Teaching Mommy

I have made a concerted effort over the last few weeks to increase the spiritual education of my kids. It's an area where I feel wholly inadequate, overwhelmed and unqualified in - but also an area that I feel very strongly about.

Most of the time it feels akin to having a conversation underwater. Particularly this morning when Pebbles was making some sort of singing noise at the top of her lungs every time I spoke and then both kids would dissolve into fits of laughter. It's really hard to have any sort of scripture story time with background noise that sounds like a cross between death metal shrieking and baby giggles. Or, during times when Woodstock insists on hearing the same scripture story over and over and over (and over) again - and then asks the same 3 dozen questions she's asked the other 47 times she's heard the story. Sort of makes you wonder if mommy has gone insane.

Like anyone else, I behave just as Pavlov's dogs - positive reinforcement works wonders. Most of the time positive reinforcement comes from other adults who tell me that one day - maybe decades down the road - my children (and society) will be better of for having had a basis of morals and values instilled in them from early childhood. Rarely does it come from my own children - who, most of the time, love the attention but appear to be wholly uninterested in anything other than who the bad guys are and how we aren't supposed to talk to bad guys (the stranger danger discussion gone horribly awry).

But recently, there have been little moments where my children have figuratively sat at my feet and taught me.

Sunday, we were sitting down to lunch with Woodstock and talking about what she had learned at church. As usual we were met with "I learned about play doh and colors and snacks!" and had to pry out of her - very carefully - what the actual lesson was about. Then, I began flipping through a book of pictures of Christ. Woodstock leaned in, stuck her finger on one of the photos - the photo of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane - and she said,

"Mommy! That's Jesus. He's sad, because he's all by himself. He doesn't have any friends."

I stopped and looked at her. In one simple 3-year-old sentence she had summed up the entirety of how Christ must have felt in the Garden. Alone, in pain, bearing the burdens of the world. We talked a little bit about the atonement and Christ's suffering. And then she ran off to play, totally unaware of how she had taught me - reminded me - of something I needed in that moment.

Last night, while saying her bedtime prayers (something we both struggle with - it's rarely the quiet, reverent experience it is slated to be - Woodstock always ends up with a mad case of the fidgets the moment the sentence "fold your arms" is uttered), Woodstock took the lead. She said, "Help me repent and make good choices." We talk about making good choices a lot - mostly because she's 3. We've talked about repentance and what it means in the simplistic of terms. But never has she actually used either in her prayers. Mostly her prayers are filled with "thank yous" and telling Heavenly Father about any drama that has evolved over the day.

I hugged her. I asked her why she needed to repent and make good choices. She said, "I said bad words." (There was a weekend-long saga of trying to eradicate the word "poopy" as an adjective from her vocabulary) She is perfect - totally innocent and unable to wantonly make a bad choice. And yet, she asked for help in making better choices. I pondered that wisdom. How often do I - who clearly needs a whole lot of help - utter the simple plea to "help me make good choices?" And how badly do I need that as I go through my daily tasks?

Maybe I have this all backwards. Maybe I need to listen and let the kids teach mommy.

While I'm at it, maybe they can also take over the laundry ...