Taking Out the Trash Is More Important Than You Think

It was Wednesday morning, and the four of us were in the midst of our lazy, summer wake-up routine. I was casually helping the youngest get dressed for the day when I heard the groan of a large truck trying to find the energy to accelerate down the street. It took me a moment to realize that that sound belonged to the garbage truck, and I ran to my son’s window to see if Matt had taken down the trash cans.

No.

I rushed down the stairs, slipped on some flip-flops and headed out the back door toward the pails parked by the fence. I pushed open the gate and drug the full recycling container down to the front just in time to see the truck turning out of my neighborhood. I wasn’t sure if that was the garbage truck or recycling truck, though, so I sprinted back up the driveway and repeated the same routine with the full trash can.

And then I ran inside. I knew better.

I was gone for at least five minutes, and five minutes was plenty of time for the gates of hell to swing wide open.

I sprinted up the stairs, for I heard quiet, a sound I’ve grown to fear. Panicked, I made my way down the angular hallway to the very last room upstairs–our bathroom. Sitting on the floor in a pillow of eyeshadow and powder dust was my daughter, daintily painting her face with the mascara wand she was rhythmically dipping in my bottle of foundation.

Scooping her and the make-up up in giant swoop, I took to cleaning her face and hands. I plugged in the vacuum and sucked up the evidence of how she spent her last five minutes and then headed downstairs to search for the other two. After all, it had now been ten minutes since we had had meaningful interaction.

Downstairs Chloe and I went to find Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum scaling the shelves of the pantry. Every box of cereal was opened, paper cups lined up and half full with the contents of the boxes. Chocolate smiles gave away that they had dessert first. After a quick reprimand, I ordered the kids to their chairs for breakfast, not sure if the oldest two have any room left for this meal, and I strapped Chloe in her booster seat, thankful that at least she can’t get down and wreak any more havoc at the moment.

Or so I thought.

Distracted by the first three episodes of the morning, I didn’t think through what I needed to do before strapping Chloe into her seat. As I poured the milk into the cereal bowl, the jarring sounds of I go pee-pee! echoed throughout the house.

Unstrapped the two-year-old tornado, reminded her the warning works better if she tells me before she pees all over the floor, took off the soaked underpants, and handed her paper towels to help clean up the mess.

It was closer to brunch than breakfast, and I was chomping on Zoloft like they’re Skittles in between each bite of organic cereal. You know, the healthy choice to start off my day right.

And through each bite of cereal, I began to think What could I have done better?

But of course, the answer is nothing. But I could think of something that my husband should’ve done before he left for work.

No, taking out the trash isn’t a life or death issue, but it is a mental health issue. Husbands, remember that fact.

Disclaimer: For the record, none of the events following the make-up ordeal actually happened on that day, but they totally could’ve–we just had a good day. I am writing from experience, so, husbands, heed my words!

The Crazy Old Bat and Birthday Presents

The family gathered round the old woman in the now familiar den. She sat shoulders haunched over in her wheelchair in between the two green couches framing that side of the room. As her family had become accustomed, they looked on the unpleasant face of the old woman, a face which rarely smiled, her once hazel eyes now gray and lifeless.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” her youngest daughter offered once everyone was situated on a couch or pulled-up chair, the young children on the floor.

A chorus of “Happy Birthdays” spattered off after Chloe took the lead, and she leaned over from her place on the couch to grab a brightly colored bag just ahead of her. She gently placed the bag in her mother’s lap, and the old woman looked down at her own reflection in the metallic sections that popped out at her. She slowly slid her hand up the top of the bag and fingered the shiny tissue paper that streamed out like the huge water fountains at the mall. And she gave one of her trademark “Hmphfs.”

“Tissue paper. It took days to clean up all that paper. I’d never seen such a mess,” the old woman grumped.

“What is she complaining about now?” her grandson whispered to his cousin from one of the chairs at the back of the party. “Grandma is the only person I know who could find a reason to be unhappy at her own birthday party.”

“Oh, who knows?” answered the teenaged girl, obsessed with twirling her long blonde locks. “Grandma’s just crazy.”

But Grandma was too busy remembering another birthday party to notice her grandchildren at the back of the room.

