The Invisible Work of Parenting
A few days ago, I received a birthday invitation for a little girl in one of my twins' preschool classes.
I almost didn't go.
We didn't really know the family. The party was right before bedtime, and with twins, that's usually enough for me to politely decline.
Not just another birthday party invite.
But then I remembered our own boys' birthdays.
Over the years, with all of our military moves, we've celebrated birthdays at several different schools. Every time, we'd invite everyone in their class, hoping a few familiar faces would come.
Most of the time, no one did.
I never held it against anyone. Life is busy.
But now I know what it feels like to be the parent sending those invitations.
Hoping another family will take a chance on a birthday party hosted by strangers.
Hoping your child will look around the room and see a few familiar faces.
So I thought, Maybe that's exactly why we should go.
I sent the mom a quick text asking if they still had room for us.
She replied,
"Yes!"
I had no idea what God was about to reveal to me when I decided to RSVP to that birthday party.
If you've followed HurStories for a while, you probably know one of my twins is incredibly strong-willed.
He's kind.
He's funny.
He's endlessly curious.
And he feels everything deeply.
For the past several months, bedtime, brushing his teeth, or even playing with his brother could quickly end in a meltdown.
The old me would remind him why we don't hit or throw things.
I'd ask him how he would feel if someone did that to him.
I'd encourage him to hit a pillow instead, stomp his feet, or say, "I'm so angry!"
Sometimes it helped.
Most of the time, it didn't.
Eventually, I'd end up threatening to take away toys, popsicles, or swimming lessons if he didn't stop screaming.
It never really worked.
Then I realized something.
When he's completely overwhelmed, he isn't capable of hearing a lecture.
So I stopped trying to win the moment.
Now my first job is simply to keep everyone safe.
If he's kicking or throwing things, I'll calmly separate him from whatever he's trying to kick, throw, or break. Most of the time, that means sitting with him in the bathroom because it's the safest room for both of us.
He'll scream, "I don't want to be in the bathroom!"
And I wait.
Every so often, I'll quietly say,
"I'm so sorry you're having such a hard time."
"I know you're upset."
"I'm here when you're ready."
When the crying finally begins to slow, I'll open my arms and ask if he'd like a hug.
Usually, the answer is no.
So I wait some more.
A few minutes later, I ask again.
Eventually—sometimes after five or ten minutes—he'll whisper,
"Hug."
He wraps his little arms around me, and I hold him as tightly as I can.
I tell him,
"I love you."
"I will always love you."
"Even when you're angry."
Almost every time, I feel his whole body relax.
Then something remarkable happens.
Without me asking, he'll look up and say,
"I'm sorry I kicked you."
I simply tell him,
"Thank you for apologizing."
"I forgive you."
"And I still love you."
Then, almost like someone flipped a switch, he'll point to something completely random.
One night we spent five minutes on the bathroom floor talking about air conditioning vents.
The storm had passed.
Not because I won an argument.
Because he finally felt safe enough to come back.
Please don't misunderstand me.
This isn't a magic formula.
The tantrums didn’t magically disappear.
Some weeks it feels like we're making progress. Other weeks it feels like we're right back where we started.
As he's learning to regulate his emotions, I'm learning what he needs from me.
And some days, if I'm honest, I still wonder if any of it is making a difference.
Then I read the rest of her message.
(I've included the screenshots she sent me below)
"Also, Brooklyn is the little girl who Twin A has adopted. She was having a hard time at nap time, and he tucked her in, held her hand, and chatted with her for like 30 minutes. So adorable."
I read it over and over.
Then I cried.
Because, for the first time in a long time, I realized that all those difficult moments at home were becoming something bigger than I could see.
While I was questioning whether I was getting it right, God was quietly growing compassion in his heart.
The little boy I worried about every evening had become the little boy helping someone else feel safe.
That text reminded me of something I've been slowly learning.
Strong-willed children aren't asking for harsher punishment.
They're asking for steady parents.
Parents who hold boundaries without withdrawing love.
Parents who stay calm when they can't.
Parents who remind them they're loved even on their hardest days.
That doesn't mean there aren't consequences.
It means we're teaching, not just correcting.
Children borrow our calm long before they learn to create their own.
Some of the most important work we do as parents feels invisible.
Until every once in a while, God lets us catch a glimpse of the fruit.
For me, it came through one unexpected text.
That was the text I didn't know I needed.