My Ugliest Hours
The house is silent, finally. The heap of pots and pans in the sink threaten to spill over onto the counter. Toys litter the living room floors. They are all waiting patiently to be picked up and put away. It's so stupid. Why do I bother to tidy up when every toy out now will make an appearance tomorrow? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. If I'm not mistaken, that's the definition of insanity, correct? Well if the unwashed yoga pants fit...
One hour ago I was sitting at the dining room table saying the words, "I just really don't want to talk to you right now, buddy". My son was taking the usual slow-boat with dinner. Painfully slow. I honestly could not think of anything nice to say after he'd ignored my last three requests to take a bite of food. It was better for me not to answer him as he rattled on about his plans, post-dinner. Why couldn't he eat dinner in a normal amount of time and be done with it? Why was EVERY SINGLE DINNER a battle? All the while, the baby howled in her high chair from being over-tired. A lovely soundtrack to dinner that quickened my pulse with every slam of her angry fists against the tray.
An hour and a half ago, my son was sitting on the potty, very clearly against his will. I'd seen my last pair of skid-marked underwear for the day and was determined to see the fruit of those skid-marks in the bottom of his race-car potty. He hates that race-car potty. He'd rather soil his entire collection of super hero underwear than sit on that little throne. My sweet-natured son let out screams that I feared would alarm the neighbors and eventually the cops. He spewed his wrath at me and his sister who continually tried to toddler into the bathroom. Now in the calm of the evening, I'm sad to say that I spewed my wrath right back at him. I physically couldn't handle one more of his fly-off-the-handle three year old stunts. I yelled. So much.
Two hours ago, I was flying around the kitchen in a typical dinner-won't-make-itself rage. I banged pots and pans, furiously stirred a cheese sauce, and burned broccoli for a new Pinterest recipe. The kids were underfoot and clamoring for my attention. One wanted to help, while the other wanted a prompt dinner and bedtime. It's funny, my husband wouldn't even be joining us for dinner tonight. He was meeting a friend for dinner and catching a baseball game. If this night didn't scream "cereal and leftovers" for dinner, I don't know what would. Why was I hell-bent on not only cooking, but trying out a brand new meal? I quickly flung toys from cabinets onto the living room floor and demanded that the kids move out of the kitchen.
The hours and hours that link together to create such a defeating day all involve yelling, an exhausting amount of empty threats, and a deficit of hugs and laughter. And that's just the role I played in the day. Of course there are things that my three-year old should know better than to try to do or say. But my son has also been on this earth for just over three years now. He's still learning and figuring out how to play the game. It is a given that he's going to have his share of epic throw-downs and "moments". The baby is just that, a baby. (And a red-headed one, at that.) She will absolutely have tears and fits. What makes me sad about this whole fail-of-a-day, is me.
Fourteen hours ago, I started my morning in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and my Bible. It doesn't happen every morning, but today I was able to get up before the kids and have a little pep-talk with God. I was feeling really good about myself. I poured over Psalm 139 and marveled at the fact that God knew me before I was me. I prayed over my little family. I gave God a list of areas I needed help in, as a mom. I envisioned Him looking over the list and granting me each of my requests with an approving smile. A version of Santa with more noble gifts, like patience and kindness.
I moved from God to baking banana bread to cooking breakfast. I brewed more coffee and even left a hot cup waiting on my husband's nightstand. What an adorable little housewife I was! The more productive I became around the house, the less I remembered my sweet moment with my Creator just a half hour before. The Q household was running like clockwork and I had a good handle on things. Then it was time for Barrett to sit on the potty before breakfast. The screaming began. Then I offered my delicious breakfast to two uninterested children. More screaming. I began to unravel. In the nagging pain of hindsight, I realize now that I treated my time with God as good luck charm. Time with God-check. Now my day will be snapshots full of giggling children with their adoring mother as they romp through fields of sunflowers. I truly am so stupid. Or, more accurately, insane. I have a history of "checking in" with God on the mornings I actually wake up and avoid the snooze button. On those days, I do most of the talking. I open my Bible and virtually rub it for good luck. My day goes down the tubes shortly after. Same routine every time.
Fourteen hours later, I feel...tired. It's a lot of work to pretend you are trusting God to walk you through this thing called motherhood, only to take matters into your own hands. I also feel ashamed that I am the source of so many teachable-moments with my kids turned bad. There's no happy conclusion to this blog, just an honest confession of a mom who is pooped from her own cycle of insanity. My faith that God has my back while I do the biggest job I've ever done doesn't waiver, though. Not even a little bit. He's there and will continue to be. That is such good news for a crazy like me.
One hour ago I was sitting at the dining room table saying the words, "I just really don't want to talk to you right now, buddy". My son was taking the usual slow-boat with dinner. Painfully slow. I honestly could not think of anything nice to say after he'd ignored my last three requests to take a bite of food. It was better for me not to answer him as he rattled on about his plans, post-dinner. Why couldn't he eat dinner in a normal amount of time and be done with it? Why was EVERY SINGLE DINNER a battle? All the while, the baby howled in her high chair from being over-tired. A lovely soundtrack to dinner that quickened my pulse with every slam of her angry fists against the tray.
An hour and a half ago, my son was sitting on the potty, very clearly against his will. I'd seen my last pair of skid-marked underwear for the day and was determined to see the fruit of those skid-marks in the bottom of his race-car potty. He hates that race-car potty. He'd rather soil his entire collection of super hero underwear than sit on that little throne. My sweet-natured son let out screams that I feared would alarm the neighbors and eventually the cops. He spewed his wrath at me and his sister who continually tried to toddler into the bathroom. Now in the calm of the evening, I'm sad to say that I spewed my wrath right back at him. I physically couldn't handle one more of his fly-off-the-handle three year old stunts. I yelled. So much.
Two hours ago, I was flying around the kitchen in a typical dinner-won't-make-itself rage. I banged pots and pans, furiously stirred a cheese sauce, and burned broccoli for a new Pinterest recipe. The kids were underfoot and clamoring for my attention. One wanted to help, while the other wanted a prompt dinner and bedtime. It's funny, my husband wouldn't even be joining us for dinner tonight. He was meeting a friend for dinner and catching a baseball game. If this night didn't scream "cereal and leftovers" for dinner, I don't know what would. Why was I hell-bent on not only cooking, but trying out a brand new meal? I quickly flung toys from cabinets onto the living room floor and demanded that the kids move out of the kitchen.
The hours and hours that link together to create such a defeating day all involve yelling, an exhausting amount of empty threats, and a deficit of hugs and laughter. And that's just the role I played in the day. Of course there are things that my three-year old should know better than to try to do or say. But my son has also been on this earth for just over three years now. He's still learning and figuring out how to play the game. It is a given that he's going to have his share of epic throw-downs and "moments". The baby is just that, a baby. (And a red-headed one, at that.) She will absolutely have tears and fits. What makes me sad about this whole fail-of-a-day, is me.
Fourteen hours ago, I started my morning in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and my Bible. It doesn't happen every morning, but today I was able to get up before the kids and have a little pep-talk with God. I was feeling really good about myself. I poured over Psalm 139 and marveled at the fact that God knew me before I was me. I prayed over my little family. I gave God a list of areas I needed help in, as a mom. I envisioned Him looking over the list and granting me each of my requests with an approving smile. A version of Santa with more noble gifts, like patience and kindness.
I moved from God to baking banana bread to cooking breakfast. I brewed more coffee and even left a hot cup waiting on my husband's nightstand. What an adorable little housewife I was! The more productive I became around the house, the less I remembered my sweet moment with my Creator just a half hour before. The Q household was running like clockwork and I had a good handle on things. Then it was time for Barrett to sit on the potty before breakfast. The screaming began. Then I offered my delicious breakfast to two uninterested children. More screaming. I began to unravel. In the nagging pain of hindsight, I realize now that I treated my time with God as good luck charm. Time with God-check. Now my day will be snapshots full of giggling children with their adoring mother as they romp through fields of sunflowers. I truly am so stupid. Or, more accurately, insane. I have a history of "checking in" with God on the mornings I actually wake up and avoid the snooze button. On those days, I do most of the talking. I open my Bible and virtually rub it for good luck. My day goes down the tubes shortly after. Same routine every time.
Fourteen hours later, I feel...tired. It's a lot of work to pretend you are trusting God to walk you through this thing called motherhood, only to take matters into your own hands. I also feel ashamed that I am the source of so many teachable-moments with my kids turned bad. There's no happy conclusion to this blog, just an honest confession of a mom who is pooped from her own cycle of insanity. My faith that God has my back while I do the biggest job I've ever done doesn't waiver, though. Not even a little bit. He's there and will continue to be. That is such good news for a crazy like me.
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