Of the Day the Mommy Quit

Yesterday I quit.

I was just done.

And when you consider that my full-time job is Mommy, that's kind of a big deal.

But as I tried scrubbing off stubborn dried-on egg remainder from the morning before so I could make breakfast (because, you know, washing the egg pan when I'm actually done with it would be too much) with an inadequate washcloth (because my normal discloth was sitting in the washing machine, where it had been, also, since the day before) with a whining second-grader who didn't want to do spelling, crying as she does every day, hoping she'll get a different result (other than "Suck it up, buttercup" - we're all about compassion in this house) and trying to talk an apathetic first-grader through his math problem, with nothing more than shrugs and "I don't know"s in response to every leading question I can think of without out-right giving him the answer, I realized I was just done.

Here I was, having spent hours already that morning changing diapers, doing Bible Study, emptying the dishwasher, filling the dishwasher, cleaning counters and answering questions - working so hard at just being Mom. And there they were, with very simple tasks in front of them, too upset that they couldn't just do whatever they wanted, that it was somehow easier for them to do nothing or cry than to just get it done and move on with their lives. So many of us had work to do and I was the only one doing it.

So I quit.

I threw the washcloth in the still-crusty frying pan, declared, "I quit. Make your own breakfast. Teach yourselves. I'm done."

And I walked away.

There was stunned silence for a moment before the crying started. Mommy had quit on them and they were hungry and how were they going to get food? And when was Mommy coming back?

I sat down in the den, pulled my laptop into my crossed legs and decided I could do whatever I wanted, now that I had no job. I sifted through email and overall ignored the commotion happening only a few yards away and three steps up.

Somewhere the toddler had gotten ahold of something (a not-dangerous something - I'm not completely heartless) that made the four-year-old upset and he wanted me to do something about it.

"I'm not Mommy right now. I quit. I'm sorry."

The second-grader took matters into her own hands and removed the object from the tiny fingers. The toddler, incensed at this injustice, was crying.

I was listening to music.

The oldest, the one who didn't want to do her work but was shocked that Mommy wasn't doing her own, continued to impress on the others the severity of what just happened.

"Mommy's not going to make us breakfast!" Because this, this lack of eggs on their plates when they were perfectly capable of pouring a box of cereal, was going to be the death of them, and didn't they understand this was important?!

I sat and pondered where to go from here as I let the frustration simmer down from a boil.

Obviously I recognized that my resignation would not be accepted in the long-run. At some point I would have to pull myself back to my job. But when would that point come? At what point would they actually pour their own cereal and make up for my lacking? And should I maybe just feed the toddler, at the very least?

Ten minutes passed.

The commotion upstairs quieted as they resigned themselves to the fact that Mommy really wasn't going to do anything else.

And then two sad faces appeared at the top of the steps.

"We're sorry we didn't do our work."

"Oh? Do you see how maybe it's good for people to do the things they don't want to do?"

The girl seemed oblivious to the point I was making, but the boy seemed to understand the desired response: "Yes."

"Because you want me to make breakfast, even though I don't want to. Doesn't that mean that sometimes we have to do the things we don't want to do?"

"Yes," from the boy.

Then the girl spoke quietly and sorrowfully, "I'm just sorry because I love you and I don't want you to be sad."

Well, I'll take it.

I motioned for them to come down. They slowly walked toward me, not sure of what else might be necessary to make this right. I wrapped the girl in a hug, kissed her forehead and declared, "I love you." The boy came a little quicker and received the same response - a hug, a kiss, "I love you." The toddler came in, too, lips puckered, ready for her snot-covered kiss (the snot was from her nose, not mine). The four-year-old decided this was a good moment for some affection, as well (he's a hugger).

Refreshed, I set the computer aside and pulled myself back up the stairs to the waiting frying pan that still needed scrubbing.

I was surprised to notice the wet washcloth that had been resting in the crusted mess as I simmered had used the time to soften the hardened places - and it all wiped away with very little effort. Breakfast was on its way.

Sometimes we all just need a little time to rest in order to soften the hardened places and get back to where we were meant to be.

Of Enjoying Real Life

As I watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade last week, my remnant of personal tradition among my husband's family, with children scattered over the room declaring, "We want to watch a kids's show!", I assured them they were lucky they don't get stuck watching Mommy's and Daddy's choices very often, because when I was a girl . . . we sat on the living room floor very quietly watching whatever was on - and while the Flintstones made a regular appearance, so did M.A.S.H. and last night's video recording (you know, the kind actually taped over and over on the same VHS, none of this digital nonsense) of David Letterman, so as far as I'm concerned, my kids are living the life, entertainment-wise. So could Momma just have this one morning of the year, for crying out loud?

