Our younger son is a whirlwind of energy, spinning, running, bouncing, wriggling, burrowing, crashing. His raspy foghorn voice has no volume control. It’s like we’re living with a cross between a caffeinated squirrel and a cyclone.

Thing is, he’s real sweet about it, most times. He charges full steam ahead with whatever he’s doing—drawing, hauling small trees indoors, playing flashcards, washing the floor—completely oblivious to the fact that we’re talking to him, yelling at him, screaming for him to PAY ATTENTION FOR ONE MINUTE PLEASE. He’s cheerful, funny, and smart. He’s cuddly. And he doesn’t stop.

Take, for example, the play I already alluded to. It was a fun play, a comedy, and we sat in the front row. On two separate occasions, my son was called on to help: once to pick up matches and push the guy up the stairs and another to help adjust a kingly robe. My son should’ve been engrossed and bedazzled, motionless with enthrallment. Instead, he was rocking from side to side, wiggling, groaning, half-way falling out of his chair. Desperate, I grabbed a piece of paper for a game of tic-tac-toe. Then connect four. Then I rubbed his back. But he gave me loud directions about exactly how I was to rub his back, so I picked up the paper and wrote, “You must be quiet.” He whisper-sounded it out, and then, thrilled at his accomplishment, gleefully repeated it over and over again, loudly. After the show, we sat him down in a chair to practice being quiet and holding still. I expressed my disappointment at not being able to enjoy the show because I had to play games with him. “But Mama,” he said between sobs, “you were the one who wanted to play!”

More recently, there was the seven-hour car ride home from New York. I read out loud to the family and then we settled in for a movie marathon: two in a row followed by an episode of the Waltons. Part way through the second movie, my son started scrunching around in his seat and whining. By the time we got to the Waltons (and the last hour of the ride), he was crying and writhing in white hot agony.

And that’s when it hit me: this child has to move. Sitting still for any longer than a short period of time causes him to short circuit. It’s not his fault. And at the same moment I realized that, I knew the perfect solution. “Give me your hand,” I said. As soon as I dug my fingers into the soft of his palm, I felt his body relax.

For years now, we have given him back rubs during church services, but it wasn’t until this week that I realized why they worked so well. His muscles need help releasing all the pent up energy (or something like that). Isn’t it funny how it takes so long to catch on sometimes?

It’s still not easy. Having a twitchy kid that talk-bellows without ceasing will probably never be exactly soothing. Several times during family reading last night, I broke off in the middle of a sentence to roar SIT STILL and SHUT YOUR MOUTH and KEEP YOUR BUTT DOWN, DON’T STICK IT IN THE AIR. It’s hard to read words when the sofa won’t hold still for all the flopping and jittering.

Now that our son is nearing eight, I’m realizing that his energy levels aren’t the byproduct of early childhood. This is who he is so we might as well adjust and get used to it, heaven help us.

We’ve spent the last few days visiting family in Pennsylvania and New York. Sunday, the day we were at my aunt and uncle’s log cabin house (along with about several dozen other people), was the day I indulged my camera compulsions.

There was a brunch of everything brunchy. My stats: one wholegrain waffle with butter and maple syrup, half of a ham and cheese omelet, a piece of date bread, and several cups of coffee. Later, there were crisp, red apples, deer bologna, toasted ham and cheese croissants, raisin-filled cookies and chocolate crinkles, leftover cottage cheese cheesecake with strawberry sauce, and more coffee. (I’m not going to tell you my stats.)

Something new happened this year: The Great Box Divide. My cousin Zoe, an expert seamstress, had a bunch of high quality leftovers from a bazaar: bags of all sizes and colors, hot pads, aprons, napkins, and extra goodies like paper star ornaments, fabric necklaces, and dried oranges. We could take what we want, she said, and did we ever. I may have gotten a little giddy.

Other sundry activities included card games, baby holding, conversations, and paper flower making. Ordinary things, really. But when shared with family (both the ones well-known and the ones rarely seen) they became exotic: a rich, glorious, chaotic mess of energy, emotions, exhaustion, and excitement, family magnified.

