What To Do When There's Nothing Left To Give

In life, we get many choices. One of those choices is if we want to be “all in” or not. We decide how much effort we are willing to exert based on the priority of needs we are presented with. Some people may choose to give 50% of themselves in any given circumstance. And I don’t judge those people. Not anymore. It is the Halfers that are capable of self-preservation – protecting those vulnerable, deep down parts by not giving their all.

Halfers know that by risking all they have, they could also lose everything. They weigh the pros and cons, list the checks and balances, and move on accordingly. This particular group knows how to hold back when necessary. They’re capable of watching as things that don’t work out roll somewhat easily off their shoulders. They’re able to rebound with speed and at least half of their reserved strength.

These people are survivors.

And then in life, there’s a second group – the group that makes the choice to go 200% in. The Doublers. These people are the ones that aim for the stars instead of the clouds. They give all of themselves in all of their exhibitions. When things go well, they double their strength and fly high until the next time they lose. And when they lose, they are left with nothing. They are broken and exhausted. There is no hidden reserve of care or energy, no speedy bounce back. Recovery is long and it is dreary and it is awful.

Doublers fight to the death, give away their last slice of bread despite their own hunger, and sweat blood. There is no self-preservation – no bodily armor to protect them as they live each day.

Doublers are not survivors.

I have no idea which category you fall into. You’re probably like most people… individual circumstances allow you to choose which team you will play for.

Grocery-shopping? Halfer. Math homework? Doubler. Making time with friends? Budgeting money? Resolving spousal conflicts? Your own personal health?

You see, there are no rights or wrongs. You pick your battles and choose to accept the consequences. Most of us tend to go halfsies on the smaller matters in our lives and double up on the main events, am I right?

Except here’s the problem. Sometimes, everything in life seems to be a main event. Sometimes, everything requires 200% of us. There are some of you reading this right now who feel that you are gambling so much of yourself that the consequences may even prove fatal. The risks are too great and you have no idea if you will survive.

Let me explain what a Doubler’s lifestyle may look like when everything requires them to be all in:

You are raising a special needs child. You are caring for aging parents. You are a work at home AND work out of the home parent. You have more bills than you have paycheck. You or someone in your immediate family has a life-altering health concern and doctor’s appointments are a full-time job. Your career is in a field that requires you to care for the physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health of other(s). You are married. You are single. You have a hormonal or mental health imbalance. Your children outnumber the adults in your home. You have therapies, sports, early intervention, Bible study, something that needs to be baked for charity, laundry that hasn’t been done in weeks, lab work, vet appointments, meetings, and grocery shopping all in the same day because you CANNOT serve ketchup and crackers with canned fruit 2 meals in a row.

Have I described you yet? Are you sitting there saying to yourself, Oh my gosh, I’m Doubling on EVERYTHING because there is simply no other choice! If you are, then you know you are playing Russian Roulette with your own sanity. You’re driving full-speed at a brick wall, believing that it can and hopefully will move. You’re holding onto a breaking heart so tightly, fearful of losing even just one small piece.

I know this because I, too, am a Doubler. Sure, I’ll go halfway when I can. When the house is only somewhat deplorable and I’m sorta sure we’ve got enough money in the account to put gas in the car… and even then, maybe I’ll only put in a few bucks, just to be safe.

But everything in life… it all feels so important. There’s so little that I can lay aside or put on the back burner. My kids with their mental illnesses, I can’t half that. My son with his kidney disorder and all the things that trigger it, that has to get my all. My advocacy for a foster child that was taken from me and placed into an abusive situation – how could I ever do only 50%? My husband, my church, my clients, the finances, my health, our family… who gets cut?

And what do we do when there’s nothing left to give?

I have faced this same dilemma so very many times. Because all the things in my life deserve more than all that I can give. And that is how I know that Doublers are not survivors.

They are world changers.

For every person that finds themselves so close to the fire that they can feel the heat burning their skin…

For every person who battles to the death for a cause that is noble or to save the ones they love…

For every person willing to lay themselves on the line in order to keep another life going…

You may be too exhausted to see it, but you’re changing someone’s world.

If you fought to keep your wits about you when your child was screaming in your face, when you hold the hand of someone as they lay dying in a hospital bed, if you never stop loving even when you’re being thrown through the wringer – then you are changing the world.

