Running on Empty

[I started this post the first week of May. When I learn to be more succinct, pithy and clever, it won't take all month for me to write it...or for you to read it...]

Somehow I landed on a site the other day that touted "10 Inspirational Mother's Day Quotes," which I begrudgingly scanned. 

I wanted to gag when I read one attributed to a Mildred B. Vermont: "Being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs in my field, since the payment is pure love." 

Huh.

So that's what my kids have been doling out. I'd thought it was well-smeared poop, perfectly timed tantrums, and a general refusal to sleep through the night that had been showing up in my paycheck lately. 

I read my "Love Is... [Charity]" reminder hanging in my kitchen and thought, "Nope, not much love around here." Love has been feeling grouchy, tired, and impatient lately. 

(I have refrained from blogging lately because I don't like sending negativity out into the universe, and it's been hard to keep up a positive outlook the past couple muck-filled months.) 

I kept reading from the 10 quotes, and the desire to gag evolved into heartburn with the guilt and annoyance this one induced: Conscience-pricking Quip I tried easing my conscience by telling myself this lady clearly had not met her match yet, as I had, three times over. The older two had been little monsters all day and the youngest a monster all night. I felt like I was surrounded constantly by monsters, little hellions bent on finding out just how crazy they could make their mother. Well, I finally broke. The Monday before last [April 27], I stormed out of the crying baby's room after putting the older monsters to bed (note how the youngest one knew to take over for them); I then slammed some doors, leveled my husband's attempt to manage my meltdown, and concluded with the strongest threat I could safely keep: "I'm going for a walk...and I might come back!"  I did come back, to a husband quietly folding laundry and a baby screaming in her room. I was informed that she was "starting to give out" and that at nine months, she would be just fine. Well, I wasn't fine. I slammed around the kitchen trying to drown out the noise until I could agree that her cries were becoming less enthusiastic. When she again awoke around 3 am, I was too tired to react with the same irrational motions of the past nine months--the ones that landed her in bed with two warm bodies and an endless food supply, whom she usually wakened another three times before morning. I told my friend of my plan to let the baby "cry it out," and she was so proud of me and reminded me that it would get harder before it got better, but after three nights, she'd be sleeping through the night. This friend is very good at being firm with kids and getting good results (she has to with six children!), so I took heart. After the second and most difficult night with our baby-breaking, I bumped into another friend, who commented that I looked tired. I almost explained that I'd listened to my baby cry for an hour the night before, which had left my adrenaline surging long past the time the baby's cries petered out; but then I remembered that this friend had once said she would never let a baby "cry it out."  I managed to curtail my response to a mere, "Oh, last night we let the baby cry for a bit since I'm kind of going crazy without sleep." Her terse response of "I didn't sleep for three years with my two" fortunately finished with a concession that "perhaps by the third child, you have to be more firm." With that vote of confidence, I faced the third night, praying desperately that the baby would sleep better. And she did.  After maybe 10 minutes of half-hearted wails around 3 am, she decided sleeping was a better use of her energy. I'm likely jinxing myself, but I'm now going on over a week's worth of of full nights' sleep! It's amazing how adequate sleep can make everyone nicer... At my Uncle Wayne's funeral. My Uncle Kirt in the background. I had a good conversation with my mom a couple days later, one where I stayed up late with my phone plugged into the charger so that I was crouched near an outlet but hardly noticed because I needed that talk more than I needed comfort or sleep (and hey, after several days of good sleep, I felt rich with it--like I could start handing it out to anyone who needed it). Anyway, I got talking with her about Mildred's thoughts on being paid with "pure love" for being a mother. I finally realized that the kids are not the ones paying me because they are not my employer. I am caring for God's children, and He pays me, so to speak, by giving me the chance to feel pure love for them, just the way He does. And how would I develop that love if it weren't for the messes, the tests of my patience, the sacrifices of my comfort, and the anxiety that I might be doing it all wrong? The kids are doing their job by providing me the perfect ingredients for my growth to take place. Some just get a little more generous than others it would seem. April's (de)construction site The After Mother's Day Payback (couch cushion turned snowstorm?) I know Mother's Day was the second Sunday of this month, but I've needed the whole month to get these feelings into words. Every time I think the Hammond barrel of monkeys is running low, I remind myself that we don't need to be in a hurry to spend all our fun, creativity and energy in one day. Remembering whose these children are, remembering why I have them on loan, and remembering that they need me to take care of myself--it all reminds me that I am nearly everything to them right now. And if I do it right, I will work myself right out of a job.  [Or right into a promotion! Some day I'll be "Grandma Elissa." Yikes! I think I'll just try to stick to this motherhood-one-day-at-a-time approach...] P.S. I did have a great Mother's Day:) The day before Mother's Day, I tried making myself a sourdough chocolate cake, but after a series of mistakes, it didn't raise. Caitlin quipped, "Well, Mom, it's a good thing you're raising kids and not cakes." [I may or may not have eaten the whole thing by myself the following Monday while the kids played in their "snowstorm" and I retreated to the front porch...] And here's why I should have my husband cook more...he makes Dutch babies! In other words, he can raise cakes and kids at the same time. My son wore his new suit and, after some negotiations, even agreed to wear the tie with it. My son wore his new suit and, after some negotiations, even agreed to wear the tie with it. The men prepared a memorable dinner...trying to remember the main course...something Italian (appetizers and salad filled me up!) I thought she had just noticed my tendency to rescue rainstorm refugee worms, but later Caitlin explained that "or" with a "w" at the beginning and "m" at the end says "warm." And she was right; it's all just a matter of perspective.