Becoming my own Hero – Excerpt from my journal October 2019
Being a mom has *almost* always been the main goal of my life and the pinnacle around which I built my plans. I thought that being a mom would make my life complete and fulfill all of my dreams. As a child, playing house was my go to activity because it was where I was most in control. When we played house, mom was the coveted role. Whoever was the mom, was the most influential member of play time. She got to pick the story line, tell everyone what to say, and decide everybody’s action. A large factor in my love for baby dolls and playing house was the ability I had to write the story and make everything go exactly as I wanted. If I wanted to have several sets of twins and juggle all of their demands with perfect grace while my husband was away at war, then I could slip into my make believe world, and everything would be exactly as I pictured it. If I wanted to take my kids on a walk or move to a different country (again because my husband was at war), I could do so with zero resistance from them. Part of my ease came from single parenting. There was no one to ask if I was doing things right or wrong and if I wanted to feed my children a diet of mini pancakes and goldfish, then by golly I could. It was a perfect world because I was in charge of every detail and no one resisted my ideas or plans.
As an adult, I’m often still frustrated by my lack of control. There are times when I wish I could just play house again and make everything go my way, but I am thankful now that God doesn’t give me that sort of power. I have never actually gotten through an Enneagram test, but in case it wasn’t obvious, I do know that I have strong first born tendencies. If I can make a plan and see it through to fruition, then it’s been a good day. When plans get changed by circumstances outside of my control, or when I find myself smack in the middle of a situation that is wildly chaotic and I have no plan, it is extremely debilitating. I’m sure most people feel that way but as an eleven year old, not having control was the most exasperating part of my life and it regularly made me furious.
As I got older, my responsibilities as the oldest child increased and my real life mom often trusted me to babysit my five younger siblings for longer and longer periods of time. In my mind, these were my opportunities to finally be their boss. I thought I could restore some justice to the world by forcing things to finally go my way. I decided my siblings would have to eat all of their vegetables, go to bed on time, and put their toys away as soon as they were done playing with them. I felt that things were unjust (that I was held to a higher standard for being the oldest) and I wanted my circumstances to align with my feelings. I longed to create order, and, while I didn’t yet understand that I was trying to be God, I did quickly see that the efforts I was making were vastly fruitless. My siblings thought my babysitting power was a joke, and for the most part, they did what they wanted while I huffed and puffed and promised I’d tattle to mom about how bad they had been. At times like these, I would resort to planning my future. Someday I would be the adult and the mom and my kids would be better behaved. I would finally have the real power, and things would look different. Kids would respect and obey me because I would train them right and I wouldn’t let them get away with anything.
Attempting to be the hero of my family, I often chided my siblings, corrected my parent’s methods, and rebelled at the ways I felt restricted by rules. However, instead of feeling like the hero, I often felt like I was running into brick walls. My siblings were not thrilled that I thought I was their boss and neither were my parents. The rules were there to protect me but it took a while for me to understand that and, while I obeyed them on the outside, my heart was dreaming about a day when I would get to make the rules for my family. I had a growing list of all the things I would change in my future home so that I would be able to create peace there. Deep down, that’s what I was really searching for… peace.
I thought I could get peace through control. And I thought I could get control by forcing my way upon other people. I thought peace would come with my life working out the way I had planned and I wanted happy endings so badly that I actually used to re-write any sad story ending. In my world, Where the Red Fern Grows ended with Billy reading quietly by the fireplace with his two dogs sleeping at his feet. The thought of someone failing, dying, or being brokenhearted made me feel too uncomfortable so I would often close my eyes and ears to their stories. I had accepted Jesus at the age of five and, while I was never taught that Jesus makes your life easy and carefree, I wanted to believe that if you followed Jesus, then He would make everything in your life work out well. Sorrow and failure felt too close to doubt in my early faith and I was afraid of the questions I had about God. In order for my life to work out and for me to get peace, I thought I had to control as many factors as I possibly could. I had to become the author and the editor of my story. If I was going to achieve my dreams, then I needed to have the perfect plan so everything would work out exactly as I wanted. I had to keep striving to become my own hero.