I know you’re tired, friend. So am I. I’m so tired it hurts. But take comfort in this:

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this world’s darkness, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore take up the full armor of God, so that when the day comes, you will be able to stand your ground – and having done everything, to stand.”  Ephesians 6:12-13

Picture from Central Christian Church

This is not just another spiritual cliché. I’m not here to boost anyone up with feel good words and fluffy analogies. But when your child is in your face, remember that it’s not him that you’re battling. And when you’re holding your loved ones hand as they near death, it is not their spirit that is dying. And when you’ve loved with your whole heart and feel that it’s been given back to you time and again, wounded and shattered… then you know you have done everything. You have doubled up, given all that you could, and fought against all that is wrong until you’ve taken your last step.

And when you can go no further, just stand.

Because the key to changing the world is doing all that you can, then stepping aside and allowing God to finish the fight.

Be a Halfer when you can, be a Doubler when you must, and rest in God always.

If any of this hits home with you and you're looking for some extra support, click here to read about joining the Mommyhood: Striving for Sanity Membership Program.

Redefining Greatness

           Each summer, I have high hopes of achieving greatness in motherhood. And each fall I realize that greatness is highly overrated. Sometime in August I become very okay with mediocrity and the whole “just keep them alive” method of parenting. (It’s okay to judge me if you must. I’m far too tired to care anyway.)

            I start out the summer being a “Yes” Mom. I tell the kids they can have the second popsicle, that they can use the playdough without supervision, that they can stay up late to catch fireflies. And by August I am back to my “No” Mom self, swiftly denying all access to Dad’s tools, things that require all of my batteries, nail polishes/paints/anything that stains, and all things that are sugar-based.

            I’m unsure why I feel that each June will be different than the last – that my children will have matured magically in the previous 9 months, that they won’t fight incessantly, or that they won’t suck my love for summer away once again. But each summer I test out my re-found optimism, only to realize that it doesn’t quite fit in with me and my special needs family. Because in a home filled with our specific kind of nuts, we don’t have the strength for continual optimism.

            No, in our home, we have roles that we hold tightly to – ones that don’t allow for much deviation from out callings. We have myself, The Enforcer – I’m the rule-setter, consequence-maker, and death-glarer. We have my husband, The Worker – the one that is gone all day and then gets to play with our spawn, giving him the extra title of The Fun One. Then there’s my oldest, The Bully. He’s the one that taunts, teases, and pinches the minute my back is turned. But its okay, because my next oldest is The Tattler, also known as The Instigator. She is the reporter of all things (necessary or not), the one that loves to hear her own voice, and the little shadow that begs to be pinched so she has something else to tattle about. And finally, we have The Toddler. He’s 2, he tantrums, and he’s supposed to be my “normal one”.

            Yeah, optimism is quickly replaced by realism each and every summer. But before you think we are too pessimistic for your taste, let me give you a glimpse into one particularly warm July day…

            The Toddler woke promptly at 6am, ensuring that he could start his energetic throwing of toys before the heat became too great. But hey, since he wasn’t throwing the toys at the dogs or the television, I continued to pay bills and do laundry before the Bigs woke up… which was naturally 20 minutes later. The rest of the morning was spent reminding children to do their morning routine, the very same routine they’ve been doing every day for years. I stared at their shocked faces when they were informed that yes, indeed, their underwear needed to be changed every day. For always.

            We did daily homework assignments to ensure that no one became stupid over the summer… this meant that I spent an hour arguing with The Tattler that 10 +23 does not equal 1023, all the while The Bully wailed that he couldn’t understand his story problem: “Billy had 18 apples and gave Tommy 6. Tommy then gave 3 apples to Judy. How many apples does Tommy now have?” Meanwhile, The Toddler ate all the crackers and screamed every time a commercial interrupted his Paw Patrol marathon.

            We finally finished all the assignments and my bills got paid (sort of) so we promptly got ready for The Tattler’s library program that morning. Only, where was my phone? I had it earlier while I did the banking, but where was it now? No worries… we found it a half hour later… in the refrigerator, courtesy of The Toddler.

