Adventures in Motherhood

As summer comes to a close and I gather up all the things necessary to start a new homeschool year, rearranging cabinets and reviewing curriculum, I’ve also addressed my own goals and have planned a few personal changes I’d like to make. 

In the “notes” on my phone I have a list of possible blogs.  Sometimes things hit me, meaningful, poignant things that drift over me in thoughtful breezes and I feel like I must write about them. 

The list includes things like “Dear Daughter” and “It’s Got to Be You” and “Southwest Chicken Chowder”.  Some are light and airy subject matter, some are seasonal recipes.  Some blog ideas are deep and hopefully encouraging. 

It was my goal this week, to start blogging in force again.  I honestly thought that I’d be sitting here addressing some of those meatier topics.  I am not.  I can’t. 

For many reasons, one of them being that directly after you wash someone else’s soupy poop off the bottom of your feet, you’re in no mood to say something poignant.  The words that come more naturally in situations such as this are far too foul to type out. 

Instead of a journey down a spiritual path of hope and encouragement, I’m very sorry for this, I’m going to have to tell you about my day instead.  I hope, in the very least you might be amused and at the most realize that sometimes the day is just hard.  God is with you, though, even in the oddest of circumstances. 

The only thing you can do is high five yourself, alone in your sleeping child’s bedroom because you did not kill anyone, the pantry is full of food and now things are quiet; even though it might be a night you sleep with plastic Walmart sacks, disinfectant and towels stacked beside your bed just in case a wayward ill child stumbles into your bedroom.

As of late, I’ve gotten way too slack with my grocery budget and shopping.  Normally I love a good spreadsheet.  Planning each meal, as well as snack items for my family and then making lists based on that plan helps save a lot of money and hassle.  Taking three kids to several different stores on grocery day however can sometimes be a bit harrowing so you’ll understand why I got a little lazy. 

Today, I woke up with the intention of killing the bill paying, the menu making and the grocery list.  I fed my boys left over corn bread and smoked sausage for breakfast, (don’t judge me I’m pretty sure that’s a legitimate breakfast entree at cracker barrel) poured myself a strong cup of coffee and as my daughter slept in like a wild college kid on Saturday morning, I sat and worked my spreadsheets like a mad woman.

Just knowing I’d be home in time to clean the dishes I left from the day before as well as workout, shower and finish putting away all the laundry I’d done before my dashing husband came home, I left the house determined to do all 4 errands in one day instead of putting anything off.  Get it done in one fell swoop, I told myself. 

Within a minute or two of getting in the car my oldest boy began to claim that his feet itched.  Why that’s something he’d share and with such a degree of unadulterated panic, I couldn’t say.  He proceeded to rip off his shoes and rub his feet on any scratching surface available; the floorboard, the back of the seat in front of him, his sister…

I asked him if he had bug bites.  No.  No bug bites.  Are your feet red?  Is there a rash?  NO!  They won’t stop itching!  There’s something black on them!  Hold the phone, I think.  My nurse brain races, what kind of strange ailment does he have?!  “Oh…. It’s just dirt”.  Just about the time the itchiness caused him to reel and jerk like an accuser in the Salem witch trials whilst in the backseat of the Grand Caravan, the middle child is heard from.  His head hurts.  He’s going to throw up. 

I know he’s had some allergy troubles and it’s not unusual for him to get sick to his stomach due to drainage.  The poor child also gets carsick. 

No.  We will carry on regardless of these benign frustrations.  I tell him to hang on and put the AC vent pointed directly to his face.

I tell the older boy he can shower when he gets home and if that doesn’t help I’ll give him some hydrocortisone cream or Benadryl or some other healing concoction or mystical balm.  His hope makes his itching subside. 

I promise them lunch at Sam’s because what won’t cure what ails you if not a dollar seventy-nine hot dog and fountain drink?  AM I RIGHT? 

Strangely my little girl, who is usually the rowdiest of the bunch, as if the stars have aligned and the phases of the moon are just so, is calm, cooperative, even helpful. 

So, we get to Sam’s, menu and three lists in hand, and sit down to have a snack.  Middle boy runs to the bathroom and back.  Complaining of a headache and nausea all the while as he runs, sprints full tilt, to and from the restroom.  He is pale, and I know he’s not lying.  I promise him we’ll get him feeling better and wonder if we should just tuck our tails and run on home.

After half his hot dog is consumed and he's taken a generous few slurps on his Sprite that’s pretty much bigger than his abdomen, he seems revived and I feel comfortable continuing with our task.

So, after that, we bounce about, ticking things off our to-do list as well as our grocery list.  As always there were times I had to tell myself to be patient, take deep breaths and NOT SCREAM at my little people.  I only made ONE pathetic phone call to my husband and ONE text to my mother in law.  I didn’t quit.  Because I’m not a quitter!

We did it. 

When we got home to our messy house we unloaded our two weeks’ worth of supplies and I almost, almost patted myself on the back. 

