Dear Lord,
Thank you for today.
(Kasher, get your hand out of the toilet!)
Thank you for loving me in spite of me.
(Is that a fly in my coffee? No, Aiden, you’ve already watched a show–now it’s time to play nicely with your brother while Mommy talks to God.)
Thank you for sending your Son to die for me.
(Kasher, why does your hand smell like poop? Oh dear, is that poop on the floor? Hold on Lord, I’ll be right back…)
God, you still there? Me again.
(That IS a fly in my coffee… oh well, it’s cold now anyway)
I just don’t feel like I can do it, Lord. I don’t feel I can get dressed before noon. And some mothers, they’re so organized. They’re dressed and out the door with their nine children by eight o’clock and they’re doing radical things, Father, like feeding the homeless and visiting people in nursing homes and baking homemade bread. And then they go home and teach their nine children Latin, and I can’t even teach my two kids to put the toilet seat back down, or to flush.
The boys are too quiet. Hold on Lord. I’d better check this out.
(10 minutes later)
Sigh. Kasher and Aiden found the Vicks cough drops and ate the whole box. Then they put half a bottle of lotion on their arms and on my carpet. It’s a wonder, God, that you let me be a mom.
Can I confess? I don’t even get to the folding stage, anymore. I let four loads of laundry sit on top of the dryer until we’ve used them all up and then the wash starts all over again. I’ve forgotten how to fold. Except some nights when I could, but then it’s all I can do to pour myself one–or two–glasses of wine and put up my feet until the kids call for another story or a glass of water or they’ve wet the bed.
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| via reckless youth instagram |
And sometimes I let them watch too much TV, especially when it’s close to suppertime and apparently too much TV lowers kids’ IQs and I’m so scared I’ve damaged my boys Father. And they’re just two and 3.5.
Help me God? Help me to love myself so I can love my kids? Help me to know what your love looks like?
(Hi sweetie, yes, Mommy’s almost done talking to God… you’re hungry? You want peanut-butter on toast? OK, just a minute… here you go)
I feel like my kids are going to grow up not knowing anything, like how to brush their hair or match their socks. My dryer keeps eating their socks. I haven’t taught them yet how to make their beds and we don’t even have any homeless to feed in our small hamlet. Oh Lord I don’t want them to be entitled or lazy but …
Oh no. My nice clean windows and Aiden has put his peanut-butter fingers all over them.
(Aiden!! Mommy just cleaned those! Goodness, all I want is five minutes so I can talk to God… is that too much to ask? *insert crying by both preschooler and mother* I’m sorry honey. Mommy got upset. Can you forgive me? Thank you. And can you say sorry, too, for touching the windows? It’s okay… I love you …)
Oh Lord. It’s not even ten o’clock and I’ve already blown up at my kids. I know I get peanut-butter fingers on your proverbial windows every single day, Father. And you love me. With a ridiculous amount of crazy love that cannot be earned or explained.
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| via google images |
I’d better go. We’re nearly out of milk and I need to get out of these flannels before we can go to the store. It will be a miracle if I do, because it’s been a week since I’ve gotten changed before noon.
Stay with me God? Help me? Every step of today?
Your forgetful, flailing daughter,
Emily.