This is a place I find myself often. I’m sure you do too but maybe your spot looks different. Yes, this is my bathroom. Yes the door was locked, but not because I need my privacy; It was locked because I needed my sanity.
I escaped here. I had to. I had to or I would lose it and words would come out of my mouth that would scorch and scar. I had to lock that door because the screaming on the other side couldn’t be silenced but could be distanced for a moment. I had to escape because I love my children.
Three minutes in the bathroom with the door locked so I can catch my breath because it was one of those days in a long line of those days. It wasn’t because I’m a bad mom or because I have bad children. It is because I’m human and I can only run on fumes for so long.
Three minutes in the bathroom with the door locked so I can catch my breath was perfect. Not because of the beauty of the location (obviously, it’s just a bathroom), it wasn’t because of the five star services I received (again, it’s just a bathroom), but it was because of what I chose.
I chose to take three minutes in the bathroom with the door locked to pray. My soul was given a moment of rest because of the company of my Savior (yes, even in the bathroom) and because of the Scripture that bubbled up like fresh water to the scorched earth of heart.
I could have sat in the bathroom for three minutes with the door locked and bemoaned my situation, grumbled to myself about how I need a break and how hard my life is (eye roll), or relived all the “bad stuff” that had happened in the previous eight hours. And if I had done so I would have exited the bathroom in the same or worse state than I had entered.
It doesn’t take a vacation, a trip to the salon, or a night out with your girlfriends to be restored, although I’d take those in a heartbeat. Really, the only requirement is pausing with Jesus; even if it is for three minutes in the bathroom with the door locked.
Please stop telling me, “one day you’re gonna miss all this.” I know that. I’ve even written a blog post about it. But that phrase doesn’t help me now.
It doesn’t help me when I’m walking around the house at the end of the day and picking up every toy the girls own from the floor, scraping dried on food from plates and forks, begging one to go to sleep already, all after (what feels like) hours of begging both of them to eat their dinner.
This is not a blog post. I repeat...this is not a blog post.
This is one Mama who had her first day of first days dropping her baby off for pre-school. This is my baby, people! My she-was-just-born, I-swear-she-can't-be-this-big baby!
I know, I know...it's only two days per week and it's only for the mornings...
And I'm OK. I really am. She did great too. NO tears were shed!!
I'm just so proud. So very proud of my baby/big girl.
This question stumbled out of my mouth amid a torrent of tears, to which my three-and-a-half year old had no response.
There I was, cross-legged in the middle of the kitchen floor with tears spilling on my lap, spatula still in hand. It was approaching dinner time when the hubby would arrive home and we would all sit to a happy dinner together, at least that was the plan. Only I couldn’t pull myself out of my brokenness.
"Why don't you appreciate me? Don't you love me?"
In the dead of sleep, one of the last things you like to hear is the sound of your child crying. However, this has been my experience on several occasions over the last few weeks.
My three year old has been experiencing what I believe to be growing pains. And, of course, like all good tragedies, they always happen in the middle of the night. What starts as a whimper quickly escalates as she wakes up to find herself in pain. The first words out of her mouth are a blessing and a curse: “Mama!” Why do Daddy’s not get called in for this? I guess we’ll never know.
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