            We were the family running into the library drenched in sweat, A) because we have no air conditioner and B) because we are incapable of attending any library program on time. I don’t know why and I no longer have the motivation to care. I handed my middle child over to the sweet ladies in charge as I avoided the irritated glances at their watches. The Bully began looking for a new book while The Toddler attached himself to a handful of cars at the train table.

            I sat anxiously, waiting for the inevitable tantrum that The Toddler throws each and every time we enter the library. It’s the place where he had his first injury (last summer, banged lip off the train table, bled all over their carpet), where we screamed bloody murder in the bathroom for ALL to hear (two summers ago, while trying not to smack his head off the toilet paper holder as I had to nurse him in the bathroom because I was asked not to nurse him in the children’s section), and where he continues to dominate all the toys because by being the baby of the family, it’s basically survival of the fittest.

            That day was no different. I watched in slow motion as my small child grabbed a toy away from a sweet little boy with Down’s Syndrome. The boy tried to get his toy back, but my child in turn hit him with the toy. It was like I was moving through jello, unable to run through the sea of scattered toys fast enough, when the other boy began to scream a high-pitched wail that was not only warranted, but appreciated (because, hey, it wasn’t my kid screaming for a change).

            I promptly grabbed up The Toddler, apologizing profusely as I handed my purse off to my oldest. I ran my now-screaming baby out to the parking lot as he hit and kicked, flapped and hollered. Outside it was a balmy 831 degrees and my child’s sweat was making it impossible to hold him as he raged. And, as I fought to control a person 1/4th my size in the public library’s parking lot, a police officer pulled up alongside me.

            “Everything okay, ma’am?” he asked with concern.

            Sweat dripping into my eyes, making my hair stick to my running make-up, I tried to smile as I responded, “Oh, of course! Just a bit of a toddler tantrum is all!” I made a slight attempt at a chuckle, but it ended up coming out as more of a maniacal laugh than anything.

            Twenty minutes and a two walks around the block, The Toddler was still being a jerk, but it was time to go in and claim my daughter from her program. It was then that I looked down and noticed that, amidst the struggle with my youngest, my wide-necked t-shirt somehow had managed to be pulled all the way down, underneath my left boob. I had talked with our local law enforcement and walked two blocks with my one of my breasts completely hanging out. (And no, I didn’t feel a breeze, thanks to my super unattractive full-coverage mom bra.)

            Defeated and repositioned, I threw my kid over my shoulder and marched through the library to claim The Tattler. The sweet librarians once again eyed me with fear because my child’s screaming was interrupting their announcements. I forced a smile and said something clever like, “Kids, what do ya do, right?” before grabbing all of my children and running-not-running for the door.

            We arrived home just in time for The Toddler to take a nap, which means that he pulled his weenie out and peed through his crib like a boss just before drifting off. But I didn’t care. The pee would still be there when he woke up and there was no way that I was going to wake him to change his sheets. So I turned the fan on him in an attempt to dry up some of the wetness, like any mediocre, realist mom would do.

            I came back down the stairs to see The Bully pinning down his sister as he wrenched her arm behind her back. Grabbing him up by the scruff and then swatting his bottom, I sent him immediately to his room. The Tattler proceeded to tell me that her brother had just pinned her on the ground and wrenched her arm behind her back. (Yes, thank you for stating the obvious. Would you care to do any other work for my eyes, like tell me the color of the walls or describe to me my own outfit?) But because I still had just a smidgen of Good Mom still in me, I refrained from the sarcasm and reminded her that I had just taken care of the issue, assessing her arm as we talked.

            It was then that I noticed the dog poop on the floor. Just because of life.

            Meanwhile, The Toddler was awakened from his nap by a mooing Bully who refused to calm himself down. Not that it mattered, because we had a church event to leave for and there was still the whole pee incident happening upstairs in the crib.

            All bodily secretions sufficiently cleaned, we managed to make it to the church on time. Naturally The Toddler proceeded to push down another baby in our church and scream at the top of his lungs when redirected. To keep the peace, I put him in the nursery's pack-n-play for a time-out. However, The Tattler proceeded to inform me that I was a bad mother for just leaving him to cry without getting him out. At that point, I gave her one of my infamous death glares, reminding her that she was insanely out of line and should probably keep her well-researched parenting advice to herself.