Middle boy didn’t feel so good, but seemed happy enough after some medicine for his head and allergies.  Oldest boy had completely forgotten about his itchy feet that seemed to have completely shaken his world to its core only hours before.     

I hadn’t yet showered, I hadn’t worked out and the house was still a complete disgrace but I figured getting all that done was enough for today. 

In the shower, feeling refreshed, I considered taking us to Bible class and how no one seemed to feel well.  I opted for pizza delivery (even though I totally had enough to cook for days and days) and maybe getting some rest for all of us tonight instead of struggling to get everyone out the door.

The gallant husband came home and talked us into a movie night.  We all munched on pizza and watched the movie in the living room, on the couch covered in pillows. 

I thought this was so nice.  What a blessing it is to have this time!  I won’t change my mind on that, it is a blessing, but the evening didn’t turn out as peaceful as I’d hoped. 

I thought the greatest of my worries were doing the dishes I had neglected earlier and making my husband’s breakfast and lunch for work the next day when I was so worn out and ready to “just sit”. 

It should have been some sort of divine clue, but I missed it completely.  Middle boy got up, and asked us to pause the movie four times, FOUR TIMES!  because he needed to “go to the restroom”.  We asked him if he was feeling ok.  We asked him if he wasn’t getting the whole job done while he was in there because he wanted to come out and watch the movie (that sounds weird, if you have boys you know exactly what I’m talking about.  It’s like an interrogation, geared towards helping them understand they MUST GO TO THE BATHROOM AT THE EXACT MOMENT THEY HAVE TO “GO”).

The movie ended.  (Oh my gosh!  No one told me King Kong was so sad!!)  and we rustled all upstairs to get their jammies on, brush their teeth and lay, mercifully in the dark quiet until they fell asleep. 

The very second the Gallant Husband stepped into the shower and I heard the water running, all HELL BROKE LOOSE. 

I took Josie downstairs with me to fix the husband’s breakfast and lunch for the next day.  She happily abandoned dismantling my bedroom and acquiesced. 

While I’m flipping a ham, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich Bryce, ya’ know, the oldest one, comes tumbling down the stairs on feet entirely too big for his height nor his 9-year-old body, the steps reverberating throughout the house, slapping on the laminate floor.  I wonder about the joists of the second floor and worry about their health…

“Barrett had an accident…and there’s poop all over him AND the bathroom.”

Time stood still for a moment.  I heard the sizzling of the egg in the skillet and swipe of my feet as I shifted weight on the yet-to-be-swept kitchen floor.

Swiftly, after turning off the burner and setting some things back in the fridge, I galloped upstairs only slightly more graceful than my oldest child. 

I find Barrett in the bathroom, a victim of the tummy bug that caught not only me the week before, but also the husband and Bryce.  After getting out of the shower he couldn’t make it to the restroom.  He stood by the sink trying to wash green, slick, sandy poo from his legs, his hands and the sink.  Barrett is nothing if not fiercely independent.  He’s always preferred to fix his issues in private without mentioning it to a soul. 

I tip toe through the bathroom, get him back in the shower.  I sufficiently scrub down him while also disinfecting the sink, the floor, the toilet and later the tub.  I get him some comfy jammies.  I help dry off his little boy body.  We go downstairs and take some tummy medicine (I’m a nurse, ya’ll, always will be) and walk back to his bed. 

He’s situated there in his navy blue clean sheets and his bright blue sleeping shorts and I cover him gently with a blanket, instructing him to settle and be quiet while I get the other two to bed.  I’m relieved that the situation is resolved…I step back towards the door to take down the soiled laundry from the bathroom and throw away my used paper towels when my left heel lands in something wet. 

Startled, I step with my right foot, the ball of which lands in an even bigger wet spot. 

I flip the light back on and the ceiling fan begins to spin like an airplane propeller.  I’m thankful because it somewhat wafts away the stench of what I’m looking at.  I stare down at a healthy, generous trail of green soupy poops from the door to the closet and covering all the items on the floor (THAT I HAVE BEEN TRYING SO HAAAAAAARD TO GET THEM TO CLEAN UP OFF THE FLOOR DAILY) in between.

There are no words.  I feel like crying.

“…What happened here?!”.  He tells me he got sick and didn’t make it to the bathroom.  I wonder, seriously WONDER, I cleaned him and the bathroom up.  I disinfected them BOTH.  We walked gently downstairs.  We talked.  I gave him medicine and then journeyed up the stairs again and NEVER ONCE did he mention the soup bowl of bacteria that was a quarter of his bedroom floor which was now a nearly literal poop swamp.

I breathe deep, hoping not to scare him.  I inquire as to why, as I was trying clean him up, he didn’t tell me that his misadventures extended into the disgustingly porous, germ harboring carpet of his room, not to mention the idle Legos and dirty articles of clothing that lay within.

“I dunno.”

