Most mornings I am pretty sure I am going to fly apart.
I forget to have the girls lay their clothes out the night before. I miss an hour or two of sleep due to baby duty and anxiety laden insomnia and stay in bed too long which means the girls stay in bed too long. They dilly dally on getting dressed and then can’t find their clothes in the piles of folded or unfolded laundry sitting in various places around the house (but hey–at least it’s clean!).
Then we finally make it downstairs and the pants Abbie has picked out have actually been worn twice already this week and have a stain on the knee but she DOES NOT WANT to take them off and there is a meltdown. And then a cereal bowl gets dropped and there is glass and cereal all over my kitchen and I’m trying desperately not to yell. I get the girls into another room safe from the glass and step out back to take a Mommy time out in the cool air, only to return to the glass and the meltdown. The kids watch me appeal out loud to God for patience in a very loud not at all patient voice. And then I ask again.
The last 10 minutes go more smoothly and the girls are helping and the meltdown has stopped, but we have 20 different tasks still to get done in the remaining time and the baby has a poopy diaper just as we’re heading out the door. Somehow they get loaded in the back of the van and Carolyn gets dropped off just in time to make it to her classroom door as long as she doesn’t trip and have a meltdown on the way.
I finally get Abigail to her preschool class and look around at the perfectly coiffed little girls (did I even remember to comb her hair?!) with their perfectly matching outfits, with sweet little accessories to boot and I look at the ‘pick your battles’ outfit that landed on Abigail’s little frame: Grey sweatpants that are too short, flowery multi-colored shirt, blue zebra-striped socks, and red sparkle Dorothy-shoes. I trudge by the moms who look completely put together themselves and get into the car and resist the urge to just put my head down on the steering wheel and cry… And I only resist the urge because the perfectly put together moms are watching.
I try to remember: I try to remember that it’s about progress not perfection and that maybe two months ago I wouldn’t have taken the Mommy time out and I would have yelled twice as much as I did this morning. I try to remember that my identity stems from who I am in Christ: A beloved daughter of the most high king. I try to remember that the ‘perfect people are stinking liars’ as DaMomma used to say. I pray for God to fill in my gaps and I tell myself that I might not do it perfectly but my kids will at least have a prototype for what to do when one screws it up and has to apologize and ask forgiveness and do better next time.
I feel rough and ragged around the edges. I try to breathe and I recover my day and resolve to go buy some cute hair barrettes or head bands sometime soon even though I know that in a week they’ll all be lost in the black hole in my kitchen where the cute accessories I resolve to get inevitably end up. I come home and nurse the baby and play babbling games with her. I write this blog and wonder if anyone out there can relate or if everyone really is as perfect and able to keep themselves and their kids together as it seems.
I hope tomorrow morning will go better. But even if it doesn’t the truth will still be true and I will still be a beloved daughter of the most high king and hopefully my kids will still turn out ok and not too worse for wear despite mismatched clothes and lack of cute accessories.