I’m going to be honest.

There are some things that I am just not good at doing. I normally don’t like to admit failure but, in order to grow spiritually and emotionally, I have no choice but to face my shortcomings.

Which are few, let me assure you.

OK, there are several.

This growth thing is going to be harder than I thought.

But they say confession is good for the soul, so here goes.

I cannot fold a fitted sheet to save my life. I try, I really do, but then I end up just balling it up and throwing it in the linen closet. It’s like a Rubik’s cube to me. Don’t understand it, never will.

I rarely cook meat for my family. And even though I like to think it’s because a meatless diet is more heart healthy, it’s really because I don’t want to touch it with my fingers.

I am unbelievably bad at math. I mean need-to-use-a-calculator-for-simple-subtraction bad.

I have never hit a moving vehicle with my car but definitely cannot say the same for non-moving things, like garages, other cars and mailboxes. And most of that has happened in my own driveway.

My confessional list brings me to my parenting shortcomings. Almost every decision I make is fraught with some level of angst over whether or not it is the right decision for my son’s future. I need to learn how to loosen up and go with the flow.

Like that will ever happen.

My Mom had this eyebrow thing that if it went up, my brother and I knew we were in trouble. The higher it went, the worse it was going to be for us.

I need an eyebrow thing. But I don’t have it. I’m a softie when it comes to my son. I try to be stern when it is necessary and I think I’m good at setting boundaries. My son knows when he is crossing the line. The problem is what happens after he crosses the line. I’m not always great with the follow-through.

Like at bedtime. This has been an ongoing issue that seems to be improving, but we still have our occasional hiccups.

A couple of weeks ago, I put my son to bed. It was a hiccup kind of night. He kept getting out of bed. I kept making threats, empty ones of course, that he would be in trouble if he did not stay in bed. I finally told him we were going to our bed and if he got out of his bed, he was going to be in trouble. Seriously. I really meant it.

Really.

So, my husband and I went to our bedroom. I heard little feet heading our direction. My son had already pottied (twice), he already had juice, he already had me rid his room of monsters, and he had already shown me about three different toys from his room. I wondered what in the world his excuse would be for leaving his bed this time.

Then, my husband brought up the bigger concern. “You know you’re going to have to punish him this time, right? You said you would and he needs to be disciplined for not listening to you.”

I was trying to prepare what I was going to say and do as the little feet were coming closer to our bedroom. He walked in and said:

“Look, guys! Look what cool thing I found in my room. It’s a Bible! My own Bible!” He was waving around his Bible like a preacher at revival.

My husband and I exchanged looks and started laughing. No way was I going to punish him now.

Well played, little man. Well played.

I shuffled him back to bed, and read him a Bible story. We said our prayers (again) and I added a silent addendum to mine: Please help me guide my son in the way he should go. And grant me the ability to remember these adorable moments.

Oh, and let him always think his Bible is a cool and important enough reason to get out of bed, even when in the face of trouble.

Amen.

— Jennifer Brinkley is an adoptive parent and stepmother in Bowling Green.