When I staggered downstairs (I always stagger down these days, even on the rare occasions when the toddler sleep (the newborn sleeps great, knock on wood)), I found the oatmeal pot soaking with the crusted remains of last night's potato soup. oh, yeah. So I scrubbed it out, cooked up some oats and eggs, and called the circus downstairs. One little monkey flat-out refused to eat. Later, at pick-up from school, the teacher said he spend the morning trying to eat food off the floor (I had sent a snack with him, too). Um, he didn't eat breakfast? (This is also the monkey who spent a couple of years sneaking cat food and horse grain at every opportunity. I don't really know what to say about that.)
So we got home. At 9.15, I'd consumed nothing but an enormous mug of coffee, so I heated up some toast (GF), slathered on butter and honey, and headed out to the schoolroom, where the first little monkey was working on handwriting. Okay, I said, Let's do your timeline. He had a little bit of trouble with the first two, so we went through and I said, Let's do this one five times. Whoa, Nellie! All Hell broke loose, too. Broke right out of that handbasket. I can handle Hell if it stays in its handbasket, but when it busts out, I run around trying to shove it right back in. Wrong strategy, I tell you.
We finally got it contained again, howsome-ever, and went on to rock that timeline's boat, all whilst wearing a tiny babe and fielding a WILD toddler.
Nota Bene: very very Bene: Do Not No Never Discount This Toddler. She is one great big sunshine; she cheers us all up when life is awry; she sits in timeout with her monkey brothers so they won't be sad; she is smiley and darling and OH SO CUTE and Personality busting the seams. SHE IS PURGATORY. A five-minute convo with my sister-in-law included: Oh. Shoot. She turned off the washer again. | Aibhie, no table. Get down from the table. | No, no; don't eat the box. She NEVER STOPS. NEVER EVER EVER. She will very sweetly and with intense concentration shred every book she can get her hands on. She will crumple playing cards, turn off the washer, reset the dishwasher, destroy every single thing the boys build with any sort of toy, unmake the bed, unfold the laundry, poke the baby's eyes (EYES! baby's EYES!) . . . I could go on. and on. and on. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum. In fact, that's where I end up most days: nauseum, exhaustium, yellingum.
A monkey got into a small wee jar of craft paint that I missed in their "army box" on the porch. Another monkey made the baby cry after being explicitly told to leave her alone. I made a very, very strong whiskey sour, kind of accidentally strong, called my best friend, and all but wept.
I can't do this. I am failing.
So lately I've been sort of obsessed with Passenger. He's pretty much awesome. Well, my aunt said he sounds like Kermit the Frog, but she admittedly had a cold. And he drops the F-bomb more than one might choose . . . but I put him on constantly. I can't get enough. And there's this song he does called Scare Away the Dark (he's really into being a light and having lights and such). So here it is:
There are those words Feel, feel like you still have a choice . . .
And I felt the words behind my eyes, welling up tears, yet again, as I scrubbed dishes at the sink. Yeah right. I made my choice a long time ago. But I do have a choice, still: a choice to yell, or to sing. A choice to resent these tiny people who demand so much of me, or laugh and rejoice or at least bite my tongue, because Mama, their day sucks too right now.
It's hard for me to buy into the whole "change your attitude" song-and-dance, but it's a legit thing: we sing and dance every day, and we do choose the tune.
So, no roses from St Therese, but some hard-a** life lessons, a little love from Passenger, and some very much-needed grace.
EDIT: A few short hours after writing this, St Therese sent me roses. Because, of course, the saints don't ever really let us down. Sometimes they just hide a bit.
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