Nevertheless, there were the sweet moments, like when the Rockettes - the highlight of the yearly event, the part my mom would run in from the kitchen to see so that we were always watching at least that part together while the turkey took a rest from its morning preparations - donned the screen and my eldest and youngest turned Papaw's living room into their own stage. That girl kicking as high as she could and that little boy twisting in his own best version of dance. Special memories for a momma passing down her own childhood moments.

And then they announced it. Next Thursday evening would be a special live broadcast of an entirely redone Sound of Music.

To those who turn on their TV's regularly, this was probably old news. As it was, I was hit with it for the first time that morning and was already scheming how to tune the children out between the 7pm start time and their 8pm bedtime. Momma was going to need another allowance, and only a week later, to tune the television to her choice - while the kids were awake. It's a risky proposition because we all know, with three children aged five and under scurrying about, one can rarely hear her own thoughts, let alone the TV. Maybe they could go to bed early.

Either way, I spent the week reminding myself and my husband, though the hideous foil-adorned antenna had been stowed in the attic during this house-selling season of our lives, it would need to be pulled out for at least one night. I was watching that TV special - and suddenly I was having 90's flashbacks - who actually tuned in to a live TV special these days? Who doesn't simply watch them the next day, or at least with a delayed start so as to fast forward commercials? Apparently we, of the no cable, no DVR, no Netflix, even. That's who. I didn't even have a blank VHS handy. I was behind the technological times even if it had been 1993.

Then Thursday came and forecasts of ice and snow and a wintry mix of wonderland flooded the forecast and my mind. I was planning chili and Christmas movies and what dessert to prepare as a family while we snuggled in our warm nest. So, it wasn't until after the chili and after the newest VeggieTales Christmas DVD (see? sometimes we at least catch up to 2001 with our entertainment technology), as we stirred puppy chow in the kitchen and pondered what slice of holiday media to enjoy with our chocolately goodness that I declared, "It's Thursday!" "Yes it is," confirmed my confused husband. "We only have 18 minutes!" I cried, glancing at the clock.

Catching on, he dutifully, and reluctantly, hurried to the attic for that blasted antenna and, after the powdered sugar had been shaken over the snack and everyone had their bowls of Chow and cups of milk, we finished our Jesse Tree devotion just in time to tune in.

I hadn't planned to snuggle together as a family with a fire in the fireplace, all eyes on the recreated classic, but it's the way it happened - as it goes with all best memories, the kind that can't be created on purpose. And then my littlest boy started dancing to the chorus of the hills coming alive and my daughter was twirling across the floor while Maria sang of her favorite things. And there we were in that blissful moment, and I didn't care that it would keep the kids up two extra hours, or that I sometimes couldn't see because an excited three-year-old has a knack for sticking his giant noggin in front of the TV, or that the acting was sometimes sub-par, or even the question at every commercial break, "Is it coming back?" (commercials are still a little foreign to them). I didn't care because we were making memories. The same kinds of memories I have from my own childhood, of sitting around the black box as a family, watching that TV special, with the Christmas lights twinkling and the icicles forming outside.

These are the moments real life is enjoyed.

Of Belonging

Over the years, here and there, Satan has hit me in my lowest points of insecurity to convince me I am an outcast.  No one cares and in my social circles I am merely tolerated.  These are the lies with which I have been attacked and to which, in helpless moments, I have succumbed.

If anything, God has used this "overdue" Little One to show Philip and I just how much we are loved, by Him and His Family.  We have felt, in just the past week - the week of waiting, watching and hoping - the love of Our Father through the words of encouragement and affirmation, the acts of service and the most unnecessary tangible gifts of those surrounding us.  Our family, our friends, the hands and feet of God Himself.

His perfect timing has allowed us to be showered upon with an acceptance and love we have been told by the enemy didn't exist.  This a blessing greater than any due date or early arrival could have ever produced.

We appreciate every one of you and are so humbled to know you are there to lift us up as we stumble through this period of waiting, simply waiting.

And the ice cream hasn't hurt, either.

Photos of the Day:  This is how I spent my morning and post-lunch/pre-nap hour - snuggling with my two Big Kids who dragged their blankets and pillows to the couch all on their own and settled in with me uninvited (but so welcome):