There is no lounging around in pajamas. I have to get up, get the coffee going, and jump in and start calling doctors and therapists and fill out paper work and write a social story and make sure we have enough medicine to make it over the holiday weekend.
Silly me, I was thinking we could go to the park or something.
This is not how I pictured motherhood. The whole swimming upstream thing gets old. I get tired, so tired, of being resourceful and networking and planning, planning, so we could get through the day with a minimum of screaming and bleeding and flapping and bruising.
The biggest battle, though, what makes me a true American Gladiator, is self pity. It chases me, hounds me, sneaks up beside me and taps me on the shoulder. It is a snake in my sleeping bag, a tiger in the trees, a hungry lion looking to devour me. A pushy salesman trying to get a foot in the door. I musn't hesitate, I have to say no.
The trouble is, most of my friends are not going to tell me to knock it off. I can trump their hard luck stories everytime. So I have to be my own security guard, or in about 20 minutes I turn into a combination of Veruca Salt and the creature from the black lagoon.
I used to force myself to read articles about Africa, Haiti, Beslan. I would read stories on the Bleeding Disorders website about kids who would love to have the freedom and ease of movement that mine do. It is true that most of the world does not have the access to medicine and therapies that we are blessed with. I remind myself that it is an American perspective to feel I have a right to healthy kids, a vacation and car that never breaks down. But then my neighbors take off on a sponatenous weekend trip to the water park and poof! I am starting to turn all slimy and whiny again.
When Job found out that his children had been killed, he fell to the ground and praised God. Acknowledged that He was in charge, and ultmately it all belonged to Him.
Now, I realize I have a ways to go before I can compare myself to Job, but I think that could be my starting place. God is good. He is in charge. He created me, my husband, my boys, and He loves us. That is the beginning of putting things in order, and making sense of what feels like suffering.
Perspective, sanity, order. Eyes to see. The best weapons a girl could have. So maybe I can relax, just a little. Have some coffee, and ignore the doorbell no matter how many times that pushy salesman rings. Go away. We are just not buying today.
