This is a bonus post, written to prove to you (and to me) that I will not be consumed by seizures. Epilepsy is part of my life, but it will not be my life, by the grace of God.
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When my firstborn was 18 months old, she would help me in simple ways: throwing trash away, picking up toys, filling the washer with dirty clothes, and emptying the dryer into the laundry basket.
I was sure it was A Sign.
Her willingness to help was A Sign that I was a good and faithful and consistent mother. She would grow up to be cheerfully helpful because of the encouragement I was giving her. None of this complaining and whining about work, no, indeedy.
My third child is now nearly 18 months old, and he also likes to throw trash away and load the washer.
But I know the truth this time. He hasn’t yet figured out that he is working.
Once he has, it doesn’t matter how good and faithful and consistent I am: There will be whining.