            The Bully sulked in the corner and refused to talk to anyone, The Tattler cried for being glared at, and The Toddler’s screams could still be heard 3 rooms away. It was then that a sweet friend of mine from out church mentioned that I should get my youngest checked for autism.

            Tears welled in my eyes, not at the thought that my son could have autism, but at the fact that I had already asked his pediatrician this very question and was assured that he was completely NOT autistic – leaving 2 options: He was either a terrible child, or I was a terrible mother. Either way, the tears were there and I did my best to hold them at bay while I made small talk and acted like everything was fine.

            We left the event early because… well, because I have kids.

            Upon arriving home, I noticed that the temperature had cooled ever so slightly, so I told the kids to play outside. And as I stepped through the grass to set my purse on the patio, my foot got stuck in a hole that one of the dogs had dug and my ankle painfully rolled until I heard a snap. Since I was in my own yard and there was no sense in holding back anymore, I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

            Terrified, The Tattler ran inside and got me every ice pack we own. The Bully attempted to keep The Toddler from crawling on me like I was a jungle gym… because normal toddlers take crying as a call for playtime, apparently?

            My husband arrived home minutes later to me sitting in the yard with ice packs surrounding my swollen ankle. He saw my puffy eyes and listened as I told him about the library and my boob, the police and the wrenching of the arm, the poop and the pee, the church and the hole. I told him that I was a bad mother, incapable of achieving greatness.

            After sending me to my room to recover, The Worker/Fun One played with the kids in the yard. I heard them laughing and following directions. No one pinched or peed on anything. No one screamed or tattled. Everyone just played. In the distance I could hear a dog vomiting, but I didn’t go downstairs to clean it up. It would inevitably still be there in the morning.

            Two weeks later, I went on vacation with my kids, my parents, my brother and my nephew. I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of unwinding. The Toddler only peed on things twice and my parents took over when The Tattler and The Bully got into it. I relinquished my crown as The Enforcer for almost 9 days and found myself laughing with my children. I even got to be The Fun One a few times!

            So, as August has begun to wind us down to those last few moments of summer, I am okay with my mediocre status. I realize that it doesn’t make me a failure to not reach greatness each summer. It’s okay to say “No” and to hide the hammer and nails and to take naps when The Toddler finally goes down for his afternoon sleep. It’s okay to reclaim my batteries and make bedtime earlier. And it’s certainly okay to be The Fun One sometimes.

           But whatever the role, whatever the situation, whatever the daily liquids I get to scrub… I can rest easy, knowing that I kept them alive for one more summer. And that, my friends, is greatness redefined.

The Day The Fridge Died

Yesterday I found myself in a bit of an odd situation.  It was mid-afternoon when I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by scattered condiments and salad dressing and a random jar of maraschino cherries.  Looking back, I’m thinking I should’ve just tossed them out then and there.  After all, I couldn’t recall the last time we had ice cream sundaes, so they were probably expired… if items like that even do expire.  But there I sat, a broken open container of almond milk pooling towards me lazily as I glared at it through bitter tears.  In the background, my children frantically knocked on the door – the very door that I had locked moments before after banishing them into nature.  It was a mere 30 seconds before they both realized they needed to pee.

 I feel the need to explain my emotional state to you all.  

 This week was Day Camp Week for my oldest (my oldest who is on a new medication that has made him speak every thought that pops into his head… I had no idea that he was capable of thinking so frequently).  This week was also Vacation Bible School Week for our church, which I help lead.

When I first realized that both events landed on the same week, I immediately went into a state of hypervigilience.  Frantic, I planned out each hour of each day for the duration of the craziness.  Throwing in three doctor appointments, setting up for VBS, and the half-hour commute to and from day camp, all the while accounting for the toddler’s nap schedule, I estimated that I had roughly -8.65 hours to accomplish all that needed to be done for the week.

I hadn’t even started yet and I was already behind!!

Obviously this was also the week my trusty babysitter had to travel out of state for work, so I did what I had to do – I panicked and then reminded myself that it’s only a week.  And we can accomplish anything as long as we know there’s a time limit, right?

Well, that’s what I used to tell myself anyways, before this week happened, that is.