Yes, the crazy old bat was remembering a time when she wasn’t quite as crazy, wasn’t nearly as old, and was actually somewhat attractive. After five years of raising children she had thought she was going crazy but she was naive as to what was yet to come.

On this particular day in her memory, the young woman at the time was tired; she didn’t feel well and decided she wasn’t going to put the intentional effort into her parenting that she did on most days. Instead, she was going to lie on the couch with her feet up and trust, albeit foolishly, that her children could play nicely for a half an hour.

She heard little feet travel up the stairs, and she heard them travel back down again. She heard the sound that was akin to paper grocery bags, and she heard the rustling of paper. Yet she remained on the couch. There were no sounds of furniture crashing or screams for help, so the relatively speaking young and attractive mother decided to continue lying on the couch while her children played. But the time for her to get up arrived, and she gingerly stepped in the direction of the playroom.

She knew she had taken a risk. She knew she was probably stupid. But 30 minutes prior she hadn’t cared. She hadn’t cared, that is, until she saw every single gift bag she had owned covering the floor of the playroom. Tissue paper, the tissue paper she had carefully folded in order to reuse (that’s right–the crazy young bat hadn’t bought a bag or tissue paper in about seven years) came out of the tops of the bags in a crumpled mess. Wrinkled paper was strewn all over the floor.

“WHAT in the world?….” she trailed off, looking over the mess that overwhelmed even her sensibilities.

The three children turned around sharply looking at their mother.

“We’re having a birthday party!!” her daughter exclaimed with a smile that lit up her whole face.

“Yeah,” her son agreed while he reached down to grab one of the presents.

The mother looked and noticed that the bag was filled, filled with toys from the playroom. Her mind quickly calculated how long it would take her children to put away all of the toys that lined the bottom of each bag.

“Hurry up and have your party so we can clean up,” she said with the wave of her hand, her eyes slightly squinted from the headache that had now formed.

“Here, Hannah Grace,” offered her son. This present’s for you.”

The young girl grabbed the present excitedly, her eyes shining. She reached down and pulled out layer upon layer of tissue paper, throwing each piece on the floor, until she reached in and pulled out a princess Barbie doll, a worn, tattered princess Barbie doll whose hair she had cut. A worn, tattered princess Barbie doll that she had owned for almost a year.

“OOhhh…a princess doll! I love it!” she exclaimed as if she had never seen the doll before in her life.

“Here, Caleb. I got this present for you.” She handed her brother a bulky bag, the toy inside not quite fitting.

“Oh, wow! A football! Mom, look! Hannah Grace got me a football!”

The mother looked on in disbelief. The playroom was full of bags full of old toys that her kids were going wild over. If only the Academy were there to notice their performance.

“Well,” the moderately young mother stated matter-of-factly. “I’m so glad to know that all I have to do for Christmas is wrap up one of the toys that you already have.”

Now it was her kids’ turn to stare in disbelief.

*******************************************

The crazy old bat continued to finger the tissue paper that spew out the top of her bag, and if her children were paying attention, they might have seen the right side of her lips curl in a slight smile.

New to The Crazy Old Bat? Click here to read more of her stories. What’s a fond (or fond in retrospect) memory of your child(ren)’s play?

The Haunting Spirit

There once was a dog who was a bit weird. He would sit in corners and shake for no apparent reason. He refused to go outside to pee, spreading his legs as wide as he could muster in an attempt to not fit through the back door when being thrown out, and he would jump at said door until the pads of his feet bled. However, despite his apparent disdain for the outside world, if the front door were opened, he would make a mad-dash to escape.

His frustrated owner would often tell him If you hate it here so much, why don’t you keep running?

But, alas, the dog would always return, or, at least, he was always returned.

A certain husband was in love with this dog. In fact, he was so in love with this dog that he would never feed the dog in the morning or put this dog on a leash to take him outside to do his business (since the leash was the only way to drag him out the door and keep him out).

This certain husband would not entertain the thought of giving this crazy dog away.

And a certain wife loved this dog because he was hers, but she didn’t like this dog. However, her love for this dog compelled her to take him to obedience training while she was nine months pregnant.

