One Bad Potato

One bad potato spoils the whole batch.

(Ok, so the saying says one bad apple… But I think we can all agree those potatoes go bad faster, and more pungently than the apples.)

It’s funny how a bag of gorgeous yuckon gold potatoes can turn into a stinking mess in just a few days if one of those taters gets bruised. You might not see gnats like when fruit goes bad, but sooner or later your nose will know. And as you cautiously pull out the bag or gengerly sift through the potato bin you’ll have a growing dread for that one potato. You know it’s there and if you don’t manage to see it, you will manage to squish your fingers into its soft, rotting flesh.

Bad influences can be the same. I’m talking about friends, family, and aquaintances, of course. Sometimes these people are good for us in all but one way. Sometimes they are people who are close to us — spouses, parents, besties… But somehow they’ve been bruised. Maybe not a visible bruise. Maybe not something they even know about, but before long their damaged (or at least faulty) take on life will begin to show in our own lives.

I write all of this to admit to an ongoing struggle in my life as a parent. It’s no secret I deal with depression. It’s not a secret that I don’t put much stock in my ability as a parent. And though I’ve never admitted such here, it’s probably no secret I have a quick wit and a sharp tongue to match it.

How are those things related?

When Gracie was a baby/toddler I tried to think through punishment. Had she known better? Was it intentional? What does she need to learn? I tried to continue this with Skeet, though I admit to being more rushed about it all. I parented my way regardless of how people around me reacted.

When Skeet was 9 months old I realized I had slipped pretty deep into depression. I wasn’t parenting anymore…I was barely surviving! I would mumble instructions while desperately wanting to run away. I was becoming a bruised potato.

Fast forward a year. I was “all better” …as all better as clinical depression can be, anyway. And we had a new baby. Looking back I was not all better. In fact, I had just been too busy to notice I was still mostly NOT better. Looking back my depression was already pretty low when Laney was born. I was a very bruised potato.

But then something else happened. While I was “blissfully unaware” of how bad my depression was I bumped into another bruised potato… And in an act of self preservation, I stopped parenting how I thought I should and started doing things how other potatoes thought I should. Instead of calmly listening and thinking/working things through with my kids, I listened to the voices around me that said “don’t let them talk to you that way… Momma’s gonna get you… They need to Share!” This is how I went from a depression bruised tater, to a parenting bruised tater.

The problem with that is, when our parenting becomes bruised our children become bruised. My sharp tongue encourages my kids’ sharp tongue, which encourages my pride that says “don’t talk to me that way!” …which encourages their pride that says “stop me!”… Pretty soon it’s a mud fest. And everyone has squished, stinking, rotting potato all over, and in them. And that’s all bad.

I don’t know what the secret is to cut the bruises out of my life. I know I can’t do it alone. God has to take His pearing knife and carve those places out. It’s painful. It leaves me feeling like a failure. But if I will follow His guidance I stand to gain a harvest of righteousness, which would have to be a whole lot better than a harvest of rotten potatoes.