and calm for her four-year-old daughter, whom she kept safe until their rescue from a tree hours later. I am floored by this mother’s heroism and courage; in what was certainly the darkest moment of her life, she had the clarity and fortitude to stay strong for the surviving child who desperately needed a calm parent in that moment.
I’m not sure I would be able to do what that mother did. I react terribly in calm moments; I’m even worse in a crisis. And this is something that needs to change. Tragedy could strike for our family, and falling apart is simply not an option. But even when lives are not literally on the line, my responses matter. I want to be a beacon of strength for my kids in the midst of the storm. I want them to feel comfortable coming to me with their mess-ups and their fears, their questions and their sadnesses. Even when my insides are freaking out, I want my outsides to remain calm and welcoming to whatever they bring my way. I want them to trust that they can come to me, their earthly parent, with their small problems so that as they grow older they understand that they can come to their Heavenly Father with all of the big stuff. My reactions and responses are imperfect; His never are. And speaking of that all-powerful, ever-present Heavenly Father: it is only with His help that I can be the mom He has called me to be.
Father God, I know that you created my emotions and they can be good. These emotions are what make me sensitive to my kids and their needs. But I also know that many of my emotions lead to overreactions that are harmful and selfish and sinful. I pray that you will be at work in me as I learn to respond appropriately to my kids. Please give me the patience, wisdom, calmness, and presence of mind that my kids need from me, whether we are in the midst of a crisis or simply weathering the everyday storms of childhood. Help me to recognize when I’ve messed up, and lead me to quickly make amends. And shield my children from the harms I might cause them when I respond inappropriately. I pray that trust would not be irrevocably broken with my children, that our relationships might be preserved and that they will not distance themselves from me as a result of the wrong ways I’ve handled things in the past.
Most of all, Lord, help them to understand that I am fallible but YOU ARE NOT. I pray that even when trust is broken with me, their mom, they will never stop trusting in you. Thank you for always responding rightly. Thank you for being my soft place to land. Please help my children to know that you are a soft place for them too.
*This is a regular refrain during our pickups, and I always reassure Charleston that I’m glad he had fun and it isn’t his job to miss me when he’s away! But as is Mom, it IS my job (kind of) to miss him. It’s a comfortable dynamic between us, which is how I knew something was up when he admitted he actually had missed me that day.
**The tooth fell out, without incident, at camp the following day. The Tooth Fairy paid extra for this one.