An Ex-Typical Day in My Life (Thank Goodness!)

This is something I wrote on “one of those days”, quite a while back. And I thank God that this day really isn’t very typical anymore!  Grab a cup or two of whatever you drink, because it's loooong.  Like the loooong day that it was!

 

I wake up.  It is 45 minutes later than I wished to get out of bed the night before, but since I stayed up too late, I didn’t set an alarm.  Groan.  I hear my husband moving around and decide I’d better get up.  I grab some clean underwear and a bathrobe and aim for the bathroom.  He gives me a cheerful, “Good morning,” and I realize I am wearing my perpetual frown, the one that has given me permanent vertical ravines between my eyes.  I mutter something unintelligible.

  

I dry off and throw on my robe, then sneak through the house to find a clean skirt in the laundry room.  I step on the creaky floor board, but no one cries out, “Mommy!”  Good.  I manage to dress and even dry my hair before the daily onslaught of responsibility.  Dare I attempt my devotion time?  I dare.  Closing my eyes to pray, I feel drowsiness coming on again.  I’ll pray later.  I reach for my Bible. David is sending men to Nabal for food and supplies, and Nabal sends them back with nothing.  That Nabal.  He sounds like my children.  MY bread!  MY water!  MY flesh!  No, Nabal sounds like me. MY time.  MY sleep.  My SELF!  Dear Lord Jesus, forgive me for being a Nabal.  Everything I have I received from you.

 

One of the “cares of this world” on my bedroom floor, an unpacked suitcase, lures me away from my devotions.  I take an armload to the little girls’ room, smile at sleepy Elisabeth,6, and tip-toe to the dresser.  Emily, 2, bursts out of sleep and yells, ‘Hi Mommy!”  The morning quiet is over!  “Off!” she yells.  “Off jammies!” One leg is sticking through the zipper of her sleepers.  I help her out of them.  “I DO IT! I DO IT!” she insists.  Okay, you do it.  I slip a t-shirt and a jumper over her head and let her do the rest.  The Man of the House says goodbye and heads for work.  I start a load of wash, and I am impressed with myself for remembering to take some chicken out of the freezer for supper.  I hunt down an “everything” bagel and pop both halves into the toaster. Then I take a look at the nutrition label.  Three hundred twenty calories!  And I am going to smother it with "lite" (ha) cream cheese.  Oh well, I will start my diet when this package is gone.  I start the computer and hear a row beginning in the little girls’ room.  Amy, 9, stumbles into the light and leans against me for a morning hug.  I give her a squeeze and move her aside, heading for the little girls’ room again. 

 

Emily sits on the toilet for 5 seconds, and then she is off and running. I suspect she has already wet her diaper, so, okay.  We are going to try training pants today.  I remember to set the timer for 10 minutes so we can try again. My bagel is now cold, definitely not worth four hundred calories. Elisabeth has “nothing to wear” except for four skirts that she has left in a heap at the foot of her bed, and a drawer full of t-shirts.  Emily wants cereal for breakfast, but I know she won’t eat it.  I hand her half of a blueberry bagel.  Each of the big girls has her nose in a book, and is barely eating her breakfast.  I prod them.  I am surprised to see Elisabeth eating Rice Krispies and bananas, with MILK!  Emily wants a snack.  I tell her, no, eat your bagel.  The timer goes off, and we run to the bathroom to try.  Nothing.  I set the timer again.

 

Having escaped to the world of fiction, Alison, 11, and Amy have forgotten their normal morning routines.  I find them sitting at their school desks, still reading about something imaginary, with a lively trumpet CD for background music.  Elisabeth pours the surprise milk down the drain. The phone rings, and it is my husband.  He speaks two sentences and Amy screams, “Emily has a mess in her panties!”  “Emergency,” I tell the Man, and hang up.  The timer goes off.  We clean up the mess.  Correction, I clean up the mess with four people watching.  I put a diaper on Emily.  Toilet training can wait (again). Alison calls Dad to let him know we are okay. Back in the dining room, I want to know who left a bowl on the table, empty of cereal, but one quarter full of milk.  Amy gets up to take care of her dish.  I needn’t have asked who.

 

Elisabeth’s animal drawing needs a bit of white-out, RIGHT NOW.  I must remember to call the music teacher about Alie’s violin lesson.  I hope I will remember later, but not too much later.  I make an attempt at cleaning the kitchen. Elisabeth has a melt-down.  I have forgotten the white-out.  Nevermind, she doesn’t want white-out on her drawing now; it takes TOO LONG to put it on there, and her picture is ruined, anyway.  I hug her to me and worry that she is too thin.  Should we see a doctor?  I sneak a chocolate chip cookie, and then check the email. Twenty or thirty minutes later I am still at the computer, wrapped up in someone's blogpost on Thanksgiving.  Time disappears like a chocolate chip cookie.  It’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s never enough.

 

“Okay,” I announce to everyone and no one, “ Today we are going to have a normal day where we do school and clean the house up.  Everyone have teeth brushed and hair combed?” No. (I still have not brushed my own teeth, but I am the mother.)  Alison gets up to take care of her bathroom stuff, and I start another load of wash. I have heard enough of “Bugler’s Holiday”.  We turn off the music, and I am ready to start school, sort of.  Chores aren’t done yet, and I’m certain the children have not thought of them.  “Can we have devotions first?” asks Amy.  Um, okay.  Anything to delay school starting, but it’s right to do devotions first.   I read aloud to three of the girls about a particularly flat South American frog that keeps on cheerfully doing the job God gave it to do, even though it appears as if it has been sat on.  I think, How appropriate.  The entire time I am reading, Emily carries on a loud one-sided conversation, something like, “Can I have a sucker? Can I have a sucker?  Sucker, please. Mom, sucker!  Mommy. Mom. MOM!”  Okay, we need to pray.  “Dear Lord, our day is not happening decently and in order, the way you want it.  Please help me to lead these little girls into an ordered day and an ordered life.  We need your help and grace today.  In Jesus’ name, Amen.” Elisabeth is sobbing.  She is not ready for school, has not brushed her teeth or hair yet.  I tell her again to go and take care of it. 

