(This publication is a combination of prior posts: Part 1 and Part 2)
I’m in the kitchen, putting away this and that from dinner and the day. I’m pondering what really needs to be dealt with, or what I can just wait until morning to clean or fuss with. I am not one of those people that just CANNOT go to bed before cleaning and putting on the dishwasher. Sure, it’s nice when I can have the satisfaction of pushing those buttons on the dishwasher, seeing the lights and hearing the beeps, and then the gentle swish of the machine starting. But if this does not happen—then ya’ know what? I’m generally okay with that too.
So I’m in the kitchen pondering the crumbs, the little puddles of something dropped, the dirty dishes, a couple of forks, and whatever condiments, dinner leftovers or random food or snacks, there is that needs to go back in the fridge.
Am I in the kitchen because I want to be? No, no really- but my husband and kids are in the living room where I would actually prefer to be—and my husband is taking the lead on this particular evening to put the kids to bed.
I have time and time again, asked and insisted that my husband take the lead on this end of the day, but sometimes seemingly never-ending ritual of bedtime.
Moments before I had actually been in the living room, sitting on our grey couch relaxingly playing the newest word game I had just downloaded on my phone. But after my level of discomfort kept rising from looking at my watch and wondering when the kids were actually going to get to bed—AND knowing I CANNOT say anything, I decided to just leave the scene all together.
Sitting on the couch, however distracted I was playing on my phone, was just getting to be too much. Oh my goodness! My body kept saying, “Clara you need to say, ‘honey can you put the kids to bed now? Honey when are you going to put the kids to bed?” But my brain is saying, “this is great, you don’t have to use your headspace to get the kids to bed tonight! This is great- hubby said he would put the kids to bed, so now you don’t have to worry about it! Fantastic!”
But my body is starting to insist: “what’s going on? It’s late. The kids have to get to bed; why is nobody moving in the direction of their bedrooms, or maybe first the bathroom?! Or somewhere, or doing something else—just NOT sitting here in the living room, as if it is NOT bedtime!”
This internal debate between my body and my brain just gets so loud that in order to relieve the stress, I go to the kitchen. If it was daytime, I’d go for a walk or something. But it’s dark and cold on this particular night, so to the kitchen it is. Plus, it’s the closest room of relief from where I was. And if I can’t “be productive” putting the kids to bed, well then at least I can “be productive” in the kitchen! Anything- besides just sitting on the couch, waiting…
So in kitchen, I think I might have been rustling with the dishes a little louder than needed- as if to verbalize my annoyance with the situation. I knew saying anything would NOT help the matter, so I guess I was using the sounds of the dishes as a way to speak the frustration that was not allowed to come out of my mouth. Maybe? Makes sense right???
But alas, still no movement from the living room.
For a moment, a thought catches my attention- my head raises up as if on a puppet string. I stop scrubbing the dish I was taking my frustration out on and in what felt like a momentarily enlightened moment, I ponder: “maybe my husband doesn’t really know the steps in putting the kids to bed?? I mean I AM the expert in this! Mmmm, well if that’s the case- how come he’s not asking me what to do?! Doesn’t he realize the wealth of knowledge and know-how I have with the kids?! Arghhh!” A new layer of frustration takes over as the puppet string lowers, allowing my head and gaze to return to the dang crusted something on the pan that JUST won’t come off!
With my internal debate getting louder and louder, I try deep breathing. In, out, in… out…. And through my breath I whisper the request: “God, change or change me.” I breathe some more- in, out, in… out... And some relief comes as I can feel my head getting less red and my shoulders starting to relax.
So thankfully my brain pulls away from the awareness of how much time is passing, and at some point there is movement! I do a double take to make sure it’s not just a vision of my imagination that my husband would actually be getting the kids ready for bed.
Without having moved from the kitchen, I feel a sense of victory of having won a marathon or at least a 5k! My mental neurons are doing that kid’s trendy Floss dance and high-fiving each other! Victory! And what I relief that I didn’t have to get involved- or so I thought….
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BUT- It’s NEVER a straight-line to the bedroom or bathroom at bedtime, though—there’s usually some inherent need for the kids to first be on the floor, or flopped over some chair, or some need to be racing around chasing the dog that just seems to HAVE to happen before bed.