To sum it all up, here are some of the daily events that got jammed into my already crazy schedule:

1)      To start the week off, I stabbed myself through the middle finger of my dominant hand.  Yes, there was blood.  Yes, there was nausea and dizziness.  No, this is not what caused the refrigerator to explode its condiments all over the kitchen… that happened at the end of the week!  Using a fondue prong to poke a hole in dried up nail glue for my daughter, I accidently pierced through the top of my finger and straight out the side.  After bandaging it thoroughly, I realized that I was going to be attending VBS with the inability to bend my finger down all the way – causing me to flip off each and every parent, child, and volunteer I met.  Nothing says “Welcome To Our Church” like the worship leader giving everyone the finger.

2)      This week, my toddler threw a royal fit in the mall parking lot, a place where we were killing time before having to pick Cameron up from camp.  This occurred during the middle of a thunder storm, and I dropped my purse, spilling all the contents under our van.  I climbed under the vehicle to retrieve my things, coming up soaking wet and filthy... and then my shoe broke.  My new shoe.  It broke beyond repair, leaving me to go collect my son from camp a wet, muddy, shoe-less mess... and all the other parents looked at me with pity.  

3)      Wyatt also decided to pack his cuppy into my purse before we left the house for the day.  Only the lid wasn’t shut.  Only after setting my purse on my lap later that day did I realize that my legs were getting wet.  When I lifted the purse, RED juice dripped from the lining of my brand new bag, staining my pants AND all that was inside.  My umbrella is now pink, you guys.

4)      While at the store, Wyatt basically exploded in his diaper.  This occurred shortly after we realized that we’d left the diaper bag at VBS the prior night (because having no sitter, he was forced to come to VBS and eat his weight in cheese balls with the very generous ladies working the snack station!)  Seeing that the only thing we had left was a swim diaper in the van, I tried to make due.  Except a half hour later, we stood in the middle of Walmart as peed dripped down Wyatt’s legs and shoes.  And since he fell asleep on the way home, the fact that I had to change his drenched clothes completely woke him up, rendering him napless for the rest of the day.

5)      Taylor tried to tell me that she broke our ceramic garbage can by “looking at it”.  When I looked at her like she had 3 heads, she burst into tears, saying, “You never believe me!”  Of COURSE I don’t believe you, honey!  Because you’re 8 years old and you don’t have dark magic!!  You obviously didn’t cause the garbage can to explode with your laser-focus!  But what do I know?  I only have 2 degrees… and she can’t even spell “garbage can”.

6)      This week, our audio-visual system at the church decided to malfunction.  Why?  Who knows, because I have about as much technical experience as a giraffe.  I spent over an hour unplugging and re-plugging cords in, turning machines off and restarting them, calling and recalling friends that could tell me what the “little red button” does and if the “blue knobby thingys” are important or not.

7)      Over half of our VBS volunteers also had crazy weeks, causing most of them to cancel some, if not all, of the days they were scheduled to help out.  Luckily, we had other random people stop by the church and we sucked them into our madness (after having them fill out the necessary paperwork, of course)… not that it helped me remember several of their names.  Sadly, I ended up calling everyone Sweetie or Buddy in order to save face.  (Bur rest assured, they were needed and they stepped up, so I love them.  Whoever they are.)

8)      Because our church welcomes those that sometimes don’t fit in at other churches, we found ourselves on the receiving end of a group of kiddos that were “energetic”, many of whom have special needs.  Now, for the record, I LOVE that our church is this place.  I love that we open our arms to everyone and are willing to make them our family within seconds of shaking their hands.  This, quite honestly, is my favorite thing about where we worship.  But as the needs of the many flew around me like confetti in a tornado, I found myself running after AWOLing children, pulling a googly eye out of a little girl’s nose, keeping a child from pulling up little girls’ shirts, and uttering the phrase “For the last time, please stop licking your neighbors’ ears!”  And to top it off, I found a half-eaten lollipop in my purse, securely stuck to the inside lining… and we didn’t even have suckers at VBS this year.

Photo by www.scholarcenter.com

And then, finally, as the week was drawing to a close and my sanity was waning (OK, let’s be honest, I lost it somewhere on Tuesday after my shoe broke), someone ate all the pepperoni out of our fridge.  My pepperoni.  And the VBS power point I was working on took 6 hours to do something that should've taken 20 minutes.  And did I mention Cameron’s new medication and the incessant talking?

