One Too Many Pieces of Poop

So the last few days have not been a banner stretch of exceptional mothering.

In fact, they’ve been a downright disaster.

Beyond losing my marbles (which by-the-by I think I just crushed the last one), I have gone certifiably POSTAL as I have lamented over:

  1.  The one too many pieces of poop on the floor.  And really isn’t one too many anyways?
  2. The three hours straight of bloodcurdling screams because my youngest couldn’t have 20 granola bars, wield a steak knife in place of a pretend sword or play with the poop that fell on the floor.
  3. The twice-forgotten homework that was completed five minutes before we left for school with me trying to feed my first-born the answers (bowing my head in shame) and her killing me with, “Mom, this is inappropriate.”  I might as well put a therapist on retainer for her now.
  4.  The bath where someone nearly drowned because someone else tried to pee on the drownee.
  5. Forgetting Pilgrim and Indian night at Awana.  Although I really think that this speaks for itself, I can confirm we will all need more therapy. And I may or may not have said in exhaustion, “Son, don’t worry, you were just a naked Pilgrim.”
  6. The skid-marked underwear worn to school and discovered when I wondered why someone smelled at the dinner table.  Bless it.
  7. My son saying, “Mom, even though you said I can’t watch the movie ‘cause I lied, I will just watch it when you are dead.” Double bless it.
  8. Making a sheep costume for the 2nd grade musical when all they said she needed was a white t-shirt and jeans.  Penance for the homework kerfuffle.  But proof that sewing and fumbly fingers might make you wonder if you should opt for a naked sheep too.

There was more.  I’m sure there was more.  I’ve just forgotten.

(THE BEAUTIFUL UPSIDE OF FAILING SHORT-TERM MEMORY Y’ALL!)

I have cried.  I have eaten cupcakes.  I have shut myself in the pantry.

I have considered running away or at the very least, going someplace without skid-marked underwear.

I have thrown my hands up in the air and just said, “JESUS, I don’t think I can do this. I am telling my kids they have to be naked Pilgrims and somehow, have inspired them to poop on the floor and pee on one another. Seriously, I am single-handedly turning them into highly unsanitary nudists.”

Blah. Wah. PBLT.

Yeah, it’s been one of those weeks.  One of those stretches.  One of those seasons.

Where I have had to ask for a heap of forgiveness before I have even poured out the cereal and doled out breakfast.

I have been a WRECK.

And yet, amongst the bevy of “I’m sorries,” I have received a whole lot of “Forgive you’s.

Little arms around my neck.  Big brown eyes filled with love. And slobbery kisses on my cheek.

All reminders that to be forgiven is blessedly sweeter than wallowing in a giant week of Mom-fails.

We may smell.  We may need therapy.  And we may even have poop on the floor.

But this week has brought so much more than a droopy banner.

It has given me Jesus in brown eyes and slobbery kisses.

Where with each “I’m sorry!”

Forgiveness came.

Every stinking (or stinky) time.

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