Hello there, Cluster-fork…

Oh yeah. I am going there. And I am going there hard. It is one of those days when you need to laugh or you’ll be a sobbing mess on the floor, the I’m over it, #stickaforkinmecauseimdone days. It’s a throw your hands in the air and wave ’em like you just don’t care, kind of day. Because sometimes it is in the caring too much that we produce more and more clusters forks.

It is in the days that we fail to plan, the days where everything we planned fails, that we get a little on edge and pointy. You know, when the over-tired kiddo is crying because you asked them to stop painting their wooden doll furniture on the hot tub cover? Or when your third grader is arguing that today is indeed 3/20/2016, as written on the top of her homework paper. (I somehow missed the time machine you built in the basement, so by all means just keep that date written there.) Or when your five-year old wakes up to tell you that he, “made a line of pee,” in his room and grabs your hand so he can show you. And you can’t help but wonder that if he peed in his room, who just peed all over the toilet seat that you just sat on? You don’t wonder for long because you find out from your seven-year old that she “cleaned it” and that is why it is wet. Cleaned it, you may ask? Well, why? How? What promoted just a chore? Her reply, and I quote: “Well it smelled really bad, so I took pumpkin hand soap, cause that smelled way better, rubbed it all over the seat with some water and dried it, sorry if it was still wet on your butt, Mom.” Wondering how she dried it? Oh, me too. With the hand towel that I just used to wipe my son’s face.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness, is it not? Hello, God. Please forgive me, you have somehow given me more than I can handle, even though everyone has told me my entire mothering career that this would not happen. They need to review the commandments. Ahem-liars.

This particular cluster-fork started before the sunrise. Glistening under the box of the brand new tailgating grill, sore subject since we have zero plans to tailgate this season, was a pool of water in the basement. I think about how we already overslept because, the rain was soothing and it was easier to stay cozy and avoid the much more dangerous storm; our home in the morning.

Let dog out, in the pouring rain. Let husband out, to examine the french drain. Children also try to sneak out, basically to drag mud and grass and wetness into the cluster. They also seem to have an alliance with the cat who is trying desperately to dart out the backdoor. She is anything but feral and would lose her mind if she knew what was really outback waiting for her.

Inside, daughter #1 is refusing to get out of bed, her throat hurts. Of course it does. And my son is running around the house in his underwear singing. “Life is a Highway.” Daughter #2 is crying about a science experiment she has to do, to make this bottle she filled with paper towels, grass, hand sanitizer and water, “bubble up,” of which no instruction has come home from the teacher. Daughter #3 is literally hiding in a closet, painting, rather than getting ready for school departure which is rapidly approaching. My house feels like a balloon, filling with water, at the breaking point. Pop. Explode. Someone grab more towels, please.

I give up.

But we don’t really give up, do we? Well, I guess that subject is open to interpretation. My giving up may look a lot different then yours. For me, giving up is hiding. It is pouring a glass of wine and finding a place of solitude, where I can mediate between sips and listen to music, maybe read or take a bubble bath. Ha, are you laughing yet? That’s the dream reel playing.

My giving up looks a lot more like putting icing on a gluten/soy/dairy free waffle because I only have three donuts left and they are not Gluten/soy/dairy free, although homemade, and I don’t even let the kids eat sweets for breakfast, except on Sunday. My giving up is allowing my children to wear what they want, within reason, and by reason I mean no bathing suits to school, at least not in February. Today we have a legging ensembles under floral shorts with rain boots and tank tops over long sleeve shirts. I am confused. I take a little longer to blink then normal while gazing at this high fashion runway statement and just call it self-expression. My giving up is making sun butter (I remembered not to send nut butter into the nut-free school, so actually, I am winning) and fluff sandwiches on half-frozen English Muffins because we are so out of bread, again. My giving up is allowing my son to wear his Spider-man costume for picture day because the crying over not wearing it really isn’t worth it.  My giving up is a bottle of wine with a straw. It is me rocking back and forth saying, oh please God, grant me the strength to make it until the bus arrives.

Despite the house, now littered with muddy boot marks, dripping towels and wet dog smell, I am still here. Despite the forgotten papers to sign and the last-minute homework, despite the lack of normal sandwich making bread, I am still here. I am not hiding in the closet. I am dressing Spider-man and saving cats from drowning.

The calling out for serenity, peace, and sanity, it helps. I have always believed God gives us more than we can handle, so that we need him. So we call out. I know he cares, because he gave us wine.

Cheers, to a week of finger foods, in the hopes of being cluster-fork free.

P.S. Daughter #2 totally make up the science experiment being an assignment. If you could see me, you would see my shocked face right now. No, no you wouldn’t, now I’m the one making stuff up. She wanted to do “something fun,” instead of all the “boring work.” And 6:30am is a great time to suggest we pour glitter and baking soda into a bottle of garbage. While it is indeed something, fun is not it.

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