Ticked'ness' and Repentance

Tonight, around 8 p.m., I decided if I saw another one of my cherubic children peeking out the door, claiming he needed to poop, or squawking my name, I was probably going to scream just for the sake of screaming because I’d reached my ‘wits end’. I came very close.

Today was a typically awful mom day that didn’t get typically awful until nap time. Two of my older children, bedded down on Gideon’s bunk beds were supposed to be asleep. I napped fitfully until I heard a door shut, and then their little game was up. I marched my cranky self down the hallway, opened the door, and caught the two squirrels red-handed, crouching down beside the bottom bunk surrounded by toys.

I pulled out the military voice perfected from years of hearing my dad and told those two they’d better get in their beds Right Now. I’d not seen them scramble that fast since I’d pulled out the candy bowl sometime last week. I realized that there was no way they’d go to sleep at this time as it was a quarter till 3, so I told Scarlett to grab her blankie and run to my bed so they’d at least be separated.

Gideon, crouched on the top bunk, set up a wail. I gave him the mom glare, you know, the one that says “you’d best get yourself together and quit that whining before things take a turn toward your amply padded rear end…” and marched myself back to my bedroom. I lay down with Scarlett and she snuggled against me like life was all sweet and good. I could feel my heart thumping with ticked-ness and I tried to settle down.

Apparently, the mom glare was none too sufficient since I could hear Gideon’s continued wailing down the hall. And then I heard the tell-tale scratching at another door…at the gate. Lexi. Oooh boy, could I feel the steam rising up in my ears because once she’s awake, there’s no getting her back to sleep. I ordered Scarlett to stay in my bed and not get up until I came for her, and I went to see about Lexi. When she poops, she tells me “I stink.” It works. Well, she stank all right. I changed her and then took her to the playroom. By then, Gideon had stopped wailing and Scarlett had started.

I made them stay in their rooms (and I eventually gave them a book) until 4:00 (our normal getting up time).

At that point, things rapidly declined. I attempted to get dinner together and wound up burning most of what I cooked (something I rarely ever do). I took a pan of grease outside because the last time I’d poured it down the sink, I’d stopped up the blasted thing…but this time, walking out barefoot with a hot pan of grease of burnt bacon, I stepped all over blazing hot cement and got stickers stuck in my toes in that sorry excuse for withered, prickly scorched grass lying pathetically about my backyard.

I hobbled back to the door with the still-hot pan while Gideon and Scarlett became unhelpful spectators informing me I was bleeding as a result of the stickers. I was not, however, but when I got back in, I looked at my white shirt and realized I’d somehow sloshed spaghetti sauce all over myself and on the floor and on my arms and on my legs…and, well, you get the picture. I was not holding spaghetti sauce in my hands at that point, either.

Trying to busy the children, I had them set the table, but as I was dishing up the food, Gideon started banging his fork on the table. I snottily told him to stop and he moved to bang it on his dish, informing me that it wasn’t the table.

I was trying so hard not to lose it, but when I’m stressed, loud noises further exasperate me. Burnt food, a bum toe (that I’d whacked on something hard earlier in the day), plus the throbbing from the stickers and the fact that I had spaghetti sauce splattered all over me and all over the stove was pushing me to my limit. That fork banging was tipping me over the edge.

Did I think of a Bible verse or ask God to enter into the chaos at that precise moment? Of course not. I was trying to get dinner prepared and I was single-mindedly determined to just get it on the table and get the children eating, dag-nabbit. That was the goal and I was going to get there no matter what.

You may be wondering where Jeff was during all of this…he was safe at work.
In my defense (as small as it may be), I’m now taking regular antibiotics to rid my intestine of bad bacteria. The pharmacist informed me that it would cause “excessive diarrhea” so that’s been added back into the mix of the day causing additional and incredible irritation and frustration on my part.