But I’m practicing my breathing and short dialogues with God, so I’m able to remind myself I don’t have to be involved or re-direct the seemingly unnecessary mishaps of my children’s bodily movements. And at some point after focusing on redirecting my own thoughts instead of directing the kids’ doings, I realized that at least the jungle gym assortment of bedtime exercises have stopped and there’s some level of quiet.
Aaaah relief…And then---and then I hear my husband reading the kids a book. And then I look at my watch. The screaming starts in my head: “Whaaat?!?!? It’s now 30 minutes past the kids’ bedtime and my husband has the nerve to now be reading the kids a bedtime book! You’ve got to be kidding?!”
So out went the calm of the deep breaths! And whether or not God had changed me or the situation—I have no idea about, in this new moment of desperation to actually get the kids to bed!
I put the half-washed dish back in the sink, shut off the water, quickly wipe my hands with the dishcloth and scurry as fast as possible downstairs to the kids’ bedroom as if there is a legit emergency! I mean really it feels like a four-alarm notification system is whirling around my head and I know I must get to my kids before it’s too late! It’s something any mother knows she’s been trained for!
As I race to their room practically slipping down the stairs I have a brief moment of real clarity and say to myself, “thank goodness I had had the sense to get the non-slip carpet tread thingies for the stairs -otherwise there would have been two emergencies going on!” Neither of which are desirable but definitely both honorable, especially since I’ve chosen to be the martyr, I mean mom-in-charge! And I would, without a doubt, heroically take the literal fall if need be!
Once I arrive at, I mean skid into, the opened bedroom door, I see an otherwise idyllic scene of a daddy reading his children one of their favorite books: “Pete the Cat and His Four Groovy Buttons.” On my daughter’s bed, the kids are sandwiching my husband, and are contentedly and attentively listening to the words and looking at the pictures as my husband turns the page. Their three smiles are as obvious and present as a front door with holiday lights on it.
Unfortunately though, the flood of emotions, just like water from a stream over flooding after a big rain—is too strong and has too much might for me to halt my words of frustration and I yell out: “Why are the kids still up? This is absolutely ridiculous! Do you realize how late it is! I should have just put the kids to bed myself!” And I take the book from my husband, turn towards the door and shut out the lights.
Once back upstairs, my husband is now outwardly frustrated with me that I got all frustrated with him and retorts: “what was that about?! I thought you wanted me to put the kids to bed! So I did. What’s the matter?! You tell me to do something and then whenever I do, it’s still not right! I give up!”
At this point, at least the kids are actually in bed now and I’m able to regroup a bit. I decide not to say anything back to my husband because I can feel the truth in his words. My brain and body are now both in attention to this new layer of awareness. There is no internal debate going on as the whole experience has just made me weary. What remains is a sadness and melancholy that I can’t seem to get it right. When I don’t ask for help I get overwhelmed, and then when someone does help I’m still not satisfied…
Sigh…I can still feel this memory and many more like it as I write this and reflect on the gratitude I feel in how much things have improved even though there are still some similarly challenging times.
This particular occurrence is about 5 years before the time of this writing. And thankfully after practicing and practicing calming techniques, and healing the underlying cause of frustrations like these, and my husband not giving up on having story time with our kids- no matter how late bedtime got--it has gotten easier to ask for help. And then to receive help even when the help looks and feels different from how I originally envisioned.
And now, I do have say that even though it’s still a practice and when one of those idyllic scenes happens with my husband and my kids, and it’s not according to “my plan”—I’m able to catch my reaction—kind of put a log into that rushing stream of emotions—and just enjoy the moment. Sometimes I just take a mental picture like Pam and Jim used to do in that show, The Office. And sometimes I’m lucky enough to have my phone with me and I take a real picture like this one:
*Oh and by the way—the kitchen, the room of reprieve that I mentioned before, is now often occupied by my kids who do a (mostly) good job of loading the dishwasher themselves—while I sit on the couch----DOING NOTHING!
“Doing nothing”? Well that’s a practice in and of itself, annnd that is a story for another day!