The Straw That Broke The Camel's Back

The stress level has been rising exponentially for me recently, despite having no big commitments most of this week. It could be in part due to an inspection we have scheduled for Friday for our "new" house that isn't even ours yet. It feels like a chapter of my life is ending, and I'm hesitant to turn the page. The past week I haven't been able to get my quiet morning time in, partly because Eli has been sleeping on the dining room couch with ear plugs in, in an attempt to ease his Emetophobia. I'm also trying to adjust to not being overweight Julie anymore, at times feeling really big yet, and other times feeling like I'm skin and bones. Both of which I know are figments of my imagination, but very strange feelings, nonetheless. I've alternately had to deal with the fear of gaining weight back, and with getting strange comments that I shouldn't lose anymore weight because there's a fine line between healthy and anorexic. Pretty sure a size 14 would fall off most people struggling with anorexia, but whatever.

The Monday I hoped to use therapeutically cleaning and organizing was spent immobilized on the couch or sprinting to the bathroom with a nasty stomach bug. Aidan, God bless him, was a big help in getting his brothers fed with the leftovers overflowing from our fridge. However, he is still just 8 years old...and a boy. Tuesday was spent trying to wipe large chartreuse dill relish stains out of my newly upholstered sewing chair (ivory and aqua chevron, it does not blend in well), stepping in dropped food, and catching up on the pyramid of dishes that formed in the 24 hours I was down for the count. Granted, Aidan tried his dearest to do dishes for me. Thus, the drainboard side of the sink (no dishwasher here, folks!) was also piled with grease smeared cups and crumbs floating in upturned cereal bowls. I mixed up and baked two batches of banana bread from the bananas that had mysteriously gone brown overnight. Thankfully, this time I did not find another backpack filled with a stinking concoction of mashed bananas and vinegar. (Still trying to get the smell out of that one.) By today, Wednesday, I had most of the toxic orange Cheetos stains out of the couch, floor vacuumed and scrubbed, dishes caught up, and an extra meal (burritos) cooked and added to the leftover line-up in the fridge. I got most of the laundry folded, though it still sits in piles on the dining room table, and I'm finally on my last load, which is in the dryer.

This is my life. 

I love my life, and personally believe I'm one of the most blessed people on earth, despite all the poor decisions I've made in my past. I'm super blessed to have a husband who is supportive of me following my calling to stay home and educate our children. But here's to keeping it real, right?

Tonight I broke down and cried. Over what? A spit-out grape. Correction, a spit-out quarter of a grape, which he decided 2.3 seconds later was really delicious and cried when they were gone. Nothing that is very big or bad, in the grand scheme of things. But I've seemed to have reached my tolerance level, and feel if I don't back away I'm going to lose it. Snap. At the end of my rope and forgot to tie a knot. Deep breath, Julie. Woosah....(movie reference here...) That cry opened the floodgates to sporadic weeping all evening. I could've used Bugs Bunny and his white glove a few times.

Ian can't eat anything without spitting every other bite back out. Gavin lost half his toenail again today in his revolt against any form of footwear. Deep breaths as I find an entire package of used wet wipes in the bathroom trash. (How is that even possible?? And Pleeeeaaasse put them in the diaper trash!) Someone peed on the couch and tried to cover it up with a blanket.... I'm sure they didn't want to face the wrath of Mama. So the whole cushion got soaped and hosed down on the deck. Still drying, it may never, totally. It's a huge sponge. The boys are always at each other's throats lately. And Ian hasn't had a good night's sleep in...ever? There's no spare room to put him in, even if I could bring myself, in a desperate attempt, to try to let him "cry it out", because in a tiny 2 bedroom bungalow everybody hears everything. Chairs are left out around the table, and Ian is on top of the table in seconds. Forget to shut the bathroom door? We have no need for a water table, we have a toilet and tub! Ian loves water, and throwing clean diapers in water. Throwing anything, really. All my spools of threat are behind my craft desk, and all the pieces of chalk are behind the chalk board. Oh well. Toys, books, and movies are no fun until they're neatly put back in their place. Somehow all the boys' wedding clothes ended up in a tangled heap on their closet floor and need to be washed again. And Liam can't watch Little Einsteins because "it's kinda girly", but that I "look like an alien. Let's be friends." Oh Liam. 

I've said rude things to my boys because I'm at the end of my rope. Not ok. Raised my voice....I'm a yeller, as my poor neighbors can testify to, unfortunately. Brings back memories of my mama telling me not to yell so loud for my dog, what would the neighbors think? I thought, at the time, this is a free country and we live in the country, and if my dog isn't coming right away I'm gonna yell because she'll know I mean it. Funny how things from our early lives end up shaping our future. It's a bad habit now I'm trying to overcome, but also the first solution that naturally presents itself in the midst of deafening boy uproar, when no one can hear me.

Why can't they hear me? Because I'm busy. If I would just take the time to move myself into their personal space to get their attention, I'm sure they could hear me better without raised voice. But they are young boys, again, and the attention level has never been lower.  Maybe I'd have better luck yelling "Squirrel!" I'm really really tired of making everything super exciting and fun so that they listen. Shouldn't they listen automatically out of respect? Repeating directions 3, 4, 5 times before action is taken is just ridiculous. And so I need to dig through my parenting books again for ideas and inspiration, because I know somewhere I read something about something that used to help. 

Somewhere my consistency has faltered, and the delicate balance I try to maintain between the Mary and Martha rule for life has tipped noticeably again to Martha. My Mom is decidedly a Martha...and apples usually don't fall far from the tree. In my perception, most of my friends are Mary's, strangely enough, and I long to be more like that...to let things go. Spending more time making memories instead of beds. Impressing young minds. During our rosary tonight I prayed straight through two decades, totally missing the Our Father bead and new mystery, waiting for the epiphany I was praying for to hit me. What to do, how to do it. Deep down I already knew. But as is the human plight, I forget, and derail. So tonight we broke a few rules...stayed up late, put on a cartoon for the littlest boys past 10:30 (gasp), and ate some unnaturally colored snacks (balanced out with goat milk, of course). All so I can reteach myself how to be a kind and gentle mother, and grasp the fleeting tendrils of my sanity. I may even break out the Rolos to give that darn old anorexia the what-for!

As I typed this a little while ago, a black crossover vehicle slowly drove by twice, the occupants gawking curiously into our windows. Perhaps they heard the rumor that a world famous yodeler lived here? Or a troop of howler monkeys? Sorry to disappoint, ladies. Or maybe they were casing the joint for my treasure trove of not-yet-finished handmade crafts and knick-knacks. Or, our landlord heard word of our attempt to buy a new place and already has this one on the market. Curiouser and curiouser.

Blessed Mother, save me!

Amen