Feelings of exhaustion and being overwhelmed can make life complicated. We can experience apathy, frustration, and fear during these difficult times. Every human that ever lived has dealt with these emotions.
“A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.”
Lucius Annaeus Seneca
Being overwhelmed reminds me of when I was standing in my living room next to my husband as he received a phone call.
Accepting an offer
Last weekend was one of the most incredible days of my life! Alan received his degree after seven long years. Now, we are waiting on several offers from companies he applied to. He has interviewed with two companies. Now we wait. The three older kids are at school, my toddler is napping in her crib, and Alan is finishing up at the University. I take a quiet moment to get on my knees and pray for guidance. I start my prayer, “Heavenly Father, we are at another crossroads in our life. I want to go to a place where my family will have experiences. I want us to continue to grow together as a family and gain knowledge as we move to a new location. Wherever you need us to go, I will go. With You guiding our family, I know it will benefit us in the best way possible.” I end my prayer, and I stay on my knees for a moment to listen.
Alan walks in the front door and announces that he received a job offer from INL. I am excited that he is employable and that our future will be bright. I think about my prayer and the latest news my husband has been given, and I don’t feel anything in my heart or mind. Together, we decided to wait for another offer from the other company he applied to. Neither of us should jump on the offer.
An hour later, the phone rings and the other company is at the end of the line, saying, “We would like to offer you a job. We hope you can work in Puyallup, WA, for four weeks. We will then move you to the Jerome office. The business is a few miles North of the Perrine Bridge outside Twin Falls. I am close to Alan’s side to hear every word from the cell phone. Immediately, my mind lights up like it’s the fourth of July. I have a full-on fireworks display going off inside of me. Bursts of light, bright sparklers, and Roman candles answer my prayer. Alan gets off the phone, and we are both beaming. We both know the direction that God has planned for our family.
Preparing to leave the Palouse
A quote by Lucius Annaeus Seneca, who was a philosopher of ancient Rome, states, “A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.” I knew the fireworks would only last so long. I recently started having heart palpitations as I lie down at night, and my energy hit an all-time low. The friction was about to hit the gem I had been polishing for the last seven years.
Besides not having any energy and heart issues, Alan must fly out the following Monday morning. I have four children and a whole house to move by myself. I am overwhelmed and exhausted, and fear is starting to creep up my neck and choke me.
My neighbor stood on my porch at my front door the next day. I smile and wave at her and open the brownish-purple antique door. I tell her the good news and where we are relocating to. She responds with excitement and says, “Let me help you! I can meal-plan with you and help you a couple of times a week with food.” I am like a Looney Tunes character from the eighties. My jaw drops to the floor, and my eyes pop out. I hear the iconic music in the background,” BOING!” and I want to tip my head up and howl excitedly! I collect myself, “You don’t have to do that. Alan will be gone for a whole month. That’s a long time to commit to helping me.” She smiles, “Don’t worry about it. I will be over later to make a menu with you.” She turned to leave, and I genuinely thanked her.
Later, I drive down to pick up the children and tell them the good news. After home, I feed the kids a quick snack and clean up. I am exhausted. I need Sidnee to watch the baby briefly while I nap. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have been so tired all the time recently.
Finally, Monday came, and we dropped Alan off at the airport to fly to Seattle. We wait in the small graveled lot and wave until our arms are sore and the plane is out of sight. We drive home in the typical spring overcast weather. The clouds in the air hang low, and the rain starts to sprinkle down on our windshield. The weather resembles my mood. I am melancholy and tired, and my tears want to trickle out. I have so much work ahead of me and am doing it alone.
The next four weeks are filled with love, homemade pizza, pasta, early summer vegetables, and picnics in our shared backyard. My son eats so much pizza our friends wonder if he will make it through the night. Brit smiles and says, “That is so good! Could I have one more?” We all yell in unison, “NO!” Britton smiles and rubs his tummy with satisfaction. Thanks to my wonderful neighbors, I can accomplish much more with their help. They are a Godsend.
Packing Day
Alan has finally returned with the U-Haul and cautiously backs it up to the small attached garage. I am so relieved he is here. Anahi and I start throwing boxes into the back of the U-Haul at high speed.
