I’ve been in a slump.
Like, a big one. It seems that my
life is on repeat on an annoying song that makes me want to pull my hair out
and ogre-scream in frustration.
A few weeks ago Josh was watching Groundhog Day. You remember that one. Bill Murray is living Groundhog Day every
day. The same song wakes him every
morning. The same people greet him,
unaware of the repetition of his life.
No matter what, it’s the same thing.
Every. Day.
I sat watching the movie, mouth agape, at the reflection of
my own life. Every day the same
thing. The alarm goes off. The kids are woken. We all get dressed. The big kids make their lunches as I wrangle
the little kids. We load up in the van
and I drop kids off at their respective schools. I spend the remainder of the day trying to
catch up on housework. This is
impossible as I have three little kids home during the day and they are all
very capable of undoing any chore I complete.
Laundry folded? Not anymore. The
baby decided to use the folded laundry as a nest envied by every mouse on Earth
when my back was turned because the 2-year-old was quiet so I checked on him
really quickly only to discover he had tried to get his own snack and was
sitting on the floor of the kitchen surrounded by full and empty fruit snack
pouches that were once on a high shelf in the pantry in a plastic box with a
locking lid. Not to mention the
3-year-old who keeps squealing at the top of her lungs because her little
brother took her spot on the couch, or her book, or her toy, or her turn on the
TV, or her breathing space.
And then 3 o’clock hits and the four big kids get home from
school wanting food, a nap, TV time, a ride to Scouts or youth activities or a
ride home from track or drama club or tutoring.
Within two hours I need to have dinner ready because Josh
works nights and if I don’t have food for him he won’t eat until 2am. Or, sometimes, I have food for him but he ended
up sleeping later and doesn’t have time to eat and leaves without the
nowhere-near-gourmet dinner I’ve prepared.
After that it’s the nightly fights of dishes, picking up the
toys, getting ready for bed, why didn’t you do your homework earlier?, you need
WHAT for school tomorrow?, and just the typical teenage angst/toddler meltdown
depending on the age of the kids. Either
way, it’s basically the same thing.
I’m burned out. I don’t
do anything for myself. And I know why I
don’t. If I take time to do something I want to do, I’m not doing something I should do. Therefore, I’m not a good mother. Therefore, I’m selfish. Or unfit.
Or a bad wife. Or a horrible
housekeeper. Or a terrible cook/meal
planner.
Who am I even trying to prove myself to? My husband?
Yes. My kids? Yes. My neighbor? Yes. The girls from church (my only non-virtual social
network)? Yes. Myself?
No.
No, I’m not trying to prove anything to myself. Because I already know that I’m a horrible
housekeeper. I already know that I don’t
like cooking. I already know that my
kids watch WAY too much TV. I already
know that it takes me a week to finish folding and putting away laundry even if
it only takes a day to wash it.
I am not the ideal candidate for being a Pinterest-crafting,
housework-loving, creative-playing stay-at-home mom.
Then why do I even try?
Hence, my depressing dilemma.
I’ve often heard that if you have a question you can ask the
Lord and He’ll answer you. I know that
happens. I’ve experienced it
before. But I decided to see if maybe I’d
get lucky at church on Sunday and get some insight as to why my life is so...ugh.
It was Easter Sunday.
Our ward has a new meeting time of 2pm.
It’s still new enough that I haven’t quite figured out how to make it
work. Despite my loathing of scrubbing
toilets, I do enjoy creating a good strategy.
A plan. Lists of all kinds are my
friends. But I don’t have this new
meeting time down yet.
Josh got home from work and we had our Easter egg hunts
before he went off to bed. Then the kids
ate candy and played with the new games the Easter Bunny brought while I made
dinner: BBQ pulled pork, potato salad, macaroni salad, fruit salad, deviled
eggs. We’d had ham the previous Sunday
when family had been in town so I went a different way for dinner. Specifically, I needed something that we
could come home from church at 5:10pm and it would all be magically ready for
us to eat since Josh’s shift started at 6pm and he needed to leave by
5:45. If I stay at church the entire
three-hour block I can’t plan to cook anything quickly enough for him to eat before
heading out for the night. And I still had to get kids bathed, dressed, combed,
and find church shoes. This needed to be
done close enough to church time that they can’t mess themselves up but not so
late that we miss the first hour of church.
