Pressure and Peace

*Warning. This post contains journal style narrative that will probably tell you way too much about me. Read at your own risk.*

Pressure. I cracked. It was Sunday morning just two days ago. Didn't even see it coming. I don't normally crack. In fact I can't remember losing it like I lost it Sunday morning. Ever. I believe the exact words I screamed, full volume, blow-out-the-vocal-chords-loud, for the entire neighborhood to hear were, "I'm sick of this! Sick of it!" I then went to my room, slammed my door (which felt really good) and proceeded to cry. The anguish that I felt was really surprising, but the experience has been quite liberating.

You're probably dying to hear my tale so I'll tell it for what it's worth. We were all getting ready for church where we were to go stand in a perfect little family vignette for the Primary Program. What a lovely display by the mother of the perfect little family just before we head off to church, huh? It was almost comical. Almost, but not really. I was putting on my make up and could hear my girls beginning to bicker. They had run around the house giggling that morning and playing. Now I heard, "Okay, Jenna. Now I get to do it back to you!!!" Then the hysterical panicked scream from Jenna. I could tell someone had been hurt. I ran in the room to find Jenna on the floor holding her arms. When I examined what had been inflicted upon her, I found purplish finger print marks around each of her upper arms where she'd been squeezed really hard. Knowing that my other daughter has a really strong grip, I knew that it had hurt. I was instantly mad at Heather for inflicting that kind of pain, and really mad at Jenna for instigating it, and really mad that I've saved my own children from the pain of their mother leaving marks on them, but they go ahead and do it to each other... I've already told you what happened next. Mom screams, slams door and disappears to sob.

What was the "it" I was sick of? Here is the short list:

•Jenna's physical boundary crossing when we've told her so many times not to touch Heather

•Heather's feeling the need to dish out severe justice in her own defense

•The unkind exchanges between my kids

•Having to endure Jenna's verbal displeasure about whatever directed at me every single morning for months on end

•My failure to teach Jenna that you can attract more flies with honey than you can with vinegar

•The fact that I don't yell or hit my children, but they do it to each other--this floors me!

•My grumpiness

•The reasons for my grumpiness

•I can't keep up with the housework

•All the organizational tools in my house that can't seem to save us from ourselves

•I can't keep up with the laundry

•I can't find time to play games with my kids

•I can't find time to cook with my kids or show them how to do anything fun

•All the wonderful things I want to do that don't get done

•The stress I feel because the house is cluttered and the laundry isn't done

•The stress of knowing that I'm not enough in so many ways

•Dealing with my hormones and the aging process

•Knowing that I'm not the best example for my girls

•Knowing that I have clearly not taught them how to love and care for each other

•Missed family night lesson opportunities

•The constant hurried/disorganized state we're always in coupled with the fact that I know how to organize! And I'm really good at it!

Oh my gosh. I could go on. I'm sure you have the picture? It just all exploded in that one little sentence. Seeing the marks on my daughter's arm set off the explosion, but the fuel was already there.

Here comes the important component. I already know that with outbursts of rage like this, it is usually not the event that provokes it, but rather whatever is amiss in the person who exploded. Fortunately, I knew not to harm anyone or say anything that I would later regret. I actually felt relief. I knew that change needed to happen. Church was actually a good thing. I sat through all my meetings in my sadness, but I also felt the peace of my Savior.

Peace. The day ended well. I came home from church and tidied up the kitchen. I invited my girls in to don an apron and be my sous chefs. They were very excited. I played Celtic flute music in the background and we peeled carrots and potatoes, set the table and lit candles. I smiled and let myself be cheerful right in front of that stupid pile of laundry next to the kitchen table. I am still sick of that stupid pile of laundry, but man, if I keep tripping over it every time I walk past it, my kids will be grown and off to college before I realize that it's just a stupid pile of clothing. I think that's the point. I'm worried about the wrong things. I worry about them because I think other people worry about them, therefore I should be worried. It's not workin' for me anymore.

Time for some change.