After hauling boxes, directing kids, and running up and down the stairs for four hours, I’m exhausted. We are not going to make it out of here today. I see three men from our Ward walk through the front door. The sunlit day casts a heavenly glow around their heads as they walk into my living room. My eyes are sweaty, and my mind has been foggy lately. I don’t acknowledge them by name. I nod and direct them to waiting boxes. My sweet neighbor from across the street walks in, picks up a broom, and sweeps my floors.
Finally, we are almost ready to go. It is four o’clock, and Alan asks, “Dari, where are the van keys?” I blink and stare, “I don’t know?” I am so worn out and tired, “I don’t know!” He looks at me, “Are you serious? You don’t know where you put the keys?” I looked at the giant U-Haul that had grown in size. It is jammed full from floor to ceiling, and I wonder if they are somewhere in that big hunk of junk. Everyone stops and stares at me. I make eye contact with everyone looking in my direction one at a time, “I don’t know where they are. I’ll be right back.” I turn and run up my purple-painted steps, and I run past the blocky white columns. I run past my neighbor, sweeping my floors. I fling open the door on a diagonal in my kitchen, and I trust my legs to carry me down the narrow, steep wooden steps. I hold my shaky hand out to the bricked wall at the bottom of the steps and turn on the two cinder blocks placed on the floor. I come to a stop in the middle of the laundry room. A thin blue rug covered the cold cement floor, and I fell on my knees. “Heavenly Father, I can’t do it anymore. I have spent all my energy, and I need your help. I can’t find my keys. We have to have the keys. Please help, please help me.” I direct the last bit of energy I have into my prayer, and I wait. I enjoy another 20 seconds of rest on my knees. I wait, and in my foggy mind, a picture of a blackened/bronze handle forms in my head.
I jumped back on my feet and retraced my steps to Alan. I yell his name, “ALAN, ALAN! They are in the drawer in the buffet.” Our friend points at the cabinet buried at the bottom about a quarter of the way in. “Yes! That’s the one. Can you get to it?” I stand at the back of the U-Haul with the corrugated door pushed up as the men hurry and push boxes aside. Jeff finally gets to the drawer. He opens it up, digs through all the junk, and says, “Oh my goodness, Dari! Here they are!”
At last, I sat in my old red van with three children buckled between suitcases, lamps, and other random items. Alan and Britton jump into the U-Haul and Britton waves at us. Anahi knocks on my car windows as I am gathering my thoughts. I need to remember which pedal is the gas and which is the brake. I roll down my window, and she hands me a container of homemade empanadas and freshly washed strawberries. My eyes water as I look at her, “You did this for us?” She smiles and says, “You’ll need it for the long car ride ahead. We will miss you guys! Safe travels.” I wave goodbye to her as I pull away from the edge of our driveway for the last time. She lingers on the green grass and waves back to our family.
Here are three suggestions that can help when we are overwhelmed:
Reach out to a friend. I never did reach out to a friend. She reached out to me over and over with meal planning and feeding my family week after week. She showed up to help us move, then sent us our way with some of her delicious empanadas. I couldn’t have hand-selected a better friend. God blessed us with wonderful neighbors.
Communicate: Sometimes, we don’t need physical help. Sometimes, we need someone to listen to us, and we find a way up. Solutions come after we have talked over our problems with someone else.
Take a break: Taking a break can help us re-prioritize what is essential, and we can focus better. Although I was too busy to take a break on the day we moved, I can count my prayers in my head, and the short prayer in my laundry as a much-needed break.
*Note to reader: This memory of being one of the times I could not handle the challenge before me sticks out. However, moving is horrible in every sense of its existence. I later found that I had an issue with my thyroid, which explains the brain fog, heart palpitations, and extreme tiredness. No worries! I got it all straightened out.
I could write a book about being overwhelmed. Here are some possible titles: You’re Over Your Head, DON’T Do the Impossible, Exhausted Woman, or Breathe Mama. As I write these book titles, I hear my mom’s voice, “Dari, you’re taking on too much.” That could also be a catchy book title. When I reach a pinnacle point over my head in a project, I have two choices: 1. retract inward under a blanket in the fetal position 2. Keep working. I always end up using choices one and two.
Francis Webster, an early pioneer who encountered extreme early winter weather in 1956, says, “I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it.” Although we do not face the challenges the early pioneers did, sometimes our modern-day handcarts are overburdened.
