Doozies

I woke up at 8:05 Monday morning to a fortunately-timed call from my mom. I had overslept my alarm, which meant that I had 12 minutes to get myself dressed and ready, wake and clothe three sleeping children, and load the family bus (a.k.a. our minivan) to ensure Anna made it to Pre-K by 8:30.

We made it.

Most of the 12 minutes went to getting Anna together and set for her day since she was the one who had to sustain a public appearance. She walked out the door a little dazed and grumpy but clean and properly clothed all the same. She dined on Pediasure in a sippy cup and some form of dry cereal in the back seat of the bus.

The rest of us left the house hungry and in various forms of disarray. I found myself racing against the clock, trying to judge how “ready” each of us had to be to earn a societal “Pass.” Since Joel is an infant, I figured the bar was set lowest for him. He went in his pajamas (including his soaked nighttime diaper). I banked on the cute factor of a smiling infant in footie jammies and trusted that no one but me would be squishing his sopping hind end. I did clothe Kate, but I didn’t even make an effort to tame her bed head. The back of her hair was more tangles than not, but she’s two. The world expects some chaos from toddlers, so I figured she’d get a pass.

As for me, I left on the same T-shirt and nylon comfort bra I had worn to bed...and had worn for a few hours before going to bed the evening before. I threw on a pair of stale jeans and flip flops to complete the ensemble and re-knotted my hair into a fuzzy bun. There was no time for deodorant or brushing teeth. I prayed no one would get too close.

Drop-off was uneventful until Joel barfed his 4:00 a.m. feeding down my left shoulder halfway down the hall leading to the exit. I realized how much my sense of dignity has suffered since the arrival of my children when another mom offered me some paper towels to wipe off my shirt. I caught myself having to pretend as though I was eager to get the sour milk blob wiped up and as though I was grateful for her intervention. In reality, while I was grateful for the kind gesture, I couldn’t have cared less about the barf on my shirt and was more focused on making it back to the family bus without having to chase Kate down another off-shooting hallway or pry her away screaming from another freaking water fountain. Anna’s classroom has to be the one farthest from the door…

We made it home, our morning settled, and soon, I was reloading my littles to pick up Anna from Pre-K. It dawned on me as I parked the bus at the school that I hadn’t bothered to change my shirt. I prayed I didn’t run into the helpful mom from earlier that morning or at least that she wouldn't notice my poor hygiene choices for the morning if I did. My strategy was to play it cool and avoid eye contact with anyone who remotely resembled her. I succeeded in avoiding further potentially awkward interactions, but I'm not sure I went unnoticed. Eye contact with others is kind of required for that sort of assessment. Meh. I'm really not so sure I would have cared, anyway--or that anyone else would have...that much...unless they smelled me...pretty sure that barf spot didn't add much favorable to my already stale existence. I wasn't exactly at my peak of freshness. Ugh.

That morning was a doozie, but I can’t claim it’s the only hot mess of a day I’ve had (or will have) as a mom. There are a great many “doozie days” in my life right now.

I get it now why my Grandma Lois laughed after almost everything she said. I get it why the woman seemed to roll with anything and everything life tried to throw at her. Grandma Lois had eight children. EIGHT CHILDREN. Children force you to look hard at what really matters and choose how to move forward, how to keep your head above water. She chose to bend, to laugh, to accept how little control she really had over anything beyond her actions, her reactions, her perspectives. And generations continue to be blessed by the way she chose to love.

There are days I see laughter in the midst of chaos bubbling out of me, and I am fiercely grateful. There are other days, though, when I see a neurotic woman who needs to be slapped across the face and brought back to reality.

Today, I was both those things. Kate tried to hide something like six pieces of popcorn chicken down the front of her hot-pink sundress at lunch. I think she had already eaten her fill and realized it was a mistake to have grabbed the container and refilled her plate without seeking my permission. The odd-shaped bulge under her left ribs and growing circle of grease were a dead giveaway. When she realized the gig was up, she set about retrieving the pieces, declaring at one point, “Peek-a-boo, Chicken!” I made her help clean the mess and was clear that food is not to be squirreled away in clothing items, but I was wise enough to see the humor in the moment. I didn’t respond with nearly as much grace or insight when she was swinging like an orangutan from an open kitchen drawer later, though. I think that stunt was the last of a few other minor offenses, and I was toast; toast, but still wrong in the tone I used, the way I pried her fingers off the drawer and plunked her in the hall.

And I know, in the grand scheme of things, these things--these offenses, if you will--are immeasurably small. My kids will remember how they were loved, how they were valued, how they were taught consistently over the course of their childhood. Hopefully, they will remember how much I love Jesus--however imperfect I may be. Those pieces are the big things. And, being a mom will continue to shape me and change me, both according to the circumstances of the tranquil days and "doozies" that lie ahead and according to how I choose to respond to the moments within them.

Sigh. Jesus don’t give up on me yet. I need you to navigate this crazy, beautiful journey.