My friend read this post the other day and said, “Uh oh. You’re becoming one of those bloggers I hate!”
“One of those ones with the perfect life,” she growled.
Maybe we need some clarification here.
My life is not perfect.
My kids fight. I scream. They whine and complain. Sometimes I whine and complain right back at them.
More often than I’d like to admit, a dark cloud descends on our day around 4:30, when I know a stress storm is going to open up a deluge on our house.
Something will boil over on the stove, someone will throw a massive fit (not excluding me), homework will make me want to gouge my eyes out, I start praying for my husband, please God, to come home early – even though he hasn’t in like, 8 years. (Ok, that’s kind of an exaggeration. But only kind of. Once in a blue moon he comes home early. Which kind of makes me like a tortured rat. Praying for him to magically appear works sometimes, but mostly not, and I drive myself insane trying to make it happen again).
And some days in the midst of said storm, we still have someone to carpool, or a sport to do, or my feet make a suction sound every time I take a step on the kitchen floor and then I step on crushed cereal, and therefore, I feel like something inside me might explode like Mt. Vesuvius.
Some days my head starts to feel all bloaty and pressurized and I think it might feel really, really good to go outside and scream four letter words at the top of my lungs until my throat hurts and the neighbors wonder if I have a real “problem”. . . .
Which I might. I believe it’s called: homework.
I’ve been living in a constant state of fatigue, where it feels like no matter where I am at 3:30 PM, like the produce aisle or outside the kids’ school talking to the principal, I could curl up in a ball and take a deep, deep power nap. Ten minutes. If I could just have ten minutes. . . .
This may be because our Littlest has relapsed in her sleeping patterns and has, for the last six weeks or so, been waking up a minimum of once a night. A minimum.
Sometimes, my kids run out of shampoo in their shower, so they steal mine out of my shower. Then, when I go to bathe, I’m left standing in the steaming hot water, dripping wet, trying to decide which I best wash my hair with: Olay Regenerist Daily Facial Mask, or Dove body bar. This usually does nothing to assuage the Mt. Vesuvius situation..
My husband brought me a bottle of wine the other night.
He didn’t really need to.
Earlier in the day, I may have been an eensy weensy bit harried when I realized his upcoming trip puts him out of town for 9 days straight and for the majority of two weekends.
I’m OK with it now.
Really. I am.
The wine actually helped.
The same friend who hates bloggers-with-perfect-lives came to visit us a little over a year ago.
She went home after four days and slept for two. She has said to me over and over again she doesn’t know how we run the schedule we run. She understands why my carpet crackles when you vacuum it – I don’t clean every day, and she gets why.
She gets why I’m “too pooped to pop”, as my mom says.
And, she said she can’t believe I do this life without a vice.
Sugar is my vice.
And carbs – as in: grains and potatoes – either topped with frosting or deep-fried in the evilest of oils. . . .
And now healthy people are creeping up out of the woodwork, telling me I’m slowly killing myself with both.
This is where I jump head-long down the double tunneled rabbit-hole of “life is a crap-shoot”, and, my dad’s favorite: “we’re all going to die anyway”.
Another friend, who managed to stop by one afternoon mid homework/snack-time/beginning-dinner-prep/screaming-running-playtime, looked at me with big saucer eyes and said, “How are you not an alcoholic?”
If nothing else, at least these comments make me feel validated.
I’m not being a wus thinking that this is a sometimes-crazy life, it actually IS, in fact, sometimes crazy.
Some people thrive in this kind of raucous environment. They live for it and it makes them feel alive to have all these little people running a LOUD dervish-y circle around them.
Sometimes I feel that way too, but other times you might find me huddled in the closet, thumping my head against the wall, wishing for quiet peace.
I like silence. I like quiet conversation. I like to read and sit. . . quietly.
Many days, and for at least part of each day, that is precisely what I get. Thank you!
But for those other times – if God could grace me with a smidge of love for high-decibel chaos, it would totally behoove my blood pressure. (Let us bow our heads in a moment of silence and pray for said gift: joy and personal peace amidst chaos.)
My father-in-law, in a conversation about fender-benders, looked at me and said, “Wouldn’t you agree that it’s one of the worst feelings in the world?”
A fender bender? No. No, I wouldn’t.
I have felt much worse things. And a fender bender does not compare.
I have felt deep and tormenting emotions that did two things: paralyzed me and made me throw up.
I’ve cried for days on end, lost ridiculous amounts of weight, carried baggage way beyond its expiration date.
Yet I’m well aware (and deeply grateful) that I’ve been graciously spared a whole slew of painful emotions I cannot even begin to imagine but that so many others have endured.
Poking out someone’s tail light with my front bumper is not one of the worst feelings in the world.
My point friends, is that my life isn’t perfect. It’s full of ups and downs just like so many others’.
It’s all one big package though.
If I didn’t have those bad days mixed in with the good, it would mean I didn’t have this life at all, and this life is the one I love – the one I don’t want to be without.
So I’ll take it. Storm force homework days, stolen shampoo bottles, trauma, drama, and all.
I’ll accept it like a kid scooping up a new puppy on Christmas morning.
And, if I write about some splendid days indeed, know that there are less splendid ones tucked in with those too.
It only does because these silly little cut-outs were peace-producers.
They bought me minutes and minutes – maybe even an hour, of happy, tranquil, quiet play time.
And they were easy and cheap.
My husband poked his head in the bathroom door while the little miss was having her bath, making a scene with her shapes, and singing a little whispery song to go along with the story. He looked at me and said, “Wow. That’s cool! You should blog about that.”
And that, my friends, he does not say often.
So here it is.
DIY Craft Foam Bath Stickers
A few minutes for cutting.
Cut desired shapes. Wet the backs of shapes with water and stick them to the bath wall.
There you have it.
My little gal spotted this in the latest volume of High Five Highlights Magazine, and just would. not. forget it. I actually don’t even know how this magazine ended up in our mailbox. But. . . lucky us! See? Sweet little gifts. . . .
And I just happened to have craft foam around. Voila!