 Friends, this is when I broke our refrigerator door.

I'm not exactly proud of breaking the fridge.  They say that it is in our moments of weakness that we find our strength.  And I did.  But there was no pepperoni and I hadn't eaten, and therefore, the fridge needed to die.

My husband returned home that afternoon and quickly surveyed the children locked outside, fear etched onto their little faces.  He cautiously unlocked the door with the key and worked his way to the kitchen.  Shattered pieces of broken plastic and food residue littered the floor.  Silently, he walked towards me as I hyperventilated at my computer, willing it to work.  Kneeling down beside me, he gently offered me a hug.

“So… are we having a rough day?” he tried.

My face still puffy from crying, my hands still shaking from anxiety, I received his hug and just let myself relax into his big arms.  When he pulled back, there was a trace of a smirk on his face.  He lovingly nicknamed me “The Hulk” before allowing the children to come back into the house and finally pee.  And I was given strict instructions to go out to eat and have some alone time.

I didn’t argue.  After all, he was right.  I needed some alone time.  I needed to regroup after all the craziness and constant running from place to place this week.

That night, four children came to know Christ at VBS.  Four small souls that didn’t know who God was now will spend their eternity with Him.    

I tell you all this because of one important thing:

In the midst of it all, It Is Well.

When VBS seems like it’s a disaster, then It Is Well.  When my purse and all its contents are ruined and I’m left shoeless and muddy, It Is Well.  When my pepperoni runs out in the middle of a low-sugar moment, then It Is  STILL Well!  (And when my husband saved me from breaking the rest of the appliances with my super-human strength, It Was most definitely Well.)

I got thinking, maybe your week has been somewhat like mine.  Maybe you've felt the stress and maybe you've lost your cool.  Maybe you've felt the pressures of having to be everywhere for everyone, doing everything and not feeling like you've got any help or like everything you touch breaks or falls apart or you have a toddler (enough said) or a child (or two) with mental health issues or behavioral needs or emotional trauma.... 

Maybe you've reached your limit this week and you think you can't possibly go on... that a day of rest cannot get here soon enough!

Even so, It IS Well.  It is so well that God gives us the right to cry and be frustrated and angry and sad without Him losing control of our situations.  He allows us to be human and emotional - and then to rest, knowing that He's got it.  He's got your kid.  He's got your job.  He's got your health.  And he's even got that relationship that's on shaky ground.  He's got YOU, Friend.  All of you, every single part.

And even if you don’t have big arms to physically rest upon, know that God’s arms are always there.  He’s holding them out to you, just like He held them out to four beautiful children this week.  Just reach out and remember that He won’t let you go… no matter how many fridges you destroy.

To All Parents Everywhere Who Hate Summer Vacation

           My kid has ADHD.  My kid has RAD.  My kid has ANY mental health disorder.  My kid has a sibling and those siblings won’t stop bickering EVER.  My kid has an indoor voice of a megaphone.  My kid has the attention span of a gnat.  My kid is impulsive and needs to be watched 24/7 to ensure the safety of ALL THINGS.  My kid wakes up at 7:30am for school and 5:00am for EVERY FREAKING DAY of summer vacation.  My kid expects me to make each meal and snack with fairy dust and unicorn tears.  My kid is “BORED”.

            If any of these statements ring true to you, then just let yourself say these words: “I hate summer vacation with a passion, and that DOESN’T make me a bad parent.”

            Ok?  Feel better?  Of course not, because it’s still summer vacation.  But here’s the thing… you’re allowed to love your children and still wish for them to be out of your presence for 8 straight waking hours.  I don’t know when this Mom-Shaming thing became such a societal duty, but I was a fairly typical, well-behaved, non-psychotic child, and my parents STILL locked me out of the house with a bottle of water and 3 hours worth of sunscreen greased over my face and neck.

            How, exactly, does needing to clean the house, do your work, and keep your sanity equate to being a bad parent?  I refuse to apologize that the thought of taking all 3 of my insane children to my gynecologist appointment scares the living crap out of me.  Nor will I say sorry for hating grocery day during the summer.  All the complaints over vegetables, all the pleading for junk food, all the chasing one another down random isles…. Seriously, what’s not to love, right?

