Being a parent is hard.
Everyone knows it is one of the hardest jobs a person will ever have.
And it seems to me that the older they get, the harder the job gets.
At least that is what I have been feeling lately, lately my teenager has been making some choices that I rather wish he hadn’t made.
Now, I will say that in the grand scheme of things, the issues we are dealing with are quite minor…it could be so very much worse.
But I can’t help but feel a little panic.
I was driving today, thinking about how to talk to him…and for whatever reason, his baby book popped into my head.
I remember writing in his baby book.
I recorded his name, birth weight, length, first smile, first time he rolled over, the first time he cooed at me, the first time he sat up alone…
I recorded every tooth, every word, every step…
and then one day I stopped recording everything.
I would write in his book occasionally…but he was living and growing far faster than I could write.
And today, I realized that I am no longer in charge of writing his story.
I am merely holding the pencil in his hand, helping him form the letters…he is deciding what words to write.
As a parent, that is a hard realization to make.
I still feel the need to write his story for him.
I want the story to make sense…I want the story to be honest…I want the story to glorify the Lord.
But I don’t get to choose those things.
I can only edit the story so much now.
And though I still have much control…I have lost a significant amount of that control.
All I can do now is hope. And pray. And guide.
And I know that someday I will look at his story and feel pride and accomplishment, knowing that I did help write it…but for now, I have to hand over the pen now and then, and hope that if a mistake is made, it is caught and corrected before the story goes to print.
Because I don’t get to write it anymore…