The pure love of Christ.

It's pretty much the same every day. She emerges from the gates of the school, scans the parking lot, then smiles slightly with reassurance that the white minivan awaits her. I step out of the car, wave and inch forward to greet her with a hug, and kiss, and a "How was school today?" She avoids me, instead running toward the car but she never makes it, for I know this is coming and have already swept her up into my arms while she fights tooth and nail for freedom.

I've tried to be good-natured about it. But today, I had already suffered through a "quiet time" where my dreams of a 20-minute power nap had been trampled by the tantrums of two overtired (yet fighting sleep) preschoolers, who consequently woke up their baby sister after a mere 30 minutes of slumber. I was in no mood for my oldest daughter to treat me like dirt... again. So instead of teasing her while I forced a hug from her fighting arms, I near-strangled her, whispering threateningly into her ear, "If you can't give me a hug when I pick you up from school, you'll start walking."

I punished her with silence when we got back to the car - sometimes the urge to grow up and forgive easily can't find its way past the hurt. She asked for a cookie. I curtly turned her down. As if that wasn't enough, she immediately jumped out of the car and sped across the lawn at the sight of a teacher from church. She hugged her and chatted for a moment, beaming all the while. I saw a different person in her from my forlorn seat behind the wheel. Why couldn't she find me worthy of the same treatment?

I'm well aware that some children stomp all over the ones who love them most, reserving only their best faces for those who, albeit kind and loving, are less deserving of the affection they receive. This particular child of mine is particularly difficult to love. And on this particular day, I felt betrayed. I sulked one last moment. Then I asked why she could be so nice to Sister P. when she repeatedly turns down my efforts to deliver affection. Lily (not the one in question) piped up from the back seat, "Sister P. is nicer than you, Mom."

Yes, I suppose she is. But how many times has Sister P. wiped your bum? When have you ever told her you wouldn't do something she politely asked? How many times has she had to remind you to wash your hands? How many bedtime stories has she read you? How many backscratches has she given you? When has she ever had to deal with your rude comments about how disgusting dinner is?

I could go on and on. Alas. This is parenthood. It requires a love unlike any other. I like to call it charity.