I'm a lawyer, which means I basically get paid to fight. When I face a problem, or when my loved ones do, it has become second nature to hunker down for a big old fight.
Picking up kickboxing as a hobby might have made things worse.
In many different aspects of my life, my fighting instinct has been a blessing. I recall about six months ago when two days before the sale of our home, the homeowners' association tried to tank our close because of neighborhood politics that predated our arrival. I immediately freaked out. I still recall the gist of the message I left on the voicemail of every single member of the HOA board after hearing the news.
"I have just been informed by my realtor that the HOA decided to interfere with the sale of my home. Unfortunately for you, I'm a lawyer. Off the top of my head, I plan to file a lawsuit against the HOA for tortious interference with my contract, for malicious disparagement, and for libel. After that, I'll begin the lawsuits against you each individually. You may have known I was a lawyer, but in case you didn't know that I am also a stay at home mom, let me fill you in. This means I have nothing but time. I intend to spend every single moment that I am stuck in this neighborhood making your life miserable in every way that I can. Trust me, you want to fix this. Call me back."
They fixed it that afternoon.
Sometimes the boxing gloves are exactly what I need to fix a problem. Sometimes, they are not.
Lately, I have been struggling with my three year old daughter. She is a miniature version of me. Looks, personality, the whole deal. She is happy happy happy until something doesn't go her way and then ... she is screaming at the top of her lungs because that girl wastes no time putting the gloves on.
I remember when she was a baby, she did not want to walk. She could walk, she just didn't want to. So, she didn't. I tried everything. Rewards, tricks, pleading, and on and on. She would not walk. I was worried she would never walk. In fact, she was so adamant that she would not walk, she would shuffle everywhere upright, but on her knees. She wore out the knees of every pair of pants she owned. STUBBORN.
Then one day, she just decided it was time, and she started walking. Everywhere.
Now I have decided it is far past time for her to potty train. For months and months (almost a year?) she's been completely able to get on the toilet and pee alone. And poop. She can do it all just fine. She just doesn't want to do it. She will pontificate about why diapers are better. She will tell you that her poo and her pee want to go into the diaper. Good grief.
I have come at this from every possible angle. I have offered her bribes of every shape, size and form. She's been excited about all of them, until she just wasn't. I have tried being sweet and kind, and encouraging and supportive. I have asked for help. I have let Whit try. I have let babysitters try. I have screamed and yelled and lately, I have been doing that more and more. I absolutely positively must potty train her. I mean, it's getting to the point where it's just ABSURD (and embarrassing) that I haven't, right??
I was reading in my scriptures not too long ago and I read about this story. In the Book of Mormon, for those of you unfamiliar with the stories in it, there are typically two distinct groups of people. The Nephites are usually righteous, and the Lamanites are usually wicked and bloodthirsty and murderous. Well, in one part of the book, some Nephites go over and they preach to the Lamanites. Many of the wicked Lamanites are actually converted to God's gospel and they bury their weapons of war in the earth to signify to God that they will never revert to their old ways. They promise that if God will make them clean of their significant sins, they will never, ever, fight again.
Well, that was a wonderful, beautiful, symbolic gesture but they couldn't have anticipated what would happen next, right? Their former brethren, the unconverted Lamanites, get angry about the conversion. They are offended by this transformation and they decide to make their former brothers revert to their old ways. They attack, expecting their brethren to defend themselves.
These newly converted men of God refuse to take up arms again and... more than 1,000 of them are literally hewn down and murdered by the unconverted Lamanites. Think of the catastropic loss of life. Think about the Lamanites, who attacked to bring their friends, their family, their compatriots back, and instead they saw them brutally murdered by their own hands. If the story stopped here, it would be a pretty gruesome one. What a waste! Why didn't the men who had repented just pick up some weapons to defend themselves? Why didn't they fight? God would surely have understood!
But no.
They knew that the sacrifice of Jesus Christ to atone for their prior sins was a significant one. They appreciated that sacrifice and their hearts had changed. There was no longer room for any kind of anger, any kind of hatred. They allowed their brothers to take their lives, and the miracle of that day is that their brethren were moved by the humility, and the faith of the converted Lamanites. These ferocious, unrepentant murderers (who had previously ignored all preaching and attempts to convert them) had a change of heart that day. The preaching of the gospel of Christ couldn't bring them to repentance, but the testimony of the men and women who died, and their unrelenting dedication and devotion, that changed them. More hardened sinners came to Christ that day than the number of people who died. And as we know, those who died went up to heaven. This is still undeniably a tragedy, but for the converted, God understood exactly what they needed to be saved.
God knows that sometimes we are not supposed to fight.
I do not mean to imply that my day to day issues with my children are somehow on par with the death of a thousand people. But God does love me every bit as much as He loves each of them. He cares for me, and He is right here with me during my struggles. Which means that I can learn from those bigger issues about how to handle my smaller ones.
After reading about that, I decided to pull the gloves off and try to be patient with my little fighter. I still get angry and my blood pressure rises when she refuses to go on the toilet, but I try my very best not to fight. The Spirit has been very clear with me that I am not to fight about this. When other parents get judgy with me about my almost four year old being in pull-ups, I ignore it. When Emmy has an accident, I don't yell. I don't call her names or gnash my teeth. I try to be patient and loving and kind. And I can't say that she has miraculously changed, but it has helped. She has gone on the toilet all day for seven days out of ten. She has been keeping her pull-up dry almost all the time. We are making progress very slowly, but we are making it.
Is there something in your life you have been fighting lately? Can you let it go? I promise you that if you will let the Spirit be your guide, you will know when it is time to lower those dukes. Now just stop yelling for long enough to hear it.
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