It’s hard to explain the struggle I have with my oldest child. Even speaking the word “struggle” makes me feel guilty because he’s everything I hoped for in a son. I know I’m lucky to be his mama. He’s this fabulous, uncontainable ball of energy, buzzing around our house, filling our lives with laughter and noise and the occasional broken lamp.
But the truth is, sometimes the wild of his heart makes me tired -- really tired, bone-tired.
I spend all day clashing with his strong will, iron against iron, until the sun goes down when I go to bed feeling like a worn-down nub. There aren’t enough activities to burn his candle down. Putting that boy to bed is like putting a cat in bathwater. It’s a pay-per-view-worthy event, every single night. He’s just not tired.
Not even a little.
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