The state of ‘being overwhelmed’ reminds me of when the Bishop of our ward called me to be the Ward party’ person’ in 2010. The three of us sit comfortably on my olive green couches in my living room. The warm-toned oak floors match the recently painted red walls. The new windows my husband installed last fall create an inviting feeling. I look up from my long ‘to-do’ list for the upcoming party. “Okay, I have one last idea I want to discuss for the ward party.” The two women on the committee looked at me and nodded for me to continue. “It would be nice to make some Dutch oven desserts. What do you guys think?” They hesitate, and Amber says, “I don’t think having dessert at the dinner is necessary. We have a lot going on already. Do you want to take that on?” I dialed into their facial expressions, and I could read their mannerisms. When she said, ‘Do I want to take it on?’ She meant to say that she didn’t want any part in helping with the Dutch ovens and that her plate was full. I take the silent exchange of thoughts and respond, “I want to have a dessert for the ward party. It’s a summer celebration. I will go ahead and take that responsibility.” After the words roll off my tongue, I have an uneasy feeling. I dismissed the feeling, and we all nodded, agreeing. As everyone was walking to their cars, I called out the time and date of the party, and they both turned and reassured me that they would be there to help with the party.
I close the big wooden front door behind them. I hear my baby babbling in his crib in the back room. I put him down for a nap to concentrate on my meeting for the upcoming party. I walk down the short hallway and motion to my girls. They are playing in the closet above the stairs. My husband and I turned it into a playroom. I open the door to my baby’s room, and he smiles as his arms reach me. Addy runs from her room as soon as she knows he is awake. She tousled his loose brown curls and kissed his cheek.
The following day, my phone started ringing. I checked the Caller’s I.D., and it was Amber, one of the committee members. I answer the phone, “Hello?” She responds with a short delay in her voice. “Hi Dari, I am calling to let you know that something came up, and I won’t be able to attend the church for the party.” I roll my eyes as I walk around the rectangular living room, listening to her. So many thoughts are running through my head. There are some calculations and a few images that I won’t mention. It doesn’t take long to realize that I will only have one other person and me to feed 125 people. I respond with my irritation covered up, “Okay.” She interjects, “No worries because I will have the meat ready and drop it off an hour before the Ward party starts.” I nod and breathe a little sigh of relief. I tell her to be safe over the weekend, and we end the call.
I walk into my kitchen, where my notes sit on the table. I look over my checklist
Two five-gallon beverage coolers (one lemonade, one water)
BBQ Sauces
Assorted chips
Veggie tray
Games/apples for bobbing, two galvanized tubs filled with water, trivia questions, and misc.
I feel dread as I look at this last bullet point. Because I have labeled myself a finisher, I will finish what I started.
Six dutches (two chocolates, two peaches, two pineapples) Dutch ovens, matches, briquettes, chimney, paper, lighting fluid
I swallow hard as I realize the Dutch ovens aren’t crucial to the end-of-summer bash. I feel uneasy about making all of them. This feeling inside is my second prompting for ditching the Dutches. I stare at the last bullet, and I reassure myself that I’ll be fine. I get up from the table and double-check my stash of paper products sitting on top of my dryer on the back porch. I walk into the old garage and look at the wooden shelves above the dirt floor for our Dutch ovens. I make a mental note to pick up some briquettes and purchase a chimney to light the charcoal.
Finally, after days of planning and prepping, the ward party is only a few hours away. I arrive at the church parking lot a few minutes early. I start unloading the back of my car. I always have pre-party jitters when I am the one in charge. My daughters start unloading bags full of food, paper products, and decorations from the trunk. I directed them to put the items on one of the worn wooden tables inside the picnic shelter. I look down at my phone and am a few minutes early. I noticed a new text on my phone. I flip open my blue phone with letters assigned to each number. The message reads from my other committee member, “Hey! I am not going to be at the ward party. My kids have the stomach flu. You got this!” I audibly make an off-colored comment. My daughter looks at me, “MOM!” I immediately say I am sorry. “I have just got myself in a little situation. The only person coming to help me just backed out. They were going to help me with the briquettes. I have never done them before.” I stare at the six black Dutch ovens on the grass filled with fruit, flour, and sugar. I start to panic. Then I remembered someone who was always there to help me.
