The Summer of my Discontent

This is the summer where I learned the above sentiment.  And let me be clear:  it was not a fun lesson to learn.

If you are a close friend, or you've been paying close attention, you've probably noted that this has been a difficult summer for me.  There are a thousand reasons why this is so. It was my first summer with a non-napping four year old. I have an almost two year old and I'd clearly repressed what that age was like out of self-preservation.  My husband travels (a lot).  The stupid IRS is auditing everyone who applied for the adoption tax credit and so considerable monies we thought would be arriving in May have yet to show up.  And probably won't until November.  I've had some health issues and so has Grace, what with the temperature feeling as though we were living three inches from the sun.  I'm editing the Bethany newsletter which is great, however, the articles I get from people, no matter how many times I ask for them ahead of time, always seem to show up in my inbox at 11 pm the night before I'd hoped to have the newsletter done and since I'm getting volunteers to write the articles, I can't really complain or yell at them.  I had (and sort of still have) a job with another writer where I got to work from home, which I thought was awesome until I realized home is where my needy kids are and they didn't get the Mommy needs some quiet time memo so I ended up working at night which meant that I never got any time to myself.  Or with my husband. 
The first time I really noticed it was a problem was when I found myself looking forward to my annual gynecological visit for some "time alone".  I prayed and prayed I'd have to wait a long time in the waiting room, but alas, Dr. M was right on time.
I've felt guilty because my dreams of taking the kids to all these fantastical field trips got sidetracked because Mommy had work to do.  And when I was working, all I was thinking about what else needed to get done around the house.  And so then I'd try to get something done around the house and I'd start to feel guilty about not working enough for my writer boss.  And then I'd feel bad because I couldn't remember the last time I had spoken kindly to my husband.  Stressed, I spent a large portion of the summer believing the lie that life was actually easier when Sloan was out of town because then I didn't even have to try to be with him and I could just be the master of my own ship.  When he came home and attempted to help or parent, I basically told him he was a third wheel or an extra child. 
Lather. Rinse.  Repeat.
I finally broke down on the way home from a weekend away with Sloan (which was MUCH, MUCH needed!).  I cried for about two hours while we were going up I95.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of mom I wanted to be.  Crying because I wasn't the kind of wife I wanted to be.  Crying because I was in physical pain.  Crying because I wasn't the employee I wanted to be.  Crying because I didn't even know if I wanted to be a stay at home mom, but conversely, the thought of doing something else made me want to puke.  Crying because the art projects I had hoped to complete over the summer weren't even begun.  Crying because I missed blogging and writing for myself so, so much. Crying because I was such a raging bitch to my husband and over and over again he forgave me.
It was at this point of self-loathing Sloan blurted in, "Stop.  Just stop.  I get it.  You need help.  You need Jesus.  Who doesn't?  Why is this such a shock to you?"

And there was the mother-freakin' rub.

Basically I was pissed that I could not, nor will I ever be able, to be all things for all people.  That my attempts to do everything at all times perfectly have done nothing but make me and the folks around me miserable.   
And so I've spent a lot of time repenting.  For the same things.  Over and over.  Like I'm a toddler or something. 
I'm sorry I yelled at you.  I'm sorry I called you a tool.  I'm sorry I played poker all night and ignored you.  I'm sorry I blamed my bad mood on you when it is really me I'm disappointed in.  I'm sorry I talked about you behind your back to my friend.  I'm sorry that I'm too tired to discuss this with you and so I'm just going to give in and ignore you because I just don't care.  I'm sorry you have no clean underwear.  I'm sorry I don't let you make any parenting decisions because I really am a control freak. Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.
I'm sorry that I let you watch too much TV yesterday and now it is all you want to do and if it will just shut you up, then yes, you can watch another episode of Blue's Clues.  I'm sorry I threw away your sword because I was too impatient for you to walk backwards with it to the toy bin.  I'm sorry I yelled at you so much the day you wanted to walk backwards everywhere.  I'm sorry we've eaten cereal for dinner three nights in a row.  I'm sorry for yelling at you for pooping in your nighttime pull-up.  I'm sorry that I'm putting you down for your nap early because if I have to listen to your whining and screaming for one more minute I am going to lock myself in the bathroom with the Real Simple magazine and not come out until tomorrow.  I'm sorry that I told you we would go to the zoo today but Mommy just has a few more pages she has to look over.  I'm sorry I broke all of my promises.   Please forgive me.  Don't tell me it's okay; it is not.  Just forgive me.

It has been, needless to say, a summer which I never want to repeat. 

So I am reminding myself that there are seasons to life.  That Henry's sweet and tender disposition at 4 is proof that Gracie won't always hit her brother and scream for cookies and donuts as I put her down for her nap.  (Though you got a love a women who wants to eat cookies and donuts while reading her book in bed.)  That soon school will start back up and I can run errands with only one child in tow and that maybe I oughtta look for a Mom's morning out program for Grace to begin this fall.  That while I desperately want to be getting my own literary agent and editing my own manuscript and not someone else's,  just because I'm waiting until the kids are in school to do that doesn't mean it won't ever happen.  Because the book can wait.  Playing legos and dress up cannot. 
I'm also thanking God for my amazing husband, who upon seeing my head barely above water, has adjusted his travel schedule so that every 6th week or so, he doesn't travel at all.  And when he is home, he has taken to cooking all the meals or at the very least, being my helpmate in the kitchen.  He also got me tickets to the James River Writer's Conference in October and has promised me a Saturday a quarter to go be away by myself for the day so I can write.  All day long.