I’ve decided that life is just a series of mistakes. Hopefully we learn from them.

Some people might find this discouraging, but I think it’s liberating. People aren’t trying to be bad intentionally, they’re just learning.

This is a helpful perspective to have when it comes to parenting. I make mistakes, yes, but my children? They make them all the time. This baffles and frustrates me, but I’m learning to take it in stride. For example, when the pretty lanterns get re-filled with smelly kerosene instead of the scentless stuff, it’s just a learning opportunity: I learn to bite my tongue (after letting it have free rein for a minute or three) and the child learns there is a difference between lamp fuels and to never fill them without permission. Or when a child empties the garbage and presses down on the bag and slices open the back of the hand with a piece of broken glass, proper-handling-of-garbage skills are acquired (and not to be forgotten any time soon).

Those are private, at-home examples. It’s not quite as easy to maintain perspective when the mistakes are made in public. When I get news that a child of mine is messing with a teacher’s Sunday school room or breaking someone’s stuff or not paying attention or getting downright sassy, my freak-out alert goes off. My kids are a mess! Erp! Erp! Erp! The sky is falling! The world is ending! I’m sure everyone’s shaking their heads over my miscreant, hyperactive, odd-ball little brats. And far and away, the most enthusiastic head-shaker is me.

But then, after ricocheting around in La-La Panic Land for a bit, it dawns on me, “Wait. Kids are kids. Of course they’re going to screw up. Get over it already.” And then I do damage control, stage an intervention, whatever, and that’s it.

I’ve recently had several conversations with friends regarding their kids’ behaviors, the ones that are setting off the parental Erp-Erp Alerts. One child was hitting other children. Another was fiercely resisting any sort of chores. Others kept getting down from the dinner table despite the parents’ best attempts at civilized meals. What to do? What to do?

Where I sit, in all my 42-accumulated-years of parenting (just add up the ages of your kids if you want to feel super wise and super old), their problems seem healthy. This does not mean their panic and concern is any less daunting—no, not at all—but I do know it is perfectly normal, and that, glory be, it, too, shall pass.

As my children get older, I’m losing the freedom to share about their temper tantrums or anxieties. Those stories belong to my children and that’s as it should be. But it’s also weird because my husband and I are still up to our eyeballs in the stresses of parenting. The difference is that now we can’t scream Help! I’m drowning in poppy diapers! to the general public. Instead, our problems, though every bit as shitty, have to be handled with caution. Shouting them into the void is about as helpful as lobbing them at a whirring fan.

So, when I’m up to my eyeballs in progeny screw-ups, here’s what I do. I dredge up all the pulling-out-my-hair moments of parenting: the constant taking my children out of church services, the exhausting hours spent playing bedtime whack-a-mole, the battles over tasting new foods, the trashed bedrooms, the nerve-racking doctor visits, the miserable car trips with screaming babies. And then I think, Look now! The children (mostly) sit through church services, putting them to bed at night is 90 percent a piece of cake, they are gaining tolerance for flavor differences, bedrooms are manageably clean, doctor visits don’t require weeks of prep and hours of debriefing, and car rides….well, car rides still need work. I ponder all this family history real hard, and then I tell myself that whatever it is we are dealing with—an extra-mouthy kid, a lack of respect of personal items, a propensity for doing headstands on sofas—all this, too, shall pass. Glory be.

If all this mistaking-making truly is a valuable learning experience, shouldn’t I be counting it as such? As a homeschooler, I keep a log of the children’s learning experiences: plays we see, choirs they sing in, trips we take, etc. I’m beginning to think it’d only be logical to start including things like backing the van into the dog kennel and writing an apology letter for sassing the music teacher. Because that kind of education is every bit as valuable as learning the multiples of four and that potassium nitrate is an explosive, right?

And speaking of potassium nitrate, would you let your children make their own gun powder? ‘Cause I’m really interested in helping my children be top-of-the-line pupils…

I should probably go memorize the Serenity Prayer now.

 P.S. The photography models are the aforementioned star pupils, though not necessarily actively engaged in their mistake-based education.