            For all of you who enjoy your children all day, every day, I commend you and your patience.  You are beautiful people on the inside.  But I don’t think it makes anyone an ugly person if they don’t enjoy those moments with the same level of enthusiasm (AKA disgust).  So why point fingers?  Why feel guilty over needing to accomplish your own tasks in life without 2,358 interruptions?  Why engage in jealousy over your neighbors’ apparently perfect lives?  (PS, your neighbors’ scream, too… they just have better insulation in their home than you do.)

Photo by www.dailymail.co.uk

            Yesterday was the kids’ last day of school.  It was a half-day.  That sucks already, right?  Because before my daughter’s shoes were even off her feet, she was petitioning someone to entertain her.  I told her that there were 4 walls just begging to keep her company if she was that desperate, and we call those walls Her Room.  Naturally, she was less than impressed with my humor.

            So, in order to keep the children occupied, my husband gave them yard work.  And before you Parent-Shamers gasp that we didn’t take our children to the park and for ice cream on their last day of school, know that I simply don’t care.  There.  I said it. 

But anyways, when I had finished my indoor cleaning (which consisted of picking up EVERY THING that had ever been in my children’s rooms or book bags that was now on my living room floor), I took the toddler outside for some sunshine.  And just as I looked over, there was my 10-year-old RAD son, having my 8-year-old RAD daughter hold a stake while he attempted to drive it into the ground.  WITH AN AXE.

            Tell him not to use the axe?  Sure.  Hide the axe in the locked garage?  Yeah.  Already done that.  A LOT.  But here’s the things about some children (especially those with RAD):  They don’t listen.  It’s shocking, I know, because it’s so much easier to blame the parents.  But as my son was coming down towards my daughter’s head with the sharp blade, I screamed as loudly as I could (over the weed-whacker, over the tractor, over the barking dogs) and my son simply said, “Oh, sorry.”

            We were 6 hours into summer vacation and I was already DONE.

            One hour later, I was being yelled at by two very ballsy children because one’s headband was destroyed and the other’s arrow was busted… items that were left in the yard or on the floor where the dogs and toddler play.  It was then, after hearing them argue for hours and the attempted manslaughter incident, that I calmly screamed at the top of my lungs that THEY were the ones responsible for their broken items – not the person who had spent the afternoon following them around cleaning up after them because we had company coming over!

            Not that they would be deterred.  This morning they have been equally as angelic.  My 8-year-old has turned into a diva, apparently.  No longer does she yell “STOP!” to my son, when he does all he can to tick her off.  No.  Now she does this lovely little number: “STOP-AAA!!!” (complete with eye-rolling and her hip jutted out).  Like we live in the Valley and she’s 14.  Like I’m going to listen to that all summer long without cutting out her tongue.

            And my son, who touches EVERYTHING that is not his on a minute-by-minute basis, creating contraptions with Dad’s tools, unsafe climbing apparatuses, and breaking apart the toddler’s toys to make “new ones”, he thinks that I’m going to allow this to go on for 3 straight months.  Like he’s Bob Villa or something.

            So, once again, I will say it loud and clear:

            I hate summer vacation with a passion, and that DOESN’T make me a bad parent!

My Circus, My Monkeys

After another Mother’s Day fail this year, I found myself on the hosting end of a world-class pity-party.  It’s been 5 years now and each holiday has its shares of ups and downs.  There are usually tantrums, tears, screaming, and breaking things – peeling of paint, peeing on something, hurting a sibling.  But Mother’s Day is always the one holiday that takes the cake.

The first year, it was my fault.  Cameron and Taylor had only been living with us for 6 weeks at that time, and my excitement of finally being able to celebrate the holiday as a foster mother had gotten the better of me.  That was the year of the fecal smearing.  I’ll never forget it.  That specific day soured my plans for the following holiday’s celebrations.  Needless to say, the next year was a fighting disaster, filled with hate and more broken items.  As was the year after that and the next. 

However, this year, we’d made it through Thanksgiving with miraculous calm, and Christmas had only its minor bouts of crazy that came into play.  So, in a moment of weakness, I allowed myself to imagine this Mother’s Day as being a turning point – something spectacular and lovely.  In my delusion, I ignored the warning signs.