The training didn’t stick, and after the baby was born, the dog still refused to go out when the door was opened for him; however, he made his case known that he was not happy with his life-situation by peeing on the carpet every time a certain wife with a 17-month-old and a new baby nursed her new baby upstairs. Every time.

As a last-ditch effort, this wife called a very expensive dog-whisperer, even though she really couldn’t part with that kind of money. It didn’t matter–the dog-whisperer never called her back.

Finally this wife had had enough. Despite her husband’s love for the dog for whom he did not feed or walk, this wife called a rescue agency. After all, she was in desperate need of being rescued. After crying and having her therapy session on the phone with a woman from this agency, the arrangements were made, and this dog is now in a good home.

But his spirit lives on.

Someone else has taken his place. Yes, the child who was in the womb of a certain wife during the obedience training felt the spirit of this dog and has decided that she must vindicate him.

This child was trained in the way of the potty at 21 months old. Nevertheless, the child with the spirit of the crazy dog has taken on his ways.

Every time a certain mother mops the floor, this child with the dog spirit pees on it. Every time. Sometimes twice.

And a certain mother has a certain warning for this certain child:

You don’t remember Baxter, but I do. I gave him away, and I will give you away, too. Your grandmother’s house is waiting….

Delusions of Grandeur

I have a little problem. I know this characteristic is not the most admirable quality about me, but I will own it. The truth is that when I see a business, class, volunteer organization–it really doesn’t matter what–I visualize how I would bring success to that organization as its leader.

I mentally plan the spreadsheets and memos that I would need to create, and I rehearse the speeches that I would give to my employees at our monthly meetings. I wrack my brain for ideas to get more volunteers, and I brainstorm creative fundraising solutions. I watch myself teaching expectant mothers how to breathe through their contractions and encourage them that they can do childbirth without drugs, if they so choose. I hear myself telling a joint session of Congress not to waste my time with a budget that doesn’t contain serious cuts from both parties, and I smile when I scan the history books in my brain that record my presidency as one of real change and progress due to my tough attitude and fearless use of the ‘veto.’

Yes, I have serious delusions of grandeur. I don’t know from where they come–maybe all those years that my grandparents told me I could be anything that I wanted to be, even the president.

My delusions also contribute to another problem. I tend to create more work for myself in this quest to lead and improve in those areas where I actually have a sphere of influence. It’s for this reason that I actually planned activities for our monthly ‘Wingman’ meetings in the Air Force rather than just reading off the prepared slides. It’s for this reason that I spent hours upon hours grading portfolio projects instead of minutes running multiple-choice answer sheets through the Scantron machine. And it’s for this reason that I have once again taken on more work than I probably should.

So, today, fellow blog readers, I’d like to announce my candidacy in the 2012 presidential election!

White House — photo courtesy of photobucket.com

Oh, wait. I’m not old enough to run for president, yet. I’ll try this one again later.

So, today, fellow blog readers, I’d like to introduce you to the new secretary of her homeowner’s association. Yep, that’s me, and tonight’s my first meeting.

Seriously, why do I do this to myself?!

Do you ever take on more than you should because you feel you are needed or can do the job better?

If I Had a Therapist, I’d Drive Her Crazy

I don’t have a therapist, but I’ve contemplated getting one many times. If it weren’t already obvious, I use my blog as a way to process through my feelings, and many times it works (and it’s free). But sometimes I have to wonder if I might not need professional help….

I can’t read status updates on Facebook. Specifically, I can’t read status updates about mothers enjoying being mothers–they make me feel guilty. Whenever I read, “I just love being a momma!” or “Making cookies with my sweet babies!” my stomach balls up in a series of knots.

It’s not that I don’t love my children or thank God for them every day–it’s just that my status updates would read a little differently:

“Tried to make cookies with my babies. Broke up one fight over whose turn it was to pour in the sugar, moved little hands three times that kept trying to crack extra eggs in the bowl, and realized I was short a 3/4 cup of chocolate chips because my kids apparently snuck them during the week.”

“Why don’t my kids take naps!!!”

“Had to grab Chloe off the top of the refrigerator again.”

