See that lovely little spot above my eyebrow?

No big deal, right?  Just a scratch, or maybe something gouged my forehead right there.

Except that it's been there since we lived in Marysville.

Last spring, when it had scabbed over and then reopened enough for me to notice it and be aware that something was off, I already had an appointment with a doctor for a checkup, so I mentioned it to her.

I already knew I needed to see a dermatologist for a mole check so I added the spot to my list of complaints. I called for a consult and discovered that getting an appointment with a dermatologist takes roughly as long as human gestation.

Besides, I was pretty sure I already knew what it was.  A bit of medical knowledge and access to Google makes me an expert, you see.

Skin cancer.  Basal cell carcinoma.

Not melanoma, not life-threatening unless I choose to leave it alone for the next decade and see what happens, and yet...

When I used to tan, mom would get so mad at me and I'd tell her with our family history I was going to get some sort of cancer; I was just picking the type. 

Perhaps not my best-thought-out plan.

The ironic part is that I always kept my face covered when I tanned.  This spot is your general, run-of-the-mill, too-much-cumulative-sun-exposure skin cancer.

Makes me wonder about the other parts of my body that have had non-routine exposure.


Now that I know it's there, I just want it gone.  Who wants to willingly leave cancer cells in their body?  Who would knowingly ignore something so harmful?

Revelation time: SO many things can have deeper meanings!

Can the word 'cancer' mean more than just abnormal, destructive cells? 

Could it mean destructive behaviors?

Could there be many more things in my body that are a type of cancer?

Things I don't notice at first, or don't realize their destructive potential?

Like yelling.  Mom did it.  Dad did it.  I do it.

But, just like cancer, it spreads.

It starts as yelling to alert a child to danger.

Slowly, it progresses to yelling any time you need to get a person's attention.

And before you know it, your response to any situation is rage.

Not only is it your response, it becomes your child's automatic response too.

If you know it's cancer, you can cut it out before it has a change to damage and destroy.  But can you always tell what cancer looks like?

Obviously not.  It doesn't wave a red flag and say "here I am, come weed me out of your life!"

It- the cancerous, sinful behaviours that so easily invade- starts out so innocuous, so benign, and by the time you recognize the behaviors for what they are, they've grown into the very fiber of you, and become nearly impossible to remove.

Oh, that I would have the wisdom and insight to recognize the cancers in me as easily as the cancer on me.

Daniel Wayne you are a pain...

But it's only because you're 3.  You'll get better.

He is such a sassypants lately!

Whenever David tells him no, he says "No to you, daddy!"

If he gets in trouble and I start counting, as soon as I say One, he'll say "No, two!"  Occasionally he'll count himself right into the corner.

And lately whenever anyone says no or can't or won't, he says "Oh yes I can" with a sassy little voice.

Sas. See. Pants.

A few months ago I started getting him to attempt to use the toilet; it didn't last long and he didn't really care, so I stopped.

He still doesn't care.

But I'm sick of buying diapers.

And I'm sick of changing the poopy diapers.

And he's three and a half.

It's time.

So, this last week has been potty-training week.

He's almost there.  By the weekend, he'll be done with diapers except maybe at night.

Ten years and six months.  That's how long I've spent with someone continuously in diapers, except for two weeks between Hope being trained and Naomi being born.

It's almost over.

And I know some day I'll wish it wasn't over.

*Sigh*

Joel. 

Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel.

Why did God give him to me?

Of all the children in the world, all the options, all the genetic possibilities, why is this child mine?

There must be a purpose, something I'm supposed to learn, from him.  The only lesson I can imagine is humility.  And perhaps self-loathing.  And despair.  And hopelessness.

I can't see God wanting me to learn most of those lessons.

He truly does go in spurts of being wonderful and being monstrous.  For weeks things will be great.  He'll love me, obey me, snuggle me, try desperately to please me.

And then the moon changes phases, and he's back to the monster-child.

The other day at the store he was mad at me about something, and he said, "I wish you weren't my mom".

I replied, "I wish I weren't your mom either, but God gave you to me, so we both have to deal with it."

That sounds horrible to say to a little boy, and I suppose it is, but it's the truth.  If I got to choose, I would not choose a little person with whatever is different about Joel.

I am not equipped to be an adequate parent to him.  I'm not.  I feel like I have the ability to be a good parent to the other three.  I can handle their issues, understand their moods, figure out how to discipline and direct them.

Joel- not a clue.  Just when I think maybe I understand, or maybe we've found help, or maybe something is working, everything goes wrong.

I have honestly wondered if I could voluntarily put him in the foster care system or something but still be able to see him whenever I wanted and take him back whenever I wanted, just so he'd have access to people, professionals, caregivers who have more experience with kids like him and might be able to do a decent job with him.

Because I am not doing a decent job. 

He can be SUCH a sweet little boy.  He loves to sit by me.  He begs me to snuggle him at bedtime, although that's more of a delay tactic than true desire to spend time with me.  He kisses me for no reason.  He tells me several times a day that he loves me.  Yesterday he wouldn't play a draw-two card on me when we were playing Uno, but had no problem slapping it down once someone reversed the direction.  He thanks me for making meals for him.  He sits and watches me cross-stitch and asks if I can get sewing things for him too so we can sew together.  He loves to read books to his little brother, and stands next to the toilet and encourages Daniel by telling him what a great job he's doing potty training and how proud he is of him.

And at the same time, he disobeys me as if he doesn't even hear my voice.  He argues with almost everything I tell him.  He refuses to help with chores that he's happily done in the past.  He torments his sisters horribly.  He looks for ways to hurt Naomi.  He yells -no, screams- at Daniel when Daniel gets upset or angry.  He gets irate when I can't understand him, can't answer his questions to his satisfaction, when his schedule is interrupted or things don't go in the exact sequence he expects. He's physically destructive as a way to retaliate.

I am not equipped to raise this little soul.  And I wish I were, because he's so precious and he deserves more.