Abby's Alley

Watching the atrocious manners of my children at dinner prompted me to make a mental list of all the things I thought I ought to teach them in the next twelve years. But that list became so lengthy that I gave it up to ask myself what was the most important thing. What, above all else, did I wish to teach them?
The answer had nothing to do with refraining from potty-talk at the dinner table, though I do hope that on their first dates they don’t lean across the table and say, “Did you smell my farty?” and giggle uncontrollably.
No. The most important thing isn’t table manners or responsibly handling money or even having healthy relationships with the opposite sex. The most important thing must be grace. Naturally. But to teach them this, I must model it. And I’m not so sure I know what that looks like.
I know what grace isn’t.
Grace isn’t letting my children off the hook for being disrespectful or destructive. After all, God didn’t let us off the hook for our sins. Someone had to pay for t…

"How will Benny marry?" Rose asked one morning at breakfast. "But if Lee marries me and Benny marries me, then I will have two husbands."

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"We do not call each other stupid!" I told the children on the way home from school. "And we don't call each other stum-bot either (their made-up swear word)." From the back seat, Lee asks, "How about Hamburger?"

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Rose picked up a Pill Bug on the way to school and on the way home she was cradling it. "Mommy, can we bury my Roly-poly when we get home?" she asked.

"Is it dead?" I asked.

"No, but I want him to grow big and strong like his mom and dad and sister and brother and smother and grother and wother and kother." Too much Dr. Seuss, I guess.

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Rose was singing herself a made-up song as we got into the car to go to school. It went like this: "Oh Benny, why are you crying? It doesn't make any sense. Because I can't understand what you'…

To the mom who came to MOPs without make-up on . . . thank you.

To the mom who had to leave early because her son slapped her in the face . . . thank you.

To the mom who let someone post a not-so-hot picture of herself on facebook . . . thank you.

To the mom who throws up her hands, fingers spread wide and nostrils flared, and says, "Aye! What's the matter with you?" . . . thank you.

To the mom who told me she didn't enjoy her vacation with her young children . . . thank you.

To the mom I see everyday pushing the twins in the double stroller with the first grader in tow, who can't possibly make it to school on time . . . thank you.

To the mom who cries during prayer time, the mom who tells me how worried she is, the mom who admits to using church as a babysitting service so she can get some time to herself at Starbucks . . . thank you.

You remind me that you, like me, are struggling. You are a comfort to me because you have let a sliver of desperation show, wheth…