Confessions on Why I Get Up in the Morning

When I was a senior in college, I remember the discussion question, "Why do you get up in the morning?"  Subtextually, this asked what motivates me, what drives me to succeed.  And I probably answered something along the lines of getting to class on time, as I was diligently working towards graduating with honors.  You see, I played by the rules--I never arrived in my jammies, never turned in a late assignment, never skipped class for pleasure (well, ok, I did skip one Friday philosophy class to visit my fiance 8 hours away, but hey, love demands Plato wait 'til Monday).  I felt no need to question my driving ambition; the alarm clock buzzed and I obeyed.  I went to school and got my education.  I worked hard and graduated Summa Cum Laude.  I got married and got a job.  I got up in the morning because my eyes opened and the day had begun.


Then I became a mother.


And I confess, I hate getting up in the mornings.


I would love to exemplify the perfect Proverbs 31 pixie, who flutters off the sleepdust fairies with whimsical grace, as I arise before the household to bake a nutritious, delicious, aesthetically pleasing breakfast for my family (I'm a huge fan of Denver omelettes).  I would relish sharing a mystical spiritual strength, feeding my soul with a complete, uninterrupted hour of biblical "quiet time", verse memorization and all.  Or perhaps a heart-pounding jog by the stillness of the dewdropped grass, as I greet the sparkling sun upon the dusky horizon and pound the pavement home to the welcoming smiles of my cherubic children.  I know people with an amazing ability to arise and accomplish all of these things, and I wish I could be one of them.


But, dear friends, I know the real reason why I get up in the morning...and it's not pretty.  As much as I love my children and have the best of intentions to greet each day with a grateful smile, months of sleep-deprivation breed an ugly monster inside of me I never knew existed until motherhood...and 6 a.m.  Whether it's the baby crying, the toddler jumping on me, or the sneeze in my face that gives a whole new meaning to a morning shower, oh I know why I get up in the morning.  Because there's nothing quite like a race down the hall when a loud, "Hey PJ!  Look! me's peein' off my bed!" roars through the monitor and springs my weary bones into action.  And because sometimes a dirty diaper waits for no snooze.  And because of those magical moments when my eldest son crawls into bed next to me, snuggling for seven glorious seconds before unleashing the "Me's hungry.  Go downstairs now?  How about now?  How about now?  How about now?...".  I admit I'm a bit jealous of my husband's alarm clock.  At least he gets to pound it a few times before rolling out to face the day.


I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the blessings I've been given.  There was once a time when we were uncertain children would be in our future, and I will always remember that test of faith.  Three years later, however, that test has morphed into a new challenge--getting up in the morning.  And while I praise the Lord for "the pitter-patter of little feet," I confess it's much easier to sing that song by the light of the sun, not the moon. 

 So why do I get up in the morning?  Maybe I finally need to question my driving ambition.  If I can force myself to stretch beyond the status of zombie and stop comparing myself to the sunrise pixies, I believe the subtext of my actions will surprise me.  Underneath the baggy eyes, greasy hair, and shuffling feet, there really is a woman trying to provide for the needs of her family.  A woman who cares that her children are fed, clothed, and allowed to thrive in a healthy home.  Who understands the merit of a clean diaper.  Who cares that they explore, learn, and enjoy their childhood.  And while during these toddler years she will most likely still greet 6 a.m. with a snarl instead of a smile, have to pry her eyes open and pray she doesn't drop the baby while stumbling down the steps, serve cold cereal instead of a Denver omelette...if she is doing this with the faith that Lord will give her strength and bless the lives and future of her family, perhaps she is not such a monster after all.


So thank you, Lord, for my family, children, and home.  But please help me hang on until naptime.

Floating on the Ordinary

I once heard a woman exclaim, "I feel like I'm drowning in motherhood."  I know exactly what she means.  It's not always life's major catastrophes that break me, it's the daily grind.  The routine.  The constancy.  Yes, even the rut.  It's the toddler who refuses to obey.  It's the baby whose radar monitors mommy's sweet drift to sleep with astounding accuracy.  It's the oatmeal mashed into the freshly-cleaned carpet; the tantrum when a request for Cheerios apparently meant Cinnamon Life.  It's the constant clattering, chattering, and battering the mommy when all I really need is five minutes to clear my head, nevermind the constantly cluttered house.  And how many Hot Wheels could one possibly trip over in a lifetime?!  Some days, life feels like it just never stops.  Battle after battle.  Day after day.  Chugging along on three consistent hours of sleep (or less).


