Joyless or Joyful

Have you ever found yourself making waffles at 11:30 at night?

If you answered yes, congratulations—you have a live-in garbage disposal.

If you answered no, go ahead and thank the Lord and keep walking.

My twelve-year-old son is currently fueled by food and testosterone, and neither one appears to have a limit. It is 2:15 a.m., and this child has torn through my kitchen like a rabid wildebeest. I’m talking hangry, angry, and still somehow starving. Nothing fills the bottomless pit.

And I already know… we’re just getting started.

He stands in front of the refrigerator like it’s a portal to the land of never-ending groceries. Every five minutes, he opens it back up like something new might’ve spawned since the last visit.

Milk? I might as well invest in a herd of Holsteins and install a direct pipeline.

Juice? Gone. Disappears like it owes him money.

We make a monthly run to Sam’s Club like responsible adults… and it lasts about a week and a half if he decides he suddenly hates everything we bought.

This child has never—and I mean never—slept a full day in his life.

Meanwhile, I love sleep. I dream about sleep. I think about sleep like it’s a long-lost ex I still haven’t gotten over.

But here I sit… wide awake… because menopause said, “Let’s fight.”

So now it’s me—hormonal and tired—versus him—hormonal and hungry.

And let me tell you… we match energy.

That is not a blessing.

That is a full-contact sport.

I had this child at 39. I thought I was in the home stretch with the older ones.

God said, “Watch this.”

Now I’m out here tired, outnumbered, and trying not to get sucked into the chaos like a turd in a toilet bowl.

At twelve, he’s smart. Too smart. A full-blown con artist who knows exactly how to work the system.

And I remind him regularly—this is not my first rodeo.

Just the other day, I had gotten my final rabies shot (long story for another time), and he was in the backseat catching an attitude.

I asked what he wanted to eat.

He snapped.

I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road, got out, opened his door—with my hand raised.

That boy couldn’t apologize fast enough.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Now… I didn’t hit him.

But the message? Received.

Even the man behind me looked like he needed to repent for something.

I just waved and got back in the car.

And honestly? That’s probably how God feels about me half the time.

Like, “Ma’am… what are you doing?”

Because I have absolutely felt the hand of God.

Usually hovering right over my mouth.

And more often than not… I say it anyway.

Then comes the consequence.

Then comes me saying, “Lord, I’m sorry.”

And wouldn’t you know it—grace shows up again.

So while we’re over here battling hormones and empty cabinets, I’m learning to balance correction with grace.

Some days it’s Proverbs.

Some days it’s survival.

And depending on the hour… you might get:

Peg Bundy
June Cleaver
or Madea

I like to keep everybody guessing.

“I’m not raising a child… I’m funding a 24-hour buffet with an attitude.”