Holey

My closet has two pocket doors and a weak light bulb. The mirror inside is not at all conveniently located on the back of the slim left door. To look at myself, I have to pull the door closed and nuzzle into the shelving unit mounted on the wall beside me.

I am mid-nuzzle when I first notice them, three small spots on my shirt. In the dingy lighting, they look harmless, like flecks of lint. I try to brush them away, but they don’t budge. Stubborn stain? But I just washed this shirt. As I shake the material out in front of me, the spots disappear. I let it fall back against my skin; they return. I do this three times before realizing the color is alarmingly similar to the flesh I am trying to cover.

The first shirt to fall victim to the holes was old. But the second? And third? And fourth? Not so much. I want to blame our new washing machine (it already shredded a burp rag), but my holes are always in the same exact place: just below the belly button, a little to the left. I examine the bent corner of the buttonhole tab on my jeans, but I have been wearing these jeans for years.

Four weeks pass. The blue basket on the floor of my closet, the one housing the holey shirts, overflows. The rod above it, the one holding my still-wearable attire, looks forlorn.

A few days later, I am bouncing my six-month-old son in my lap, trying to convince his older sister that now is not an appropriate time for a candy snack, when my gaze falls to his tiny toes. I see it: within each valley of his bounce, the fabric of my shirt stretches and strains and pulls. My son, with his strong legs and affinity for jumping in my lap endlessly, is subtly destroying my wardrobe.

***

We nod and hug and smile our way to the door of the church, acknowledging all the faces we “know.” I lose track of my crew as we squeeze through the crowded entryway, always dense with early risers trying to get out and the late service swarm attempting to get in. It feels more like a thorny thicket to maneuver through than a greeting area, but maybe this is only true for my pancake-hungry people? I catch up to my husband and daughter at the bottom of the steps. She is whimpering, attempting to manufacture tears, staring at the ground.

“I folded her worksheet,” he says.

Of course he did, because we fold her worksheet every week. Only today, her coloring page is above such casual, careless treatment. How dare he not know. The paper that was not to be bent, was. And now it is ruined, the paper and the pleasant Sunday morning.

I reason with her, tell her we’ll smooth it out between two big books, maybe Frankie the Frog and The Gruffalo, as soon as we get home. But it’s too late. Right there, in front of the church, as we are greeting friends just arriving, her whimper escalates into an indignant wail. Her lips curl into a sulky pout. Her arms tense and deny my affection.

I hoist her up in the air because it is obvious this meltdown is not ending anytime soon. My goal is to get to the car, a glorious sound trap that also boasts very tinted windows. Her whole body convulses in my arms, fighting for freedom at any cost.

Frustration spreads through my body like a hungry fire. I wrap one of my arms around her arms and the other around her legs, grieving the fact that I don’t have just one more to muzzle her mouth and its deafening cries. My steps are jagged and heavy, to make her feel my frustration and my control over her form. We walk the one and a half blocks to the car like this. The shrieking finally subsides inside after generous, desperate dad offers a snack. I am not feeling so kind.

***

These fits wear me down. They make me feel stretched and strained and pulled, like one of those holey shirts in the blue basket.

Why is that, exactly? Is the loving, patient mom I claim to be only as deep as my daughter’s obedience? Is my short temper the downfall of having an overall really good kid? I lack experiences that challenge my love, so my love becomes weak, circumstantial, breakable?

To all of the above: No. Because in truth, not every fit wears me down. Just last week my husband and I reversed roles. He lost his temper. I calmly suggested, “we need to love her too much.” As in: we need to give her more love than we think she deserves mid-meltdown.

What gives then?

***

I have a son who is tearing holes in my clothes and I have a daughter who is tearing holes through me. But I don’t want any holes. They reveal things that make me uncomfortable. The clothes: pale, relaxed tummy flesh that, for everyone’s sake, is best kept concealed. And the holes in me? They tear through my character to reveal the raw, unsightly, sin-filled flesh of my heart, the part I prefer to keep hidden even from myself.

I can’t fix the clothes. The damage is too great; all value lost. Their story will end when I take out the trash. But my heart? It is worth mending and I know Hope.

This is my choice: I can succumb to the travesty that parenting is some days. I can. I can bare my holes, my fleshly flaws, and show my daughter (and those poor bystanders at church) just how unsightly I am underneath the layers. Or, I can press into the sanctifying work that parenting always is. I can give my holes to the One who mends all and He will make me holy.

***

I waited ten months before buying new clothes. My closet had dwindled down to only two “nice” options before I deemed it safe enough to spend money on new shirts. My son was walking and running and playing all on his own, mostly not in my lap. It was time.

This morning, I pick the new navy one. It’s going to be warm, weather worthy of something sleeveless and breezy. I slip it over my head and assume the nuzzled position.

But then I see them. More holes. How can they be back?

Later in the day, my son is climbing my torso in heavy-traction tennis shoes, the full weight of his boyhood grating against the defenseless fibers of my shirt. My husband points his finger at me. “That’s why you still have holes,” he says.

***

My son continues to battle my clothes. My daughter continues to test my heart. I am learning though, to pause when I see big emotions coming my way, to consciously choose what I will give my voice: the holes in my heart or the love with which He mends. On a good day, I choose more love than her meltdowns deserve.

But I wonder how long I will keep finding these holes.