Exhaustion, pt. 2

At this moment I finally have peace, solitude (except for the dog snoring), and silence--note that peace and silence are two different things. Gracie was crazy today and since I'm mostly crazy (about parenting anyway), we made for quite a pair. The funny thing is that this very moment I know how to parent. I know what I should do when she openly defies me. I can imagine myself in the middle of TWWTTYO (The War With the Two-Year-Old) and I am acting calm, together, and speak a language she understands and respects.

The real story is that those moments crowd out every other perfect moment of the day. There were maybe three times that just about broke me today, but the rest was complete joy. There is nothing like snuggling and sleeping in with your child. Singing in the car on our errands fills me with such fullness I sometimes cry. At the end of the day I want to be able to forget the craziness and remember the joy. Why is that so hard? Why do I walk out her room after putting her to bed and recount the failures of the day instead of the awe-filled minutes.

I think the whole disease, for me, is more than just about my growing as a parent. Why do I look back on the failures of my life and see them in greater proportion than the joys. I have an amazing husband, unbelievably perfect daughter, a job that incites my passions for ministry, friends that make me want to live on a commune so we can always be together, and many, many more blessings.

I would love to get to the end of the day and not think about the failed attempt at discipline, the flopped conversation, the toilet paper on my shoe, the missed deadline. Instead, I want to recount the blessings of the day--the million shades of green I got to see on my way home, the giggles of a two-year-old who thinks I am the funniest person ever, the way my husband looked at me from across the room and filled my heart with love.

Starting now--literally--my head hits the pillow and I know nothing but joy, blessing, and fullness.