Our days tend to feel a little chaotic, no matter my best attempts to structure them. Somehow the simplest plans to read a book or go outside and play can derail into a drama that has me on my knees shaking my fists heavenwards crying, “Why, God, why?!”

So when I read status updates that remind me that school is almost over for the year, status updates that exclaim “I’m so excited to have my three kiddos home with me 24/7 for the next 3 months!” I feel guilty. Guilty and terrified.

It’s not that I’m not used to having my kids home with me–preschool only keeps two of them for three hours a few times a week–but that little break with just one child is well…a little more manageable.

I think about our Georgia summers with the blazing sun and 100% humidity, that miserable heat that keeps everyone indoors, and I get nervous. Sure, I will take the kids to the pool, but I also remember our pool time last year that had me sweating more than swimming while I did my best to keep three kids in the pool at the same time . We will visit the library, but I have flashbacks to the time my son thought playing hide and seek through the aisles was fun while I was trying to get everyone out the door. And I think of a couple weeks ago when the hair massacre occurred leaving my daughter with beautiful strawberry-blonde locks looking like Hayley Mills in “The Parent Trap.“

Blue streak in hair not permanent--just some finger paint

I think about my budget that includes ‘art cabinet with a lock and key’ since putting things up high doesn’t work. I look at the dutch door that has swung from each child’s room in an attempt to keep them in…

…while they keep trying to get out.

I think about our every days, and I get nervous. And when I get nervous, I feel guilty. And so I write a blog post while biting my nails in the hope that I’ll laugh and feel a little better.

And if not, I might give that therapist a call (or at least stay off Facebook).

Does the impending summer vacation have you nervous or excited? What cheap activities do have planned to keep your little ones out of trouble?

My Ice Cream-Cold Heart

I’ve heard this story so many times that I’m not sure if the storage rooms in my weak memory are holding the details of the actual event or my father’s retelling. Nevertheless, I can picture myself perfectly in that bubblegum-pink shirt behind the Baskin Robbins counter as my parents walked through the door.

My dad walked up with a smile for his daughter working her first job, but before he had a chance to say anything, I laid out the rules for this lover of vanilla ice cream:

“I can’t give you any breaks, Dad.”

He hadn’t asked for a break, nor would he, yet I felt the need to make the policy of the owners of that little Baskin Robbins in Georgia known from the get-go.

But what kind of daughter doesn’t give her father a break, rounding out that ice cream cone with an extra-large scoop of vanilla?

Perhaps it was the influence of the ice cream-drill sergeant-owners. After all, they did have a scale on the counter so that we could measure our scoops. They did have a separate rate for their employees for that first week of training that was below minimum wage (although, in fairness, I got minimum wage for catching on so quickly). They did give me a surprise written test after I had been an employee for at least a month to ensure I knew the difference between a ‘float’ and a ‘soda’ and could list the ingredients in a ‘freeze,’ even though, had I forgotten, there were ingredient cards on the back counter.

And they did discourage us from taking our two free scoops each shift with their measuring stick and pay incentive. Yes, they actually measured the amount of ice cream left in the buckets versus the number of sales. If our profit margin lay within a certain amount, we would get an extra nickel per hour added to our hourly pay. If it were within the next level, a dime, and the next level a whole quarter! Obviously this kind of money really adds up when one works, at most, a four-hour shift, two to three days a week.

I was obviously thinking of my co-workers. I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the pay incentive by taking my free scoops. I didn’t want to deprive them of extra money for college by rounding out my dad’s ice cream cone. Think–they could buy an extra pillow for their futon by the end of the summer!

So before my dad even ordered, I told him ‘no.’ No, there would be no extra ice cream for him.

What kind of daughter does that to her own father? A daughter with a heart as cold as the Rocky Road she scoops.

And, yet, I went home every night with my chocolate-stained, bubblegum-pink shirt, proud that I rarely took my free scoops, and when I put in my two week’s notice, my boss’s voice cracked as he begged me to stay. Sure he wanted me to stay–think of all the nickels I saved him!

Now, as I relive that moment in my mind, I have to shake my head. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I bring home a scoop of ice cream for my dad every shift I worked? Why didn’t I sit around the table with my mom while I told her about my day over a cup of ‘Quarterback Crunch’?

