At 7am, Isaac turns to me in the bedroom doorway, asks, "did we sleep at all last night?" I feel it, too, the lethargy of busy days and long nights, the sinking disappointment of both boys up early. I kiss him off to a week full of service projects, sit down to spoon yogurt into one mouth, cereal into another.
Owen unexpectedly takes a good morning nap so Levi and I cook together, him pouring ingredients into the bread machine, watching bubbles form in a simmering pot. I sense hope that I have rallied my troops, that perhaps the reluctant start to the day will give way to satisfactory naps, creative activities, a happy mama.
But I get too optimistic and suddenly the batches of pita bread in and out of the oven have coincided with my plans for a walk before lunch, and I've forgotten Levi's morning snack and anyway he doesn't want to go outside, and I've lost track of when Owen ate last so all three of us are hungry and just like that, we're all out of sorts.
And when Mommy's starting to unravel from baby's sleepy crying and toddler's constant "up, please" [at least he's talking, right?] and no time for lunch for herself and the mountain of dishes grows ever higher, Levi disappears. I catch him halfway up the stairs, "don't wake up your brother!" poised, angry, on the tip of my tongue, when I see his toddler Bible in hand, and I stop short. "Do you want to go look at pictures in your room?" I ask softly. He nods, and I return to the kitchen to clean up, soul-weary from the lack of patience I continuously display.
A little while later I squeeze into the armchair next to Levi -- he won't sit on my lap in that chair anymore -- and look down to see cartoon Mary, sitting gently [as gentle as a cartoon illustration can be] at Jesus' feet, smiling as she listens. And then there's cartoon Martha, stirring a bowlful of batter so that it splatters down the sides, eyebrows furrowed towards the previous page, and it's me, right down to the kerchief on her frizzy head. Messy. Quick. Frustrated. Always doing -- but never reading, never listening, rarely even sitting (and even more rarely, gently).
How long have I known that I need to be in God's Word daily, and that the paragraph we read every night after dinner while I'm training Levi to sit quietly doesn't cut it? Over and over I read this post about never eating bread without eating Bread, and for a while I try: Proverbs at breakfast, Gospels at lunch, whatever Daddy's reading to us at dinner. But the second highchair replaces the Bible at the table and when lunch takes an hour or more already and naps come so quickly I can't keep up.
I know it, as surely as I know anything, that this is why my patience runs thin. Why I so often have "funk in my head," as a dear friend put it. Why that gentle and quiet spirit seems so, so elusive. The business of life takes so long that I cut out the things that matter and am left with a sharp tongue, a quick temper, a weary heart.
Twelve hours pass and I feel just as lethargic at bedtime. Isaac and I exchange worn-out smiles and retreat, he to bill-paying, me to yet another kitchen-cleaning. And I wonder: will this be the day that spurs me on to new, better, habits, or will I be fighting myself again tomorrow?
Owen unexpectedly takes a good morning nap so Levi and I cook together, him pouring ingredients into the bread machine, watching bubbles form in a simmering pot. I sense hope that I have rallied my troops, that perhaps the reluctant start to the day will give way to satisfactory naps, creative activities, a happy mama.
But I get too optimistic and suddenly the batches of pita bread in and out of the oven have coincided with my plans for a walk before lunch, and I've forgotten Levi's morning snack and anyway he doesn't want to go outside, and I've lost track of when Owen ate last so all three of us are hungry and just like that, we're all out of sorts.
And when Mommy's starting to unravel from baby's sleepy crying and toddler's constant "up, please" [at least he's talking, right?] and no time for lunch for herself and the mountain of dishes grows ever higher, Levi disappears. I catch him halfway up the stairs, "don't wake up your brother!" poised, angry, on the tip of my tongue, when I see his toddler Bible in hand, and I stop short. "Do you want to go look at pictures in your room?" I ask softly. He nods, and I return to the kitchen to clean up, soul-weary from the lack of patience I continuously display.
A little while later I squeeze into the armchair next to Levi -- he won't sit on my lap in that chair anymore -- and look down to see cartoon Mary, sitting gently [as gentle as a cartoon illustration can be] at Jesus' feet, smiling as she listens. And then there's cartoon Martha, stirring a bowlful of batter so that it splatters down the sides, eyebrows furrowed towards the previous page, and it's me, right down to the kerchief on her frizzy head. Messy. Quick. Frustrated. Always doing -- but never reading, never listening, rarely even sitting (and even more rarely, gently).
How long have I known that I need to be in God's Word daily, and that the paragraph we read every night after dinner while I'm training Levi to sit quietly doesn't cut it? Over and over I read this post about never eating bread without eating Bread, and for a while I try: Proverbs at breakfast, Gospels at lunch, whatever Daddy's reading to us at dinner. But the second highchair replaces the Bible at the table and when lunch takes an hour or more already and naps come so quickly I can't keep up.
I know it, as surely as I know anything, that this is why my patience runs thin. Why I so often have "funk in my head," as a dear friend put it. Why that gentle and quiet spirit seems so, so elusive. The business of life takes so long that I cut out the things that matter and am left with a sharp tongue, a quick temper, a weary heart.
Twelve hours pass and I feel just as lethargic at bedtime. Isaac and I exchange worn-out smiles and retreat, he to bill-paying, me to yet another kitchen-cleaning. And I wonder: will this be the day that spurs me on to new, better, habits, or will I be fighting myself again tomorrow?
For the record, this is not a story about today. But it is a true story.
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