Log Rolling

I used to think I had a type-A personality (insert blurt of laughter here). I thought of myself as being in leagues with the kind of people who are beautiful time managers with goal-driven lives and well-kept houses. These people are the “Ninja Warriors” among us--navigating life’s obstacles with precisely the right planning, timing, agility, focus. As I learn more about myself, however, I have been forced to adopt a more realistic view. Where there are the Ninja Warriors of humankind, there are also the Haphazard Log Rollers. You know--these are the people who have an understanding of the timing, organization, and mechanics required to stay atop a spinning log in the middle of the river but whose execution is woefully lacking (and whose falls can be remarkably amusing). I, ladies and gentlemen, am 100% Log Roller. And not even a good one, at that.

I keep praying that God will morph me into a Ninja Warrior. He hasn’t yet. If the state of my house and the antics of my children yesterday are any indicator, I don’t even think I make it on top of the log at all some days, let alone to the top of a 50-foot cargo net.

I say this all not because I am granting myself an excuse to settle for mess and chaos nor because I am lamenting my hopelessness. I say this because there is value in understanding my starting point as I work to tweak little things to make life better. I may never be a Ninja Warrior. I have to keep my eyes on Jesus and remind myself that I am a work in progress and that the finished project may be different in my Creator’s eyes than in my own. My children are works in progress. Life is a work in progress.

I get tired of reading articles about the sacrifice of allowing three motes of dust to accumulate on furniture so that moms can dance in the sunbeams with their children. Messy houses and life with children get over-romanticized. There is beauty in savoring motherhood moments, yes. But in my case, I just as often have to hunt for humor in the brutality of it all so that I can survive those moments I’m supposed to savor. There are days my house is a disaster. I don’t mean a poetic, kid-occupied mess consisting of occasional toys strewn about, and a strategically placed cup of spilt milk. My chaos borders the “grimace-and-stage-a-professional-intervention” variety.

Case in point:

Yesterday, Kate colored all over herself, the wall in the stairwell, and the basement couch with brown marker. She tried to eat 2 marbles. She dumped an entire bowl of goldfish crackers on the trampoline and ground them to teensy, cheesy crumbs in a matter of seconds. She somehow gained possession of a giant, sharp bread knife, with which she RAN across the kitchen to give to me. (In my panic, I grabbed the knife from her by the blade and now have a small paper-cut like slit on my palm.) While I was changing Joel’s diaper, Kate also managed to shut Anna (theories on the hows and whys are welcome…) in the clothes dryer. Anna screamed and managed to kick free before I pieced together what had happened. Thankfully, both Anna and the dryer survived the encounter. Meanwhile, Anna played with every toy she owns in some sort of reckless fast-forward mode, ensuring the impossibility that the mess could be easily contained. And Joel, sweet Joel. Joel squawked and barfed, generating a pail full of diapers and a fresh load of soiled laundry and otherwise beautifully playing the part of newborn baby.

All the while…

Dishes and sour-milk sippy cups teetered atop a high heap in the kitchen sink; a gritty tangle of half-naked Barbies rested by the back door after having been rescued from the harsh realities of pool and sandbox play; laundry settled into unfolded, stubbornly wrinkled piles; counters resembled a splatter-paint art project; a crusty blob of someone’s breakfast willed itself to become forever part of the laminate floor, and cabinet doors hung open at odd angles, the aftermath of children whirling by in frantic search of countless items. See? I can make it sound sort of poetic. In reality, it was brutal, nasty, embarrassing, frustrating MESS made more frustrating by the fact that I couldn’t seem to turn it around. I couldn’t get on top of the log, let alone stay there. I was up to my chest in the river. I think my log had floated a quarter mile downstream.

So, I willed myself not to feel like a colossal failure. And I praised Jesus for His grace. And I kissed my kids. And I convinced myself to wake up today and keep trying, even if my attempt results in a wipeout worthy of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Enough poorly constructed metaphor for one night.

Now, I am sitting at Wesley in a muggy hospital room with a groggy Joel perched on my shoulder. His hernia repair went well this morning, but he is having trouble shaking all the effects of the anesthesia. He has had a couple of apnea episodes, and his oxygen saturation dips into the low 80’s off and on when he attempts to wake up to eat. His nurse and I are remaining watchful but are optimistic that he just needs a little more time to recoup. I am oddly calm about all the goings on. I attribute the peace to the prayer net beneath us and the God who has yet to let me fall abandoned.

My thoughts are getting fuzzy as Joel is sharing his sleepiness with me. I suppose it would be safest to stop my ramblings until the next time the luxury of a quiet place and empty time finds me--be that tomorrow or a year down the line.

*Sigh* Good night, all.