Because I was a rule-follower, an over-achiever, a goody-goody. Yet, I realize now that sometimes following the rules too closely is anything but good. When I look back over my life thus far, it’s not the rules that I broke that I regret the most.

It’s the ones that I didn’t.

Dad, you will get the biggest scoop of vanilla ice cream I can muster at Chloe’s birthday party this weekend.

What is a memory from your first job? Have you ever followed a rule that you wish you would have broken? Linking up with Mama Kat today. Come back with your own post for ‘Journeys’ tomorrow!

Ten Things My Daughter Says

For the second night in a row, my husband and I are up at 11 p.m. and cannot go to bed. Last night, we were held captive by the power of Easter candy sugar highs on our son and daughter, obviously tired but unable to fall asleep. Tonight, we are subject to the tears of our little girl brought on by a lost binky. And since that daughter is rolling all over my lap, unable to sleep without her precious pacifier but fully capable of spewing out sentences that her not quite two-year-old self can already say, I decided to write this post in her honor : Ten Things My Daughter Says

10. Mommy, where’s my bing-kee? (Oh, how I wish I knew)

9. I want ‘andy. (candy)

8. I want choc-it (chocolate–are you noticing a pattern?)

7. Mommy, Hammah Gyace is spit-in on me! (Hannah Grace is spitting on me)

6. Mommy, Ha-yub is hittin’ me! ( I was so relieved to learn that she could tattle on both her sister and brother, Caleb)

5. I do it! (Of course you do. How silly of me to think you needed help)

4. Mommy, hep me, peas. (help me, please. And dear Lord, help me, please, too)

3. I need to go potty (any time she wants to get down from her highchair, stroller, or out of bed)

2. Two minutes. (Her request for her mommy or daddy to stay in her room for just two more minutes at bedtime)

1. Hammah Gyace–look ah me! What happen? (to her three-year-old sister having a tantrum)

Clearly we have a very bright, independent, and, perhaps, bossy little girl. Now if she would just stop talking, I’d love to go to sleep. Linking up with Oh Amanda for her Top Ten Tuesday.

If You Really Knew Me

Box of Chocolates Cake — photo via photobucket

I was scurrying about the kitchen, straightening up the mounds of paper that never seemed to leave, displaying the orange card that they had made for him. Red and purple paper hearts adorned the front, preschool-writing of big letters forming names across the inside. And I grabbed children one by one brushing hair and checking faces for Daddy’s arrival.

It was Valentine’s Day, and he would take our daughters for a special date, I, our son. We had decided long ago that Valentine’s Day was not a holiday worthy of our money, yet it served as the perfect excuse for some special one-on-one time with our children. Even still, I held my breath every year, wondering if he had thought of me, too.

I really didn’t want him to spend his money–Valentine’s Day was too commercial and silly–but since the days of flowers for no reason and little notes left on my windshield in the morning were long gone, I secretly hoped for a handmade card describing all the reasons he loved me. Maybe even a single flower to place in a vase atop our kitchen table.

But definitely NOT what he showed up with the year before.

We had been married almost eight years at the time–how long did he need before he truly knew me?

The kids responded like Pavlov’s dogs to the familiar sound of the garage door creaking to open and waited for their Daddy to come through the kitchen door. And as he came through the door, we all immediately noticed the red carnations he had for each of us. Within 15 seconds, each child had broken his or her own stem, and Matt quickly got to work trying to tape back together the broken flowers.

But my eyes didn’t leave the small package he had set on the counter.

Once flowers were mended and pictures were taken, I moved my way to read the package on the counter. My eyes immediately caught the word ‘Chocolate.’

To most, that one word would cause happy endorphins to spread throughout the body. But I’m not most.

There are many weird things about me, and I will accept that not liking chocolate is one of them. I cannot ever remember ordering a piece of chocolate cake nor a time when I didn’t choose the vanilla ice cream. The thought of eating a whole Hershey’s bar makes me feel sick, and if I wanted to find solace in food, I’d choose pizza.

There are a few notable exceptions, and if one really knew me, one might know them. I do like brownies; however, if you slap some fudge on top of them, they are now worthless to me. I like peanut M&Ms, but that’s because the peanut is the focus. I like chocolate syrup atop an ice cream sundae, and I don’t mind the chocolate ice cream, as long as vanilla is the predominant flavor.