Earlier this week, my son’s disrespect for women hit epic proportions, which got him kicked out of my vehicle at the end of our driveway and sent back to our house (accompanied by screaming that resulted in my neighbors sending me concerned text messages).  Cameron also took it upon himself to get into my make-up and set his sister up to take the fall.  (It took many days and many lies before we got to the bottom of this one!)  And both children had taken it upon themselves to use their grandmother’s Wi-Fi to look up inappropriate materials.  Again, lies.  Again, blaming.  Again, fervent promises that it wasn’t them.

The night before the over-anticipated holiday, Taylor threw up ALL OVER the living room – as if she'd had a full-on exorcist moment and managed to spray the entire room with rancid bile.  My husband and I cleaned it up and sent our daughter back to bed with a puke bucket before we all turned in for the night.  At 6:30am, Wyatt, who has been suffering with a horrible cold, coughed so hard that he threw up ALL OVER me, himself, and our bed.

You guys, it was in my hair. (Because curly-haired girls don’t have enough problems to deal with.)

I plunked Wyatt down on the shower floor and cleaned us both off as best I could.  Struggling to shave my legs while the toddler banged his toy train repeatedly off my knee-caps, I gave up and just prayed that no one noticed the stubbly places I’d missed.  Besides, my stomach was starting to feel a little fishy, as well, so I figured bruised knees and hairy patches were the least of my worries.

Once I was clean, my husband gave me a beautiful Mother’s Day card, and I noticed that everyone had signed their names and written me a special message… everyone except for Cameron.  My son was apparently ticked off that no one would tell him what to write to me, so he sloppily scrawled his name and slapped the card down without care.

It’s the lack of thought that counts, really.

Pat stayed home with the sick baby while I went to church with our older two.  We were there for 2 minutes before Taylor started screaming and crying over something her brother had done.  But I couldn’t be bothered by that, because at that moment I was being informed of events that had occurred during my daughter’s play-date the previous day.  Events that drained me of my energy, brought up lies that I’m the worst mom on the planet, and that left me with umpteen phone calls to make the following day.

And worse yet, she showed absolutely no remorse for her actions when my husband and I addressed them with her later that day.  The only tears she shed were when she was told she was going to stay in her room while her brothers got to go to Grandma’s house.  Then the tears came.  She screamed for nearly 3 hours over the unfairness of life.

I spent Mother’s Day #5 feeling sick, being puked on, dealing with bad attitudes and tantrums, and listening to a child scream for hours instead of feeling sorry for her actions that have devastating repercussions.

So, when I say I had a pity-party, I mean I crawled into my bed, turned on re-runs of Law & Order: SVU (loudly, as to drown out the screaming from downstairs), and I cried bitter tears that I didn’t even have the energy to wipe away.  And since I was already a wreck, I allowed myself to watch videos on my phone of Isaac, my lost little love, who pains my heart each day - but especially today.  It was my 1st Mother’s Day without him, and every inch of me was agonizingly aware.

All I kept thinking was that if I was in Walmart or someplace in public, I could look at a mother struggling with her children and think to myself “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”  I would be able to walk from the store without giving that woman another thought.  Not that I wouldn’t care for her situation, but since it’s not my responsibility, I would be able to sleep that night in peace.

Picture by redditlurker.com

But this is my circus.  And these children are my monkeys.  And I’m aware that Mother’s Day doesn’t necessarily need to be all about me and celebrating all the wonderful things I’ve done as a parent… because quite honestly, I’ve been reactionary and sucking it up in the parenting department pretty regularly these past few weeks. 

Additionally, I know in my head that traumatized children often take out their frustrations on their mothers (biological, foster, or adoptive).  I’ve read the studies.  Heck, we ARE the studies.

My family is not your circus.  And I’m the one responsible for when my monkeys get loose and wreak havoc on the community, not you.  But for those of you who have chosen to surround our broken cages with love and support… I cannot begin to thank you enough.  For your kindness, your prayers, your understanding, your forgiveness – these are the things that help me feel that I am truly not alone.

And next time I’m in Walmart, I will be specifically looking for that Mama.  I will walk up to her, smile, and tell her that she’s amazing.  It may not help her sleep at night, but she too, will know that she’s not alone.

You are not alone either.  Check out the MommyhoodSFS Membership Program HERE.