Bad Day at Black Rock

I didn't do much at the end of last week. No blog writing, barely any blog reading, minimal house work, and practically no mothering.

I was the absolute world's worst mother. When my youngest utterly destroyed a flower arrangement, I threw it away and in anger removed the foyer table said arrangement sat on. I managed to carry the damned thing out to the garage and in my haze of utter frustration and anger of feeling like I'll never have anything in my house that my children will respect, I practically ignored J-man for the rest of day like a petulant, immature child. It was horrible. I then spent the rest of the next two days stomping around my house, whining about how I'll never have a life of my own, I'll never get a moment's rest from the whining, snotting, crying.. all of it.

And then I read the recently updated CarePage for the daughter of a sorority sister. A little girl currently residing in the local PICU and suffering from up to 20 seizures a day, seizures the doctors can't get a handle on. Then? I read this and promptly abandoned the kids for my garage-parked minivan where I could close the door in utter privacy for some open-mouthed sobbing of my own. I cried my absolute heart out and sobbed for the sick children, those children who have passed, and all the parents who are suffering the devastating loss or illness of their babies.

And there I sat. A parent who doesn't suffer. A mother who has perfectly healthy, wonderful children who charm the pants off everyone they meet and I'm just this ugly troll who acts like a pissy 3-year-old because my 16-month-old son, who doesn't know any better, tried to eat a plastic pear. An 8-year-old plastic pear that served no function except to collect dust and look like a sad, dusty, plastic pear.

Like I should give a shit about a plastic pear when I should instead give a shit about my kids. I know I've reached my limit when I haven't had a day off in a month but what about my sorority sister? Who has spent more time in the PICU this summer than at her home? And she's there everyday? For her precious daughter? And I just sit and stew when I can't get an evening off to scrapbook. I cried so hard that afternoon last week because I realized that I'm pretty much a lousy, whiny idiot who can't handle the demise of a plastic pear. And if that's the case, what would I do if my house burned down? Or if one of my children were diagnosed with some horrible illness? I'll tell you what I would do. Based on my weak performance over plastic fruit, I would probably cease to exist.

I made a Twitter entry that read Screaming into the wind because that's what I perceived motherhood to be. I thought to myself, I sit and scream into said wind and no one hears me. Not the kids, not the Ty-man, no one. But then I sat and thought and realized that motherhood isn't screaming into the wind. It's actually sunlight, a smile from J-man, a hug from Miss-Miss, a cuddle from Bubba, a word of thanks from Ty-man, and absolute, total, unconditional love from the three sweetest gems in the known universe. And I need to remember that when another plastic pear, or a beaded napkin ring, or a picture, or a book, gets ripped to shreds. Because none of that material bullshit matters. Only they matter.