What Does Love Require of Me?
PC: @garyschapman
“Mommy, what’s for breakfast?” My first born interrupts, his voice cutting through the quiet of our kitchen. “It doesn’t smell like cereal and I’d really just like cereal.”
He doesn’t say it, but I know. He’s thinking of the clock, of every tick that brings him closer to being late for school. Bless his perfectionistic, people-pleasing heart. Caught between the art of a perfect latte and his urgency, I marvel at how, at five he’s learned to tell time, choosing cereal not just for its sugary taste but for its promise of punctuality.
His request, like nails on a chalkboard, tightens my grip on the spatula, a silent player in our daily dance. I swirl the eggs, debating internally: do I appease or stand firm? Which type of mommy will I unleash today?
Morning light bathes our cluttered countertops. Despite the warmth, the air between us feels charged. The aroma of coffee competes with the sizzle of sausages on the stove, creating a comforting yet chaotic atmosphere. Our galley-style kitchen, usually the heart of our home, now feels like a battleground over the trivial choice of what to have for breakfast.
“Sweetheart, we can’t have cereal every morning. Today, I made eggs and sausage!” I muster enthusiasm I don’t feel, hoping to sway both him and myself.
“But Mommy, I just wanted cereal,” he protests, his whine mirroring my rising anxiety. He moves from his position, strategically blocking me from my path to the fridge.
“Are we late to school?” he adds, his voice tinged with worry as he stares up at me. Ignoring the sting of his preference for Cheerios over my cooking, I focus on the absurdity of our standoff. What mother says no to cereal? What mother says no to any breakfast that requires minimal cleanup? It’s not just his fear of being late that irks me; it’s his inability to see the effort I put into starting his day off on what I consider to be the right breakfast choice.
8 AM glares from the kitchen clock. The clock my mother insisted I hang in the kitchen because “doesn’t everyone have a clock in their kitchen?” No, I don’t need a clock to tell me I’m always late.
Resigned to the eggs and sausage, my son finally sits to eat. Meanwhile, I’m swept into the current of our morning routine, loading my arms with the scattered pieces of our life which have accumulated on the stairs—each a potential hazard my husband humorously claims could be the death of him. I navigate through a hallway lined with family photos past a living room where toys and books lie in evidence of our evening read aloud time. As I move through the motions—assisting with teeth brushing, tidying clothes, returning toys and pens to their rightful places, even watering the plants—I’m channeling my frustration.
I lose myself in the routine, any resolve to connect with my son is buried under the weight of tasks. Over and over again, I prioritize order over connection.
This morning's skirmish over breakfast is a glimpse of the broader dynamic between my son and I. One of many instances where our similarities and differences come into stark relief. In the mirror, I see not just our shared traits—the unruly waves of brown hair, the expressive brown eyes my husband likens to windows into our souls—but also the divergence in our spirits. He is soft to my hardness. He is gentle to my intensity. Where conflict ignites my temper, it sends him retreating to hide.
"Be careful not to crush his spirit," my husband warns, his words a constant echo in my mind. He sees us struggle repeatedly, angling up against one another like two male elk in rut. His wise advice, unveils a struggle within me I had not faced before parenthood: a battle with anger that risks overshadowing the love I aim to express.
***
At fourteen years old, after soccer practice, a friend’s mom hesitated in my driveway, her offer to join their family for dinner hanging in the air. I guess they noticed the absence of lights on in my home. Too embarrassed to accept, I silently yearned for the warmth of their family meal—a stark contrast to the many nights I dined alone, my single mother working late, my older brother out with friends. That yearning for connection and belonging left a deep mark on me.
Now, as the stay-at-home mom I never had, I pour every ounce of myself into creating the family life I craved. Every gummy vitamin placed, every glass of milk poured, and every balanced meal prepared is an act of love. The decision to leave my job and embrace a life at home was driven by a desire to offer and not perpetuate the slow burn of a professional career I refused to maintain.
But in the whirlwind of my efforts to rewrite our family story, my son's simple request for cereal cuts deeper than expected. It's not just the preference for convenience over my carefully planned meals; it feels like a dismissal of my sacrifices. It exposes my vulnerability, tapping into the fear that perhaps I am not enough. He has unknowingly cracked my achilles heel, and I have perceived it as ungratefulness.
***
My son stands at the entrance to our home, the door swung wide open, snow dusting our area rug. He has checked off every to-do on his homemade chore chart, is fully dressed in snow gear, and helped his brother with his socks. His preparedness, a stark contrast to the tension over our departure, reminds me of the values we try to instill in our children.
“Ten more minutes!” he calls out, an echo of my husband’s family mantra "early is on time, and on time is late,” and an acute reminder of the military bearing I didn’t possess in the military.
I’m feeling a flashback from his time check and a Sergeant Major shouting absurdities at me from the cargo bay doors of a C17 whizzing through the air. Except, I’m out of the Army and my son has replaced the soldier. We’re not about to jump out of a plane, we’re just leaving for school. I struggle to shake my annoyance at his need for promptness.
The disappointment in his eyes, despite our usual punctuality, speaks volumes. It's a moment that forces me to confront the reality that love, in its essence, is not just about provision but about understanding and meeting the needs of others—even those as simple as being first in line at school. But the moment passes, and I don’t have this revelation soon enough.
“Have we ever been late? I mean really, Sweetpea what’s the big deal? I fight back, instead of acknowledging his needs.
“No,” he mutters, eyes downward, head hung low.
The garage door opens as we make our way to school. I peer in the rear view mirror and catch my son’s silent tears falling down his cheeks. He’s looking out the window, refusing to meet my gaze. This was not how our morning was supposed to go. But when I think back over his Kindergarten year, more often than not this is our normal start to the day.
Seeing his tears instantly softens the hardness in my heart. In an even voice, I question, “On a scale of one to ten, one being a skinned knee and ten being a family member has died, where would you rank being late to school?” His eyes instantly lock with mine and his answer unfurls without hesitation,
“A nine.”
I feel the floor of the car drop out from beneath me as though I’m stuck in the middle of the road holding only the gear shift. At a loss for words I regroup, “Sweetheart, I didn’t realize being on time meant so much to you.”
Loving my son may not be the way that I needed to be loved as a child. I wanted a hot meal and company at the table. My son wants punctuality and a chance to play with his friends on the playground before school officially starts. How hard can that be?
Understanding this, I'm confronted with a question — what does love require of me? Love, I’m only beginning to realize, demands more than mere provision or the superficial maintenance of order within our home; it calls for empathy, and a willingness to temper my own nature to nurture his. This journey of reflection, sparked by moments of friction and the fear of failing him, guides me toward a love that adapts, a love that listens, and ultimately, a love that learns to soften for the sake of his spirit.
What does love require of me, is a question I first heard asked in a sermon by Andy Stanley. This essay is my own exploration of the impactful nature of asking this question over and over again in my own life.