But somewhere within this tsunami of motherhood, a little life preserver appears on the stormy waves.  I see a mother give me a knowing smile when I corral two squirmy children into the grocery store.  I recognize the light in an old man's eyes when my little red-headed Pudgie charms him with a smile.  I feel the forgiveness of many when I crash that darn, impossible-to-steer bus cart into yet another innocent ankle.  And most importantly, I cling to the precious pools of reminiscence in the eyes of a grandmother at the checkout, a once-young mother like me who smiles in remembrance of her ornery, red-headed son--a boy who undoubtedly mashed his oatmeal into the carpet and planted Hot Wheel land mines throughout the living room.  And my soul secretly pleads to them, "Tell me it gets better."


I know it won't be like this for long, but some days the clock refuses to budge.  On days like these, you can quote all the biblical promises of training up a child, but I've already heard them.  And I've already read the Proverbs-happy, supermom blogs boasting their power in fulfilling "a woman's highest calling"...with coupons and cupcakes to boot!   I am not always seeking a lifeboat, just a scrap of lumber assuring me my ship won't sink.  So today, I relish a subtle reassurance from the grocery store snippets of those who have weathered the storm.  The generation that has made it through, who have reached "Someday"--that proverbial day when they realized they could now look back at the tumultuous times and smile.  And while today is not "Someday" for me, if I can somehow allow that hope of the future peace of accomplishment to wash over me, I believe I can take a cleansing breath and stay afloat a little bit longer.

What Macaroni & Cheese Taught Me About Motherhood

I constantly battle that line between letting kids be kids and correcting destructive behavior.  When my strong-willed toddler insists on his independence, I hate the moment's point of truth that forces an immediate decision.  My introverted brain needs to process a plan of action, yet toddlers brake for no personality type.

Today's battle was macaroni and cheese.  Who knew that blue box could be so sinister.  My son insisted on trying to open it by himself.  The entire time, I cringed, "It's going to explode.  It's going to explode.  It's going to explode."  Sure enough, KABOOM!  Noodles clattered all over the kitchen floor.  I was irritated.  Will was horrified.

As we swept up the scattered elbows, I reminded myself that this is part of the learning process--for both Will and me.  While we could spend 99% of the day teaching him to obey mommy or to let mommy do the work, I need to recognize his need to make decisions and experience the results.  The hardest part is I usually know exactly what those results will be--an inconvenient mess. 

As I battle between guiding his decisions and letting him experiment, I have to be flexible enough to face the results.  I've learned that an exploding box of macaroni and cheese can be better than a boring, just-dump-it-in-the-water box.  Fortunately, my well-stocked cupboard yielded another blue savior, and we soon feasted on the orange goodness--with double the cheese!  Sometimes even the little stressors of the day can turn out extra yummy.

A Quilt Completed

It's finally finished!

I've been saving old jeans for the past six years because I have always wanted to make a denim quilt.  Since I never seem to complete anything for myself, I decided to make this one for Will.

It's a log cabin block design, which I arranged into a diamond pattern.  It was actually one of the easiest tops to piece, thank you chaining technique!  The hardest part was cutting apart piles of jeans and also threading the yarn ties.  I had "cherry fingers" for a few days after all that tying.

I love the creating and piecing part of quilting, but I'm not fond of binding.  This quilt was particularly difficult because my machine would not handle the denim's thickness.  Fortunately, the Upholsterer's Wife asked her upholsterer husband, and he blazed a trail of thread right through all layers with his industrial sewing machine.  Thanks, handsome upholstery man!

I know a quilt may not be very meaningful for a little boy right now, but I hope it endures years of cold winter nights, blanket forts, parachute landing mats, etc. so that one day he will treasure a special gift from his mom.