It is day three of husband being out of town and Lord help me, single mom's deserve more than a million dollars + all the donuts + gin and juices on tap.
I stepped in puke on the way up the stairs today while bringing the sick child up to bed tonight. It was clean puke. You know the kind where you have wiped it up, sprayed it down, scrubbed it and it still leaves a spot? In my zeal, I over-sprayed, so it will be wet for the next two years at least. On the way down, I told myself to miss that step, only I had miss counted the steps and still managed to step in it again. I asked myself and the Lord why I even got a runner for the stairs when the kids are still so little and the Lord was like, these and other questions will be answered at the Pearly Gates. God has jokes, guys.
I came down stairs to pick up a second child to put them to bed, who was wining loudly and clinging, and Pruett , who has yet to crawl, was on all fours crawling unsteadily backwards. American idol's obnoxious jingle was playing in the background and I watched my last baby crawl (the wrong direction) in the midst of bedtime chaos.
I have been thinking a lot about how I want my life to be and how it is not that. I tell myself throughout the day what should have happened and what this or that should look like by now.
all day long.
You should mother better.
You should not have the stomach pooch by now. With the other babies that was already gone.
You should probably be eating something other than carbs for breakfast. like a green smoothie.
You should have said this to that person instead of ----. Sorta screwed that up.
You shouldhave written more today. You had a couple minutes to spare.
You should talk to Layne more about his day. He's going to resent you.
I literally do not shut up to myself all damn day.
All the other kids were in bed and it was just me and Pruett on the carpet. I'm laying there with him watching him scoot and play with a non-children's paperback book and Boy George is in the background talking to the performers with cliche advice, I guess I would just say, Enjoy what's happening.
then me in response, chiming in:
I should do that.
And I can't. I don't know how, Boy George. I can not, for the life of me, find the magical unicorn that is "balance". Basically, at the end of the day, I feel pretty bad about myself after all the not matching up to my expectations. I mean, there's no way to fancy this up with eloquent words and there's no way to fix my self worth with tired clichés that no one can actually do. unless. well, unless, in a dusting of God's grace, He gifts you with maybe a strong margarita and a glorious moment of clarity where you see how good the thing in front of you really, really is. I hate that we act like we are living some glorious full life of constant Be Here Now. We just fail so hard and deep down, we all know we're pretenders that yearn to love the moments in front of us.
I want to just cry admitting that. It's like staring at sophomore self in the mirror and seeing a huge zit on picture day. This isn't how I wanted it to go. I wanted to look better. I planned it differently and I have this incredible blouse with a matching scrunci from the limited to prove it.
Speaking of high school me, I'm writing/procrastinating this talk for some young gals on "beauty" and I am learning how much I am still my insecure, zit face self hiding under something I think might make me prettier. I know the truth though, I only want to be gorgeous but I am not. I want to be popular but I am not. Except for my senior year when I got boobs and legs, but I digress. I want to be something other than what I am because I know that looking a certain way brings me value.
I have thought about it a lot today. That God's love for me is based on him seeing my ugliness and still choosing me. That because of Jesus, I am beautiful. That under all the crushing expectations that I don't meet, christian ones and worldly ones, God chose me wether I have the pretty life or pretty face or pretty morals I've wanted and tried for in my short breath of a life.
He loves me and that makes me beautiful, not the other way around-- not, I am beautiful so He loves me. Not, I have it together, so He loves me. The truth is, I am stuck and dirty and ugly, and He loves me. Basically, that's kind of a game changer. Am I really 33 and just now learning about self worth as I walk up puke stairs and listen to come-uh come-uh come-uh chameleeeonnnnn but hear the Gospel? I laugh. Of course, I am.
Grace probably dusts the unpleasant moments of life more than we think.