thanks God, I got the message

I'm sure you've put this together before this, but just in case you're not aware, I've got FIVE kids. Yes. Five of them. And even though I've really only been a parent for less than 8 years, I've learned a lot. In fact, I like to think that contained in my brain . . . rolling around in my head . . . are piles and piles of parenting knowledge.

Sometimes when I'm wandering through a store and I see a screaming child, I think that maybe I should . . . you know . . . pull that poor mom aside and speak a few words of wisdom to her--you know, put her on the right track and help her out with her little screamer. Yes . . . I actually think these things sometimes. Oh, I never do it--I'm never THAT arrogant . . . but, I'm sad to say, I once in a while think that.

And usually, at the height of my inner arrogance, that's where God steps in and brings me down a peg or two by showing me how little I really know about parenting. This current week has been one of those weeks.

See, we're putting our house up for sale and suddenly I realize there are about 307 little jobs I have to accomplish before I can do that: Trim needs to be touched up, a wall or two needs a coat of paint, this has to be fixed, that needs some work, and on and on. Well, this weekend, I cracked open my toolcases, opened my cans of leftover paint in the basement and went to work. Not too long later, the kids started crowding around me, asking me stuff. Oh, I was patient for a while, but eventually, I just wanted to be left in peace so I could work . . . so I didn't pay too much attention when Caleb said he needed to borrow my drill so he could do some work. I gladly sent him on his way and even . . . because I'm stupid sometimes . . . put a newly charged battery in.

Well, after a few hours of work, I took a break and was standing in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water and looking out the window. I was seeing the kids at play on the yard, but I really wasn't seeing them . . . you know what I mean? I had so many little things going on in my head that I paid no real attention. I kept thinking that I needed to do this and that and then when those things were done I'd move on to something else. All of that was floating in my brain as I watched Caleb working by the best tree in our yard--the one Maple that is the strongest and the healthiest--the crowning achievement of our yard. And suddenly it all sank in and I asked myself a question that I should have asked two hours ago: Caleb's seven. What kind of work could he possibly have that needed a drill? I looked out the window again and I screamed and frantically tried to claw open the window so I could holler at the boy. It was locked and my fingers were wet and I couldn't get it to open, so I just ran through the kitchen and out into the backyard to that only good tree in our yard--that tree that Caleb had managed to drill 2 hours worth of holes into. Yeah . . . all sorts of little holes everywhere. He was standing in a pile of sawdust, smiling at me when I took the drill away and told him not to do that anymore.

I didn't say too much more--mainly because I was too tired to argue or yell at him. I just looked at the tree and figured it'd probably be ok and I went back to work. Now, that alone was a good way for God to tap me on the shoulder and say "Hey, Dan . . . you don't know everything there is to know about parenting yet--if you had, you wouldn't have let Caleb run off with a drill. Afterall, he could very easily have put out an eye . . . ." Yeah, that incident alone would have been enough to take me down a peg or two, but that wasn't the end. Not a chance.

An hour later or so, Andrew showed up and asked for my hammer. I am not making this up. He said he had work to do. Well, that made sense to me--somehow--probably because I was tired--and I gave him the hammer. I continued my work and listened to Andrew pounding away for about 30 minutes until once again, that same thought that belatedly went through my head with Caleb suddenly flew through my brain with Andrew: Andrew's four. What in the world kind of work can a four year old need a hammer for? I sprinted around the house, following the sounds of hammering until I found him hunched over in the driveway. I watched him as he swayed back and forth, holding the hammer with both hands and seeming to aim it at something before suddenly and violently bringing it crashing down on the cement with a loud thud. I walked over to him to see what he was doing and wow . . . the carnage was impressive and disturbing. Like a vast killing field, the driveway swept out in front of me, littered with hundreds and hundreds of crushed ants--the big black ones. Hundreds of them. Andrew had a crazy look in his eyes and I wasn't comfortable letting him hold the hammer any longer, so I took it away and told him not to kill stuff just for fun.

Well, I was even more tired as I went back to work and that same voice--probably God's voice--echoed in my head: "What kind of parent lets their FOUR year old run off with a hammer? He could have smashed his fingers . . . or worse, he could have chipped stones straight into his eyes and you know what that would mean, right? Yep, he'd put an eye out."

Now, I'd like to say that the experience and the lesson ended there. That I learned that I wasn't God's gift to parenting and that I also learned to pay more attention to what the kids were doing. But, sadly, that would not be true.

The next day, Caleb had to do some work again and I let him go to work on our good Maple tree with an axe. Oh, I didn't know he wanted the axe--he just said he needed help getting something out of the barn--he didn't tell me what--and asked for help. I just told him to find a way to get it himself--that I was busy. I found him a half our later trying to lift the axe and chop down that tree . . . what did he have against the tree?

Sadly, even that experience wasn't the end. Tuesday night, I painted our front porch with oil based paint. I wrapped the brush up in saran wrap when I was done--I didn't clean it--I meant to use it again on wednesday--and I left it outside by the back door. I didn't want to haul it into the house and stink up the place with paint fumes, so I wisely left it outside.

Later that night, the kids went outside and I sat in the living room resting and watching the Tigers. Caleb came in at one point and told me that Tessa was doing some work. I was too tired to care, so I just said "Good for her--it's about time." I thought that was funny and laughed to myself until Caleb came back about an hour later and said, "I know you thought it was good that she was working . . . but did you know she was working with your paint brush?"

Oh man . . . . I ran outside and found Tessa standing by the back door with the brush in her hands. There was no paint on her hands--as I had feared--and no paint on her dress. The brush was still wrapped up and I had avoided a tragedy. I took them all back into the house and went back to the Tigers.

And then Wednesday morning, I was leaving for work and I stopped dead in my driveway. Oh, Tessa had been working. I hadn't noticed it last night because it was too dark, but Tessa had managed to paint something quite nicely: our van. The van that we just officially purchased last week. That van. She painted that van with oil based paint.

As I stood there looking, that same old voice came into my head . . . "you know, if you knew everything there was to know about parenting you wouldn't have . . . ."