I really don’t expect anyone to know those specific details…

…but I did expect that my husband of almost eight years would have enough sense to not show up with a box of chocolates. Even if it is Valentine’s Day. Even if every other woman in America would eat them.

As I looked at the box on the counter, I wondered if one year later my husband still didn’t know me. My eyes continued to scan the whole title, reading the words ‘Chocolate Covered Pretzels.’ While they were an improvement from the box of chocolates from last year, I still didn’t get it.

“I thought you’d like the sweet with the salty.”

I just stared at him for a minute.

“You know, it’s not a prerequisite for the holiday that a person has to eat chocolate,” I said shaking my head at him.

He laughed as we began to put coats on little kids excited for date night. And as we moved to our separate cars, I picked out the perfect gift for Matt next year–a big bowl of eggplant with some french fries stuck in the middle.

Writing in response to the prompt, “If you really knew me, you’d know that…” for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop. What is something that we’d know about you if we really knew you?

And I’d love for you to come back tomorrow and link up your own post for ‘Journeys.” You can use any topic, as long as it pertains to a spiritual journey that you are currently taking.

I Know What Hell Looks Like

It seemed like a brilliant idea, really–the kind of idea that our children would later file away in their memories as evidence that they had good parents. Caleb was spending the night with Grammy and his cousin for some quality boy time, so Matt and I were left with the girls. And I wanted the weekend to feel special, a full night and day devoted to all things our girls liked.

My brilliant plan included dinner the night before at the restaurant of their choice, and then the next day would include shopping. While her mother would rather do anything but, Hannah Grace has had an affinity toward shopping since she was old enough to recognize dainty dresses floating on hangers and necklaces sparkling on display. And Chloe, not quite two, is our happy, laid-back baby, content to remain in her parents’ company. Since my kids needed shoes for the warm weather that had already arrived and their Easter outfits, shoe-shopping seemed like the perfect activity to make my girls feel special.

It’s funny how the memory works. I’ve heard some say that if women truly remembered the pain of labor, they wouldn’t have any more children. In my case, having a selective memory has ensured that my children get new clothes.

As soon as Matt pushed the stroller to the front of the store, I gripped Hannah Grace’s hand tighter and remembered. Quite frankly, I don’t know how I had ever forgotten. This day would not be all butterflies and roses.

We made our way to the chair and got the girls’ feet measured without any trouble. And then I spoke the words.

“Okay, Hannah Grace. We’re going to look for some sandals today for your Easter dress and…”

It was like a starting gun had gone off. Before I even finished the sentence she was running to all the shoes on display.

“You stay with Chloe. I’ll focus on Hannah Grace,” I hurriedly ordered Matt as I was pulled by the current of Hannah Grace’s sensory overload.

“Ooohhh. I love these! Look at these shoes!” She began grabbing.

“No, Hannah Grace. Wait a minute.”

I tried to explain, but the pretty colors were somehow affecting her hearing. She started trying on tennis shoes. She was stomping her feet, hoping that every pair was the kind whose soles lit up with red lights every time she took a step. It didn’t matter the size–12-8-10–as long as they were pretty, as in sparkles and fluorescent colors, they ended up on her feet.

“Hannah Grace,” I tried again, “these are beautiful, but we’re not getting tennis shoes today. We need sandals for the warm weather and to match your Easter dress.”

Boxing up the other shoes as quickly as I could, I grabbed her hand and led her to the next display full of sandals. I found the pair that I hated the most, one with a big flower stuck near the top and showed them to Hannah Grace.

“How about these?”

“No. I don’t like them.”

“Really? You don’t think they’re pretty…”

She started to move back toward the tennis shoes.

“What about this pair, Hannah Grace?”

“No, I like this one,” she said grabbing a pair of strappy hot pink and orange sandals.

They were hideous, but I didn’t care. I knew how this day would go. The shoes wouldn’t match her purple Easter dress, but they would serve their purpose for the summer. I could check out some consignment shops if I needed to, but for now, we had to leave the store happy.

“Okay, Hannah, let’s look for your size.”