And somewhere in there I really needed to try to get a shower myself.
To make a long story short, Sunday afternoons are stressful.
Then there’s the whole taking seven kids to church by myself
fiasco. The arguments over who sits by
mom and who sat by me last week and who can fit on my lap so the bigger kids
can sit next to me and fussy kids because it’s naptime during Sacrament Meeting
and I forgot the snacks to keep the little ones quiet.
I tried to focus on the purpose of Sacrament Meeting –
partaking of the Sacrament, renewing my baptismal covenants. My thoughts were quickly distracted from this
sacred ordinance as I tried to balance two kids on my lap and make sure they
each only took one piece of bread, not a handful, and later that the water they
spill from the little cup gets mostly on me and not the floor. What is supposed to be a spiritual time of
meditation and prayer is spent shushing and balancing and grabbing little hands
reaching for more “snack.” I can’t even
begin to tell you how unworthy of the Sacrament I feel just admitting all of
this.
But I looked forward to the talks about the Savior. About His sacrifice for us and His gift of
resurrection for every person. And then
the thought entered my mind: We’re told Jesus knows each of our sorrows, our
griefs. He experienced all pain in the
Garden of Gethsemane. And the nagging,
arrogant, rebellious voice in my head had the audacity to argue that He never
experienced my life. He never knew the
monotony of 21st century routines. He never had little kids that
bombarded His every move and kept Him from accomplishing any of His goals or
desires. Of course, I know His life was
much more difficult. He suffered beyond
anything I can understand. But, how does
he understand me?
And that’s when it happened.
I wanted to prove God and His ability to answer my
questions.
Despite my pride and self-importance, He sent me a
realization.
There had been a special musical number by a young girl on
the harp (it was pretty amazing).
Usually there’s only one musical number per meeting, but for some reason
there were two that day. The second
musical break was a congregational hymn, Where
Can I Turn for Peace? There were
phrases that stuck out to me:
Where is my solace?
Where, when my aching grows…where
can I run?
Where is the quiet hand to calm my
anguish?
And then the third verse stunned me into silence and burned
tears in my eyes.
He answers privately,
Reaches my reaching
In my Gethsemane, Savior and
Friend.
“In my Gethsemane”? MY Gethsemane? My quiet corner of the world (or just my
mind) where I suffer alone. My attempts
to give everything I have to everyone else and leave nothing for myself. My quiet pleadings for solace but not knowing
when they will ever be answered, if they even can be.
I realized, this was what I was experiencing. Not a slump.
Not a monotonous routine to be endured.
My own Gethsemane where I felt alone, wounded, overwhelmed. Suffering.
But as the hymn explains, I am not alone. My Savoir and Friend is there with me. I have a hard job right now. My job description includes many things I am
not good at or don’t enjoy doing. My husband
works hard to provide for us and is often either at work or asleep. I do a lot on my own. But I am never alone. He guides me when I know I need to intercede
in my teenager’s life. He inspires me
with individual responses to each of my children. He reminds me of my goals and my ability to
accomplish them in the past. He prompts
me with motivation to make our home livable and meals edible so it’s a delight
(or at least not a dread) for Josh to come home to.
Of course, there’s no immediate solution to any of my
troubles. It took me three days to
finally sit down to write this out because I felt it necessary to do other
chores before the “frivolousness” of writing my feelings. And there are toys strewn across the floor,
the kitchen needs a good scrubbing, and towels need to be washed. But there seems to be a bit more perspective
now. What’s important? A clean house? Yes.
Is it the most important? Well, sometimes it is. Right now, though, I need to remember what I
need. And right now I need to recognize
the good in my life. My family. My Savior.
Easter Sunday can be buried by the expectations of the obligatory Easter
Bunny, or egg hunts, or rushing to church on time. But really, it’s about the Savior and His
Gethsemane for us. For me. In His Gethsemane he suffered for me.
In my Gethsemane he suffers with
me. He does understand me.
And He loves me
anyway.