Tears of a Clown

My name is Drippy. Drippy Faucet.
And I am a recovering cry baby.

On Sunday mornings, my family goes to church. Every Sunday, without fail, we go. Sure if someone is sick, some of us stay home. But for the most part, come 9am, we are in our best duds and out the door.
I was up just after 7 to collect clothes and get my self ready. By 7:30am, I had roused the older kids. 32 seconds later, my 13 and 10 year olds were fighting.
I yelled at them.
I went into my room, told my husband (who was burrowed under the covers, "The boys are fighting and I need you to get up before I start killing your offspring."

Are you ready for his reaction? I wasn't.
He sat up on an elbow and counseled, "Ignore them and just give me 20 minutes."

....

Have you seen those caricatures of bulls blowing steam out of their nostrils?
Yes? Then you've seen me at that moment.

Wisely, he didn't languish for the full 20 minutes. He did, sheepishly, come down the stairs and ask me how I was doing.
Brave boy.
And that was the first time on Sunday, I cried. At 8:12am.
I cried and declared that I am losing my grip on reality and he and the children have a front row seat to my undoing.
A bit melodramatic, sure. But it's exactly how I felt.

We made it to church. We all sat down. And during the most reverent part of church, the passing of sacrament, my 3 year old sang a little tune learned from the older ones: "Snape, Snape, Severis Snape."
Then he loudly adds, "DUMBLEDOR!"
Amen.


While at church, I saw Mr. John C. He has a purple heart earned in the Battle of the Buldge.
I had not seen him since Veteran's Day. I went up and shook his hand and whole-heartedly thanked him for his protection and sacrifice and all he did for myself and my children. And of course my voice cracked and tears flowed.
It was 11:39.

After this and that and meetings and kids and a husband waiting for me to do what I do, we went home. My heels (fabulously tall, fabulously fabulous) clicked across the floor as I made my way up to my room. Before I even got changed, I burst into tears feeling the weight and responsibility of everything on my plate.
It was around 1:30.

I went down, started a dinner that takes a  good 4 hours to cook and went back upstairs to help my daughter rearrange  her room. Alone, looking at her dolls and cd's and drawings and pillows, I fell asleep.
About 2 hours later, I was up.
Room looking great, daughter beeming, my husband came in and excused our little  girl.
We chatted about Christmas presants. And this and that. A friend of our had stopped by to visit while I was passed out. I never even heard the door, his voice...anything.
He apologized to me for the morning and asked what he could do to make things easier on me.

Wait for it.....

I cried.
Hard.
I said that if I had things my way, I wouldn't have to go down stairs and shred pork or make rice or salad. I'd order a pizza and sit back and relax with the family.
He offered to do those things, but we both kind of looked at each other. He could successfully do that just as well as I could do his job.
I cried for all the times I've blown it, ever. I cried for fear I will blow it with the kids-my only real fear.
I cried and cried and cried. It was 5:41.

We expected dinner guests at 6:30. No time to continue beating myself up.
I went downstairs. I looked at the oven.
It was off.
Panicked, I asked, "Who turned off the oven?"
My oldest said, "I did. I thought someone must have left it on so I turned it off."
I opened the top oven and showed him the 5 pound pork roast. It was pale and only slightly warm.

I closed the door, turned the oven back on and looked at my husband. We looked at each other. I know he was worried this was going to be my complete destruction.
But in this moment, I saw a light. A reprieve. An answer to an unasked prayer.

Pizza.

I went over to my teenage boy, all bony and awkward. I threw my arms around him sideways.
"Ethan, you ruined dinner and I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU!"
I kissed his baby-smooth face. And once again, I cried.
At 6:18pm.

 I made a call, ordered dinner and invited any and all to join me for pick up. I was boucy and jovial.
I grabbed my keys.
Eric, 10, called out, "But Mom, we aren't supposed to buy things on Sunday."
True. An edict I have grown to love.

I acknowledge him. "Ox in the mire, Eric. Ox in the mire."

What a rollercoaster, this life.