As soon as I started pulling boxes, she turned around.

“Oooohh! I love these!!!”

And she began pulling boxes of pink slippers off the shelf behind us, all adorned with Disney princesses.

“No, Hannah Grace, we’re not getting these.”

My blood pressure was rising. I began fanning myself. I turned to the back wall of the store where the thermostat was set. It was set for 74 degrees. That meant it was at least 112 with all the hot air my daughter was releasing.

She began running from aisle to aisle, looking at all the pretty shoes that we weren’t getting. Next she found beautiful white, patent leather shoes, and she tapped into my guilt reserve. They were sweet little shoes just like I had when I was a little girl. But that wasn’t the plan. I had budgeted for three kids and was trying to be economical. Matt only got paid once a month–this plan made sense.

Our church is contemporary. The little girls don’t wear big, poofy dresses every Sunday, so I figured she would get more use out of a pretty pair of sandals than white shoes that she would only wear once. But now as I looked at these shoes, guilt began to gnaw at me.

But I couldn’t do math that quickly, couldn’t recalculate figures in my head to ensure fairness among all three children and still get what we needed. The problem with children five and under is that they can’t reuse shoes from season to season–their feet are always growing.

And thus started the tantrum. There was crying. There was stomping of feet. Hannah Grace threw a pretty good fit, too.

And Matt intervened.

“Here, I’ll walk with Hannah Grace,” he said while leading her by the hand back to sandal aisle.

I grabbed Chloe and found the section of shoes in her size and grabbed the first pair of sandals that I liked.

“Do you like these?” I asked her.

“Yesh,” she replied.

“Good.” I grabbed the box, and we went back to the chair to try them on.

Two seconds later, Hannah Grace joined us with a pair of tennis shoes.

“Hannah, I’m going to go crazy,” I said through gritted teeth.

Matt came back with a pair of metallic pink and purple shoes, and panic set in. I tried to communicate with him telepathically to turn around, but he didn’t get the message. I had seen those shoes, too. Yes, she would love them. No, they didn’t have her size. But it was too late.

“What about these, Hannah Grace?”

“I love them!!!”

And I hung my head in despair.

More crying.

The sales clerk came over. She had two pair of shoes from the back that were in her size but not on display.

“What about these?” she suggested.

“No,” Hannah Grace said.

“Hannah Grace, why don’t you like these?” I know my daughter. She was turning up her nose at most of the bright colored sandals, sandals with flowers, the silver sandals, too, all sandals that normally she would love.

“We can’t stay here longer. You don’t have to get sandals today, but then we’re leaving with nothing. We’ll go to another store later.”

She put on the silver sandals, decided she liked them, and I started to box them up to go the register. Matt had picked out a pair for Caleb. We were finished.

And then she took off for the sandal section again.

“Hannah Grace! We have to go now! You like the silver sandals,” I ordered her.

“No! They don’t match,” she began to cry. “My dress is purple. I need purple sandals.”

Please, Lord, tell me this hasn’t been the problem all along.

“No, Hannah Grace, they don’t have to be purple. They can be white, brown, silver, black–all those colors match.” I was using very loose matching rules. I just wanted her to pick a pair of shoes and leave happy. Today was supposed to be a special day, not a sign of the suffering and despair that is to happen in the end times.

“They have to be purple.”

“No, sweetie; they really don’t. Look, white goes with anything.”

Hannah Grace walked over to one of the most modest pair of white, closed-toe sandals with pink flowers, a pair that I purposely overlooked assuming she wouldn’t like them. She tried them on and was satisfied.

“Okay, we can get these?”

And I started boxing them up before she had time to change her mind.

I was certain she would hate them later, but she didn’t. She wore them out of the store, in the mini-van, and the whole rest of the day.

And when I asked her later if she were happy with her new sandals, she shook her head ‘yes’ and gave a big smile, lighting up her whole face.

And while I’m glad she’s happy, I’m already praying that her feet don’t grow for two years.

Excuses, Excuses

I sat in the middle of the floor fuming, absolutely fuming, as I picked up each card and slid it into the appropriate box. The anger burned inside my chest, radiating heat all the way up to my cheeks. My brow was permanently furrowed, my lips pursed as tight as I could hold them together, my jaw beginning to ache from clenching my teeth.

