Today has been a bad day.
Dear husband (and I use that phrase with no sarcasm) and I got into a fight last night. We tend to be very peaceable creatures. Every now and then we have a disagreement that involves lots of sighing and lots of sulking and lots of long silent stretches. And once or twice a year we have a “real” fight with raised voices and wanting-to-punch-walls and sitting up way to late trying to fix things. We wake up exhausted and baggy-eyed with our conversations full of all these “Are you OK? Are we OK?” undertones. We are OK. Sometimes this happens. I’ve learned, on these days, to give myself a little extra grace.
My children have not yet learned that extra-grace-for-mom bit. They see great opportunity. They find the tiniest cracks in my walls and jab their sticky little fingers into them, chipping away until my resolve lies in heaps. Then they stomp around on the rubble, feasting on Cheerios by the handful.
Today, for example, my son managed to climb up on a chair and dump an entire box of crackers on the floor – and tantrum when he couldn’t eat it. He also grabbed a pair of scissors by the blade and tried to suck on a battery. I feel like they are filming a low-budget babyproof-your-house public service announcement and I have been cast as “mom-not-to-be.”
This morning when I was all full of “We’re OK and it’s going to be a great, productive day” cheeries, I looked at our back room and decided I would conquer it. Then I decided I would tidy it. Then I decided that I would put away the new, fancy food processor we got for Christmas that has spent the last thirteen days sitting boxed in the corner. So I got out our old, not-so-fancy food processor and began gathering all the parts and cleaning off the little crevices and nooks so it would be ready for whenever it makes its debut at our someday-garage-sale. Thirty minutes, three almost-catastrophes and two time outs later, it was boxed up. The new one is still in the corner.
So… extra grace for myself today. Some days are about conquering. Some days are about hiding the scissors and watching Dance Moms at nap time. Sometimes this happens. And we’re OK.