Tiny hands that have surprising strength. Little feet with minute toes that can kick and scratch with the best of them. Voices that carry with wispy coos or guttural screams, the sound of which can comfort or strike fear, depending on the day or time. They are so small and yet sometimes I have to remind myself that I am bigger than they are. From the moment each of them was born, I became their slave. I love them so much it hurts, other times, it just hurts.
From stretching belly muscles to the prick of a lancet four times a day to make sure he grows safely. Nights without enough sleep that don’t seem to stop, even during the preschool years. Short tempered mornings that see me become an ogre I don’t want to be, forgetting how small and fragile their little egos can be as well. When we look each other in the eye and fight the battles for parental authority, never quite sure if I’ll win, I realize how familiar all of this is. They are smaller than me, but not by much. My Father and I have these same arguments and clashes of will. But He is the perfect parent, extending grace with one hand will dispensing loving discipline with the other. I am exhausted from trying to be in charge, in control and the boss of my own life. I want to be small again, returning to his loving arms, so that I can again experience being the beloved child.