I need help! After I received the devastating text, I called my husband. He is working on a house three hours away from Idaho Falls. I know he will show up and help me—he always does.
Let me explain to you a little bit about him:
He constructed a giant wooden pergola in one day so I could have a garden party that evening.
He gets up early to make a healthy breakfast for the kids and then all their lunches. When he gets home from work, he washes up and asks, “How can I help?”
He keeps the fluids topped off in our cars. Plus, oil changes BONUS!
He does all the mechanics on our cars (Thanks to YouTube)
He has remodeled every house we have lived in. “perfectly.”
He refills everything. (Olive oil, detergent, dish soap, etc.)
If there ever were a person who came close to being called a modern-day ‘Father Theresa,’ it would be my husband.
In addition to having a saint for a husband, I know he will come through for me, and I will be able to relax a little bit. I called, and he did not pick up on the first try. I try again-nothing. Finally, on the third try, he picks up. I can barely hear him on the other end. “Dar…Hi… Workin-Latr-Sorry-love” I lost his call.
I look around me. There’s nothing left to do but fall on the grass and pound the earth, screaming and kicking. I regress. I could hide in the janitor’s closet and camouflage myself with the cleaning products. No, there are too many germs. I could hide in the bathroom stall. Yuck- they could be cleaner. I look around the picnic shelter for a place to stow away.
I momentarily give up, and I retract inward. I collapse on my knees next to the brown wooden shelter. I have a large crowd to feed by myself and six Dutch ovens to prepare. I need to figure out where to start. My baby happily kicks in his car seat and looks up at me. Sidnee and Addy come over to check on me and kneel at my sides. I am in the perfect position to offer a prayer.
I know the clock is ticking, so I offer a heartfelt prayer. Then, I pull myself up from the green grass and start working. I lit the charcoal chimney several times, and on the third try, it finally lit. The charcoal starts to smoke. I internally praise myself for a tiny success. I find a safe, sturdy spot on the cement on the edge of the shelter to line out the Dutch ovens. I check the clock every fifteen minutes and continue pushing through. I pour the briquettes onto a large griddle, then place three dutches on them. I pour more briquettes on top of the ovens and then stack the rest of the desserts. I cover the black lids with the remaining charcoal and pray it will work.
I direct my girls to cover the wooden tables with plastic tablecloths. I grab my list and unload items from the grocery bags onto the covered tables like Speedy Gonzales. Forty-five minutes go by in a flash, and I see cars pulling into the parking lot. I hug my girls around me and thank them for their efforts. I walk over to the glowing charcoal and lift the lid to the upside-down pineapple cake, a miracle. I can smell the cobblers cooking. Ice-cold lemonade fills the orange coolers, the meat is ready to serve, and the jello jiggles as helpers walk it over to the serving table. I walk behind the shelter and say a few sincere words of gratitude to my Heavenly Father. First, I apologize for the many warnings of trying to help me from the beginning. Second, you have always guided and helped me pull it together.
Overall, the party was a hit! The food was on point, the men bobbed for apples, and the desserts were nearly perfect. I was grateful when the day was over. I fell into bed, exhausted from the party. It was a day I would never want to relive again. I have ended up in situations where I want to retract from my responsibilities. I am going to hold back and rely on my discretion.
Retraction comes from being overwhelmed. Here are a few suggestions you can try to help with pull back from a problematic situation:
1. Listen to the Holy Spirit. I received several warnings to cancel the order of eight Dutch oven cobblers. If I had cooked a dessert I was familiar with, I could have handled the dinner by myself.
2. Schedule in personal time. When you feel overwhelmed, take a walk, take a 20-minute power nap, or make arrangements for something you enjoy. Taking a short break can help improve your performance.
3. Know your limits. I pushed myself beyond my limits. I had never double-stacked eight desserts in my life! My husband always took care of those things. Over time, I have learned to recognize my bounds. I’m a work in progress!
Resources:
Christensen , D. J. (2016). . Deseret Book Company.
I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it.” Francis Webster
Becoming overwhelmed can lead to plenty of ugliness and mistakes. Did you know it can also affect your health? I have been a victim of “feeling overwhelmed” a few times in my life. In this particular story, I became so overwhelmed and so argumentative that I made a negative impression on my children. I scarred them for life.