Every time I felt the first cleansing effects of a deep breath, all I had to do was look around me to find my fury. After all, everyone knows the expression: “Hell hath no fury like a mother left to clean up others’ messes” (Or something like that). And what a mess I was left!

I only have a picture because I wanted evidence of my rotten week for my husband, my husband who was out-of-town for the majority of the nightmare.

We had already cleaned up half of this mess once before. When I caught my son taking down his father and my games, I quickly admonished him to put them away. Of course he didn’t, as his little body was overtaken by a demon the moment his father walked out the door and headed to the airport, and his curious sister got into some of the cards from the various boxes. At this point, I joined them on the floor and began cleaning up the mess with them, lest things got too out-of-hand.

We stopped only to eat dinner, and as I packed away leftovers, they were to resume where we had left off. Apparently, my instructions were not clear, and they resumed where they had left off before I had intervened.

Every. single. card. of every. single. game. was on the floor.

Normally, I leave my kids’ messes for them to clean up, but this mess was too overwhelming, too vast, and I had to rid all evidence of this day before I tried to manage another day alone with them.

As I followed the kids upstairs, the anger burned inside me. And while I didn’t lose my temper, I definitely used it, reminding my son a half a dozen times how furious I was at him for his behavior this week, threatening the other two if they didn’t move quickly. I wanted them to go to bed and not talk to me until the morning. Of course, they didn’t comply with that request, either. We went upstairs at 6:30, and it was 8:30 before my kids were finished ‘getting ready’ for bed and another half an hour before the first fell asleep. My son decided that 10:30 would work for his bedtime that night.

And in the meantime, I sat in the middle of the floor putting card after card in its appropriate box, all the while fuming and steaming over all the reasons this mess was my husband’s, the man who had not been at our home for the last three days, fault. After all, who better to blame than the man who is out-of-town?

I had completely convinced myself that Matt was to blame for this mess, and as I sat for an hour and 15 minutes cleaning up these games, I decided that I no longer liked him.

Whenever Matt’s away, the kids act like monsters. Or if one of them is good (thank you, sweet Hannah Grace) the others make up for it. Who wouldn’t get angry at kids who behave this way?

I had enough sense to text Matt: “You know when I try to go to bed. Don’t call me.” Even though I wasn’t in bed, I didn’t think I should talk to Matt. Remember, I didn’t like him anymore, and I didn’t think I should tell him that.

So, of course, Matt called me. And I wasn’t nice.

But in my defense, I warned him not to call! I knew I was angry and couldn’t be nice, so he can’t really blame me for my less-than-loving tone.

As I lay in bed that night, I thought about how I allowed a mess of cards (albeit the worst mess of cards I’d ever seen) to create enough rage in me to kill a man. I allowed my fatigue and frustration to cloud my mind into thinking I disliked my husband. And I had created enough excuses to prove I was right.

In that moment, I had my first glimpse into how self-control really works.

Self-control isn’t just making good choices; self-control is eliminating excuses.

I lost my temper because my kids were out-of-control.

I’m so weary because my husband is out-of-town.

I’m having a cheat day today, but I’ll get back on my diet tomorrow.

These shoes were on sale, so it’s okay that I bought them (even though I already own 100 pairs).

And pretty soon, we believe the excuses and justify our behavior.

I lay in bed that night, nauseous and tired, holding on to my last thread of anger for one more moment. I thought about my husband whom I wanted to blame, my kids who were at fault for a mess (a huge one) but not for my anger, and I released them. If I wanted control of myself in the morning, I had to own up to myself that night.

I closed my eyes and said ‘goodnight’ to a horrible day and ‘goodnight’ to my excuses. And I drifted off to (a very short) sleep.

^“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law” (Galatians 5:22-23, New International Version, 2010). Emphasis mine

What are your go-to excuses for bad behavior? Leave a comment below, or link up your own post on ‘self-control!’ Thank you for joining me over the last few weeks as we explored the different fruits of the Spirit. I am worn out from God’s conviction! Stay tuned for more details as to what we’ll contemplate next in ‘Journeys’!

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