Growth or Bust

I grew up in a dominant family system, raised by a single black mother who was the oldest of 12 children; I should not be the mother I am. I say this as a head nod to my mother but a revelation to myself. I should not be the mother that I am. Truthfully I can’t take the credit solely; my wife is a “G,” and in her defense, she would say that she was much more neglectful with the oldest kids. We admit that it was less to worry about when she raised the older kids. However, today we realize that to raise secure kids, you must be unequivocally secure, or someone will suffer, and I suspect it won’t be just the kids.

Raising our two youngest kids has been a street fight (pun intended). While raising Canada (affectionately called CanadatheGreat) and CJ (affectionately called Ceeg) has been an unbelievable ride with a few more stops to make, it has challenged the fabric of my existence. Care is a dimension of love that most people struggle with due to trauma, and I have overcome years of it (and still overcoming it). Still, it makes it even more challenging when you understand what is required of you when lives are at stake—parenting subjected me to the truth of loving myself and loving my wife in a life-altering way, so if you wonder why I love myself (it’s the only way to raise secure kids and have a loving marriage).

This picture carries so much love, not because it has always been easy, but because it wasn’t easy. It was frustrating, overwhelming, scary, and sometimes a sheer disaster, but one thing I never did was stop loving my children. When they were angry and made epic mistakes (even the ones I didn’t think I would survive), I loved them harder. I worked on myself more and clung to my marriage because I knew that raising these kids would take all the strength of my wife, God, and me. So this picture is a reflection of love recycled over and over again.