 

Now combed and brushed, Elisabeth asks if she can just do one column of math today and call it done.  Sure, whatever.  Alison is laboring over the details of the Minor Prophets.  Which Old Testament book has to do with skepticism?  And which writer was a southerner in the northern kingdom?  I don’t know. I still need to make that phone call. Emily has succeeded now in littering the hallway and the entire dining room. Elisabeth despairs over her memory verse.  We learn it together, after a very brief altercation involving the “happy stick”.  I ask for the Lord’s help to be a good mom today. Hopefully it’s not too late.  Amy and her fractions are not mortal enemies today; I thank the Lord.  She just needs a bit of help.  Alison interrupts with a question.  Elisabeth interrupts the interruption.  Emily follows suit. I think about all the things that are going on in this moment, and the fact that I never get one thing done all the way all at once. I turn to the computer and begin an effort at creative writing, expecting never to finish. I write two sentences about this day in my life before I get up to find a tissue for Em’s nose, and another clandestine cookie for me.

 

I start another load of wash. Okay, now for that phone call...  Our teacher will be coming in two hours. I announce Alison’s music lesson time.  She has just finished with her Bible lesson and flies into her room to practice.  Emily still wants a snack.  I hand her half of her rejected breakfast bagel.  She drops it on the kitchen floor and stands on it.  I toss the bagel pieces into the trash.  No snack. I tell her to pick up the pieces of her floor puzzle.  Elisabeth and Amy have taken a self-awarded break and are running through the house, strategically leaping over toys.  Amy stops to bang a few lines on the piano after each lap. The phone rings.  It’s our violin teacher saying she’s going to be late. I complete a paragraph and a half of my writing project, and again I think of the afore-mentioned suitcase in the bedroom.  I still need to brush my teeth… and get the girls back to their schoolwork.  The floor puzzle is still scattered all over the floor.  Emily and I pick it up together.  She dumps it out again and begins connecting pieces. 

 

Music teacher comes fifteen minutes early.  Emily is exploring the pantry.  I finish taking clothes out of the dryer, which I started to do earlier, and I start another load.  Em finds a pack of ramen noodles. I set her soup in front of her and start over again in the kitchen for two more servings.  Alison will have to eat later. I look over at Emily.  She is going a great job with her spoon, shoveling proficiently.  Less than five minutes later I find she has resorted to eating soup with her fingers. Her front is covered with ramen, and she is eating out of the palm of her hand. She wiggles out of her seat, peppering the floor with food bits.  Noodles and bagel bits top the carpet under Emily’s chair like crushed crackers on a casserole. She sweetly asks again for a sucker.  Okay, I relent.  It disappears in two minutes. Now a cookie.  One, I tell her. 

 

Alison’s lesson sounds like it is going well.  Amy snaps a digital picture of her sister playing, and interrupts to show her the image.  Emily climbs the piano bench and lends an unharmonious accompaniment to the violin lesson.  I retreat to the computer to check the email yet again, and send a note to my mother. Amy empties the dishwasher.  Violin lesson is over.  We agree that Alison could get the bathroom cleaned while I make her a grilled cheese sandwich. Amy conducts art class with Elisabeth at the kitchen table. ...Emily is too quiet.  I find her making chaos of a big sister’s school desk.  We get out some magnetic shapes, which she happily distributes around the house.  I change her diaper and put her down for her nap, then pick up the big puzzle pieces again.

 

Tuning out life, I escape to the computer and add a bit to my writing.  The clothes in the dryer are done and getting wrinkled.  That partially unpacked suitcase is still there.  The laundry is all washed, but not folded. The house is a disaster.  I am three days behind on my Bible reading, and a lifetime behind in my prayer life.  I am about twenty years overdue for some regular exercise.  My teeth are still fuzzy.  And guess what – the puzzle pieces have been dumped on the floor again. I wonder if I will ever be able to do a task from start to finish without being interrupted.  The audio drama, “Pilgrim’s Progress”, fills house a bit too loudly for my comfort, but the girls are quietly doing math and calligraphy as they listen.  Alison comes and wraps her arms around me and tells me she loves me, and begins to read over my shoulder.  Soon she is beside herself with giggles.  I realize she is viewing this record of our morning from a different perspective than I have seen it.  I have been focused on the tired side, the hopeless, dreary side.  She sees a funny toddler, a crazy “schedule”, a fun day, sisters who are great playmates, and a mom who does it all because of love!  In spite of myself, I begin to giggle, too, and pretty soon we are laughing together. 

 

…It is now late in the evening.  It is quiet and even my dear husband has gone to bed.  There is still clean laundry piled on the couch, and the floor of the entire house is littered with reminders of sweet Emily’s presence.  But the chores got done, the dining room carpet bears no evidence of Emily’s breakfast or lunch, and that suitcase is now empty. For those of you who are wondering, yes, I did finally brush my teeth.  As I crawl into bed tonight, I will thank the Lord for the activity of this day, and for the four precious girls who make my life full, even for the clutter and the clamor they create in a normal day.  Most of all I will thank God for a daughter whose giggles adjusted my focus and caused me to see how blessed my life really is.  This has been, after all, a wonderfully typical day! The end.

 

 

Now. Wasn’t that simply exhausting?? (Makes that comic down below that much more appropriate! LOL!)  I know some of my friends here can relate to my “day”. Thank the Lord they aren’t all like that!