Friends, kids, EVERYONE, this is not an acceptable answer to this question.  It is only an acceptable answer to things like “How great and exceedingly good is God?” or “How BIG is the universe?”.   For any question that involves your person, experiencing and actual moment in time, “I dunno.” IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER!

Oh, Lord, I thank you for your Grace and Mercy.  Argh.

With forced patience and held back tears I told Barrett, as I scrubbed the refuse from his carpet and bagged up things I just couldn’t clean, that I think poop is gross.  I don’t think he is gross.  I just want him to tell me when something happens like this so I can help (and possibly prevent me scrubbing carpets on my hands and knees at 9pm which at this point has nothing to do with pride and the future of our carpet and EVERYTHING to do with proper sanitation and hygiene!).

My rants were answered with a sweet, “ok” to which I responded with a hug, a kiss, a saying of bedtime prayers and me covering him up with the softest blanket I could find. 

During this debacle, I had asked Bryce to take a trash bag full of contaminated floor stuff to “the big black trash can” which is the trash can that gets pushed to the curb on trash day and does NOT reside inside our house but rather ashamedly sits outside the garage, a receptacle for nights such as these as well as honorable full bags of trash from our absolutely normal kitchen waste. 

It is at the moment I feel I have scrubbed the carpet sufficiently as to not have someone’s foot carry what I imagine to be the black plaque to the next readily available recipient that I breathe a deep breath and put the last of my trash in my modest Wal-Mart bag.  I mentally prepare to resume a normal bedtime routine for the other two…

“There’s a wasp!!”  Bryce shrieked as he ran through the entryway and skidded to a stop, hiding behind the kitchen bar. 

“What?  Where?”  I fully comprehended what he said.  I stalked down the stairs that were oddly situated in this abominable floor play directly in front of the front door. 

I was halfway down the stairs when I hear, “It’s on the window!!”

Ok, so we had these ground nesting yellow jackets that swarmed the husband while he was weed-eating and we took two days to eradicate via foaming poisons and startled shrieks.  I’m traumatized so I assume WE ALL ARE!

I sneak down the squeaky staircase as Bryce hollers that, “It’s on the window RIGHT BY THE COMPUTER”.

I sneak up on the target, hoping for just a glimpse to form my plan of attack.

Just to the left of the computer, used now only for homeschool assignments and transformer toy searches, settled apprehensively on the hideous mini blinds is a…. grasshopper certainly no smaller than your average furry rodent.  He’s humongous.  He’s speckled with red, tan and yellow and probably about a foot long; well maybe not but surely huge!  I’m not sure if it was a grasshopper or a locust left over from the plagues on Egypt; he looked old and wise. 

I run to the kitchen to grab a glass, hoping not to smash him knowing full well he and his kind are trying to obliterate my summer and fall veggies I’ve painstakingly planted.  In my haste, I opted for mercy.  Glass in hand I creep towards him, hoping to catch him.

He jumps in a flurry of wings and legs to my china cabinet.

I knock and rattle it and he flies to the opposite wall where Ty, my faithful k-9, steps in and “hunts him”.  Eighty-five-pound dog and panicked insect battle in an active ballet, pouncing and jumping knocking over TV trays and pouncing on leather couch cushions.

We cheer him on, of course, as he mouths him and drops him in the living room; grabs him again and deposits him, the invader in his speckled long-legged fury, in the kitchen. 

This goes on sweet until I realize a long grasshopper leg has been deposited on my living room carpet.  I decide to reward the puppy with a piece of cheese, Bryce and Josie are more than happy to comply. 

With my glass and cardboard in hand, intended to capture and release to poor guy, I deposited his half lifeless grasshopper body in to the trash.

Finally, with goodnight prayers and kisses along with soft blankets and assurances of everything being “ok” I sit here sort of appalled and simultaneously impressed with the day.

You see, along with trying to get homeschool schedules and routines in line I’ve been praying.  I’ve been asking God to help me be who He wants me to be and to hold up; support all these people in my life I know He’s entrusted to my care.  I’ve prayed for strength, for peace, for diligence in managing money and household.  I’ve prayed the He will help me get my house in order in all aspects.

As I scrub at carpet, I realize I’ve become overwhelmed with taking care of these three-beautiful people (all of that is my full-time job now!).   In the day to day struggles and frustrations I’ve lost the bigger picture. 

I’ve prayed that God will give me strength.

I’ve prayed that He will identify His path for me.

I’ve prayed that I will accept His Mercy and Grace, even though I know I could never deserve such a thing.  That’s always been hard for me; hard to accept his Grace and Love and be joyful rather than full of guilt.

If one thing is true to me, it’s that the details, in some cases aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.  Yes, I stretched my patience far too thin today with errands; yes, reality struck home tonight with every swipe of scrubber to carpet, but in my prayers over the last few weeks I’ve begged to trust beyond the details.  

As I sit here wondering if I washed my hands well enough after all of that I realize, He was with me the whole time. 

The details of the past few days stress me out but I made it!  There is absolutely no way I could’ve done all that without Him.