When You Think You Might Not Be Strong Enough to Mother a Strong-Willed Child

The spring of 2013, my husband had just started patrol working nights. We had moved, and boxes were piled up everywhere. If those two life changes weren’t enough, the church we met at, got married at, dedicated our kids at, shut its doors and moved two cities over.

I do not deal well with change. And in the span of one month, it felt like the landscape of my life had completely changed. I struggled with sleep. I felt anxious. Depression settled in over my life like valley fog on a dark night.

About the time of the move, we realized Jed would need to be moved from his crib into a toddler bed, not because we were ready, but because, at 19 months, he was the kid that fought bedtime by rocking his crib until it fell over. It was as if Jed decided he wouldn’t trouble himself figuring out how to climb out of the crib. Oh no, by sheer brute strength and an iron strong resolve, he would bend that crib to his will. 

(I had no idea toddlers came that way—so head-strong and unrelenting.)

That’s about how bedtime went when we moved him to the big boy bed, only there were no longer sides of a crib to push against. There was only Mom. And since Dad now worked nights, there really was only Mom.

And he pushed.

I remember huddling in my living room, tears streaming. It was midnight. And I wondered what kind of mom can’t get her kids to sleep by midnight? I was in that desperate place, the one where my Hail-Mary bedtime strategy was to hide out, cross my fingers, and hope that by some miracle Jed would go to sleep on his own. I had tried everything. I didn’t have any more energy.

I wish I could say there was only one night like that. Nope. If we lived in the time of walled cities and castles, I would proudly tell you that my son has the stamina of a siege warfare warrior. It took two exasperating months of three hour bedtime battles before Jed finally conceded. My sanity, my sleep, my patience, and my pride all lay on the battlefield splayed and bleeding, casualties of toddlerdom.

They say Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart.

And if you happen to ask, “But what if you are faint of heart?” Well, Motherhood, she laughs out loud and says, “Buckle up, Buttercup. It’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

That spring, I was struggling. My family was in transition, and transition feels like falling apart.

As much as I wanted Jed to sleep at a decent time and have a blessed hour of a quiet house to myself, what I really wanted was to help Jed. I wanted to walk him through the transition of crib to bed, of old house to new home, of baby who needs mom for everything to little boy who can do some things on his own. And when I sat huddled in the living room, I felt like I had bled out every last bit of knowledge, grace, long-suffering, gentleness, kindness… and it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. And I was empty. And I was failing.

I couldn’t walk through transition myself; I wanted to be to the other side. And I wasn’t walking my son through the transition; I wanted him to be on the other side.

The last time I wrote here I used this phrase to describe the strength of a mother: The only way out is through. A few weeks back, my friend lent me Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker (and I devoured it and loved it and highly recommend it), and I love that she said the exact same thing one word different: “The only way through is through.”

Because it really is the grace rhythm we mommas walk: through and through and through. We make it through. Sometimes it looks a bit like clenched-teeth determination and sometimes it looks like knees to the floor and tears streaming.

It’s hard, you know. When you are struggling, when you feel weak, and right there in front of you is this child who you love to the moon and back, with your whole big heart, forever and ever throwing what feels like a month long temper tantrum with a few breaks in there to eat and play.

David says this in the Psalms: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax; it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd” (22:14-15). And I totally get that feeling. Motherhood is this place where you feel emptied out and emptied out and emptied out and there always seems to be more you need to give.

And when you have that moment where you want to just hide your head under the couch cushions, because of that great pull on your heart, you keep going through anyways. And that’s a mother’s love.

The only way out is through.

Perhaps that pull on our hearts was meant to pull us to our knees. And if we let it, it will pull us to the side of Jesus and slow us down. It will get us so that rather than battling our relentless child, we start praying relentlessly for him.  It will get us so that we refuse to move without Him with us. And when lay our “not enough” self at the altar, we are taking up the One who came to be more than enough.

“My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have it all figured out. And it’s okay if you feel like you might be a little faint of heart.

You only have to lean.

Jesus will walk with you, and you and He will walk your child, and two years later when you look back on that season of transition, you will find that your desperate Jesus-clinging walk looks a lot more like strong resolve. Because He really is strength in our weakness and to be a Mother you only have to be strong enough to lean.

Okay, and now since we are called the Body of Christ for a reason, I do believe we were meant to lean on each other too. Will you share with us? Do you have a strong-willed child? If you are in the midst of a difficult season with that child, will you let us know so we can pray for you? Would you share any parenting tips (gently and respectfully) with us?

(And on that note: I covet your prayers. In the transition to three kids, parenting has been pretty messy over here.) 

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers