That Day They Were Pulling Each Other's Hair
I have been away. I'd like to tell you our family went on vacation. That I was at a retreat. Something. Anything. It wouldn't be true. Our lives bounce in and out of the hospital. Stays can be short (a night or two) or long (weeks, months, years.)
I wrote this awhile back before Bee was transferred to DC, this time, for adenovirus. We went to Mass as a family. Needless to say, I was frustrated. We all have days where we want to cry because our own unrealistic expectations have failed miserably. It's not about saying you never have them. It's about learning to smile and be grateful through them.
Anyone have one of those days where all the kids are screaming/hitting/biting/kicking/pulling each other's hair, your white pants magically have a stain on your behind that no one knows how it got there and no matter how pretty your pie looked (or how awesome the crumbs tasted), it ended up in the trash because it fell apart? All the little things snowballed into a giant Marshmallow man growling at you. That was my Sunday.
Remember how I said that in times of anguish or suffering of any kind that we need to sit at the foot of the cross? I'm living proof that is sometimes easier said than done.
Flash back to Mass. We just started attending Mass in the Extraordinary Form. For those not in the know this is a pre-Vatican II Mass said entirely in Latin. It's longer and different from what most people attend. A plus is that you don't have any people fussing over having a baby in the pews because a lot of large families attend. That being said, we were THAT family. The family with all three of their kids being loud, disrespectful, and running a muck. It's hard to pay attention when trying to wrestle a one year old to the kneeler, as many of you know. The feeling adds a certain "Je ne sais quoi" to the whole experience of attending Mass. Couple that with not knowing what's happening due to the language barrier, I was almost in tears. At that very moment, when I was about to give up and let him crawl away, I looked up. Father was elevating the Host during the transubstantiation. I stopped in awe and chills went up my back.
It was the perfect moment. The perfect moment to remind a weary mother of why we were here. We weren't here to have perfectly behaved children or to have a pristine outfit. Life is messy. Children cry. Siblings fight. However, God is perfect. God is love. God is joy. In that moment, I chose to settle back down at the foot of the cross.
Did I stay there? I'd love to tell you I did. But that wouldn't be honest. As sinners, it's hard to always maintain such a state. Tempers are lost. Frustrations rear their ugly head. God is also forgiving and being given a second chance to find joy on Monday is a wonderful blessing.
I would love to be one of those women who has their children sit perfectly. But I'm not. My white pants are stained. At least one of my children has unkempt hair. They get excited to be at church-- "look it's Jesus! Hi Jesus!"-- so they get loud, very loud. I'm not meant to be the perfect mother. I'm meant to be me, flaws and all. God lovingly made me the imperfect person I am. I still try though, every day...
Have you had any days like this?