So, I finally get the plates dished up and put some raw veggies on each, and as I’m placing them in front of their owners, I say “now don’t open the salad dressings.” I begin to cut Lexi’s pasta, and totally missed what happened next. I hear, from less than an inch from me, “Uh oh, uh oh, it’s not stopping!”

I saw red and then I saw a lot of white. Scarlett had dumped, and was still holding the bottle upside down, about half of the bottle of Ranch dressing on her plate and the table.

That was my “last straw.”

I didn’t scream, I didn’t strike, I didn’t pound the table, I didn’t fling the plates upon the floor or any of those lack-of-self-control things. I merely yelled her name at the top of my lungs until my breath abated. Oh wait. Did I just say I exhibited self control? Indeed.

“SSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLEEEEEEETTTTTTT!”

I did manage to jerk back her chair before it puddled all over her, but I was fuming. I was furious, and my mind was raging.

I told her she was going to eat her food (which happened to only be half of her plate) with all that Ranch dressing. I spooned most of it into another bowl with a completely inappropriate scowl upon my face and only felt slightly guilty for what I’d just said.

Gideon chose at that moment to very smugly informed me that he didn’t open the “E-talian” dressing.

I put myself down into the chair and stared at my plate. After cleaning up all of the mess that I could I was struck with a fierce sense of shame. Shame for my yelling. Shame for my irritableness. Shame for the poor example I’d been to my children, and mostly, shame that my Heavenly Father witnessed such a childish display of temper and I never once sought His guidance during any of it. I let the emotion and the nasty spirit of discord rule during meal preparation and it spewed out like tongues of fire against my children.

I knew what I had to do, and swallowing my pride (which tried to justify me yelling at Scarlett because she’d disobeyed a direct order), I turned to her and said, “Scarlett, I’m very sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have done that. ”

And do you know what that tiny little 3-year-old said? She taught me a lesson in humility. She said, “I’m sorry I spilled the Ranch, Mommy. It was my all my fault.”

If only I had been that quick to recognize my own guilt and confess it. I held out my hand. She gave me hers and we squeezed and smiled at one another. All the anger and wrath of the day dissipated with her sweet words of contrition, for it wasn’t really her fault. She’s a child, prone to childish things and I was the fool who got angry about it.

It helped me see clearly something else about myself that I really didn’t want to recognize. I’ve got a problem with trying to control things at home. I’ve never really been a controlling person, but since my medical mishap, my life has been in such disarray and chaos of its own, that I think I turned to home for some semblance of normalcy and a pattern of regularity. I’ve created an atmosphere where I want to manage and order my home so that I don’t feel so pulled apart… like fried chicken at a picnic. And that, indeed, is how I’ve been feeling.

I’m not saying I keep the house totally ordered (because we all know I detest house-cleaning as a rule), but I order my time. Every moment and every hour is accounted for… and I order it for structure for our family, for sanity, and so I can have some time to myself after an exhausting mothering day. Today, though, I comprehend that I put that order above my children and have become rigidly inflexible. What does that accomplish? Well, just take a look at my day. Because things were going awry all around me, I flopped.

Because I didn’t get the sleep my body requires, I gave that an excuse to shut down and just react. Pitiful. Because I slummed my way through dinner and made a royal mess of myself and the kitchen, I gave that as an excuse to work myself into a ferocious mental lather. Shameful. Because my children were acting like children and I wasn’t spiritually (or emotionally) prepared to handle them, I failed that test. Inexcusable.

Thank goodness every day begins anew. Lord, bring back my joy in being a mother. Help me see these precious children for who they will be in you and for the treasures you have entrusted me. Forgive my anger, wrath, and flippancy when I allow circumstances to cloud my judgment and give into those areas that need to be pruned once and for all. Help me see beyond my physical discomforts to the needs my children have to be with me, help me, and loved by me. Grant me the ability to be flexible in my day, and not so selfish when it comes to my own desires. I thank you for your forbearance with me, though I am the least of these who claim your name for my own. Gird me and guide me as I face the potential for yet another challenging day tomorrow.