The story I'm going to tell you happened a week ago. It was a very serious situation but the humor isn't lost on me. There are also several f-bombs. If you have a problem with that, you might want to come back another day.
I realized a long time ago, that God gives you what you need to learn the lessons you need to learn. I believe that two of the biggest lessons I'm supposed to learn are patience and tolerance. Nine years ago I was that "future" parent that would NEVER allow her children to scream bloody murder in a store and I passed judgement on every parent who wasn't parenting to my standards. Fast-forward to a week ago and I was chasing a 7 year-old through town. He was wearing a t-shirt he had shredded at school, while in a rage, and screaming that I was a fucking bitch. God's funny.
When picking my son Porter, up from Nana's, he decided to run away. Being the brilliant parent that-so-many-parents-have-turned-to-for-advice-on-how-to-deal-with-their-special-needs-child that I am, I decided that I would drive off and let him sweat a little.
My plan backfired--BIG TIME.
It enraged him. So when I came back around the corner, he fled into an empty lot, and then into a field behind some houses. Every time I got close, he retreated further. I stopped chasing him. I stood in a church parking lot watching my child prance (Yes, he pranced!) around a field and fight imaginary bad guys with a stick/sword he'd found. He twirled like a drunken ballerina and he cussed like a sailor.
I did what any good mother, from the 1950's, would do--I threatened to call his father.
"Oh yeah? We'll FUUUUCK YOUUUUUU!" (When I'm very honest with myself, there's a part of me that admires that fuck-off-bitch-attitude.)
I called his father.
"YOUR son has run away and I've been chasing around town for half an hour. Yes, you need to come home."
And then I called my father, just for good measure. Papa arrived first and set off to talk Porter down and into the van, so we could get him home. The Hubby arrived shortly thereafter and proceeded to aid in the chase.
I stood alone in that church parking lot and looked up at the cross whose light had just come on. I prayed. Alright God. I got nothin'. I don't know why you insist on making this so hard, but I give. Do what you're going to do. Give it your best shot!
I looked skyward and it began to rain.
Hmm.... Nicely done.
And here comes Porter and my dad, hand-in-hand, across the field.
Now I would love to say that that's where this story ended but it took another 30 minutes of wrestling Porter, on the ground, before he was calm enough to move into a vehicle and take home. My son dropped both my father and husband to the ground in the process. Once we got him home it was another 20 minutes of solitude before he was ready to talk and rejoin the family.
What I learned from this experience is that my prayers are answered. Porter was brought home safely and somehow we managed to go through this experience without law enforcement becoming involved. (The people who lived in the houses were home; they stepped out on their porches to watch portions of the show but for reasons unknown, they never called the police.) My father and my husband learned about what I've been dealing with and I've gotten much more support.
But more importantly, I learned that this control I fight so hard for, is a delusion and sometimes it takes a "fuck you" from a 7 year-old to remind you that God is in control and has a wicked sense of humor.