It is morning. The morning after a tough evening, and I am still raw from the hurting. Mine and theirs. I hurt for who I am in difficult moments, who I wish I wasn’t. I went to bed thinking morning would make it better – with a fresh start and a rested head – but as I woke Eliza, her reservations toward me were palpable. There was more mending to do.
I had lost my temper, raised my voice, and dumped Eliza in a wrestling heap on her bed for a time-out.
I was done. Done with the day, the attitudes, the ears that went missing, the insane messes, and this old house that is perpetually falling apart – one knob, one faucet, one bit of molding at a time.
So I sat down at the computer to check the Ohio polls. It was Super Tuesday and I cared, but more than anything I needed an escape. Just a few moments. Because everything I was trying to do felt futile. No one was listening, no one was coming when I called, no one (except me) cared that bedtime was getting later, and later.
While clicking around, I saw Ann’s recent post. I scrolled down and her words drew me in. I stayed and read, and suddenly, I was crying over the phrase, “All is Grace” as my kids yanked cushions from the couch, hid in their fort when I told them it was time for baths, continued to tear the toy room apart, as if there were any toys left to be torn from the shelves or drawers.