Now I am staring at a blue screen with time slots and empty lines moving across the T.V. in the church foyer. I turn to my friend and say, “Oh, hey. What’s this?” The T.V. was previously rolled in on a metal stand with a power chord bolted to the side and placed at the wooden door near the chapel. “It’s the sign-up schedule for the Crèche in a few weeks. You can sign up to play or sign in 30-minute time slots. Do you want to sign up?” she asks. “I would love to. My fingers are rusty but I would like to improve my skills. It would be a great experience to have my kids sing a few primary songs.” I say with almost a nervous twitch. She responds and points to the number, “You can call to put your name on the list and there are several days you can pick from as well. Good luck!” She walks away as I wave, “Thanks, See you later!” I stand there looking at the blue screen wondering if I have the talent and the nerve to play in front of a live audience for thirty minutes. I hesitate as I punch the number into my phone and text the message, “Hi, this is Dari Edwards, I would like to sign up for Friday night at 6:30 to play for the Crèche.” I stare at the message I typed into my phone and I push the green send button in the bottom corner. I get a response back, “Okay, great! I’ll put you down.” I have sealed the deal. I have secured my fate. There is no going back now! My heart starts to beat in arrhythmia and my palms are already clamming up in anticipation for the upcoming performance.
The following evening I gather the children around my black, out-of-tune, chipped, old piano. I explain, “You guys are going to be a part of the Crèche next Friday night.” Britton looks at me and says, “What is that?” I look at each of them, “It is the Nativity and it’s an awesome community event. They gather lots of different kinds of nativities from around the world and place them beautifully on tables in the gym. We will be performing live in the chapel while people walk around and look at the different nativities. I am so excited to be a part of it all!” They all look at me and say in unison, “Do we have to sing?” I responded with a fervent, “Yes!” I think about their question for a moment. Are they asking because my piano skills are not up to snuff or because they don’t want to stand at the mic in front of everyone all alone?
We start practicing the three Christmas songs I have picked out for them. Their portion of the performance will take about five minutes and I have to fill the rest of the 30 minutes with piano music. Right now I am kind of getting ‘The Jackson Five’ vibes…or maybe more like ‘The Edwards Three’! I am so excited for our performance. All I have to do is practice, practice, practice. I need to figure out a way to get rid of my performance anxiety.
Even though there will be flaws, the kids’ little mistakes will be naturally cute and adorable over the mic. I start to think of my inaccuracies, wrong notes, and incorrect timing. I imagine there will be giant blunders echoed throughout the entire building. I can just see it all now as someone rudely yells from the low-lit gym, “Get off the piano lady. Who let you in here?” As people start booing and hissing and throwing the miniature glass figurines of shepherds and goats towards me as I fumble through the next Christmas song. I reassure myself that it is going to be okay and I will get through everything just fine. I plan on being super polished by Friday night.
Finally, Friday night arrives a little too quickly. I start shaking around three o’clock in the afternoon as I drive to the school to pick everyone up. I brake too hard and I about catapult the baby to the front seat. I nervously move the turn signal switch the opposite way that I am turning. Whoops- I just about hit a pedestrian at the crosswalk. I put the car in park I use the steering wheel as my piano and I strum the notes over and over on the tan worn driving wheel. The kids open the side door to the van and they jump into their seats. I didn’t even realize they enter the van as I am absentmindedly pounding notes out on my imaginary built-in piano. My son yells from the back of the van, “Mom! Let’s go. I’m hungry.” Surprised, I look in the rearview mirror, “Oh, hi guys. How was your day at school?” They each respond excitedly about their day. They are relieved to be going home.
At last, I gather the kids around the piano in their Sunday best and we rehearse one last time before we head over to the Creche. “Addy, could you please give us a prayer that everything will turn out okay tonight?” She nods and continues to pray for all of us and our performance at the nativity. Everyone jumps into the van and I wish that I could have nerves of steel like my kids have. I am so nervous I have to count my steps across the front porch so I don’t zigzag into the bushes. I have to mentally coerce myself to get into the van and drive the short distance to the church. We arrive a little early and the building is beautifully decorated with hundreds of nativity sets and twinkling lights. The big blue glaring screen is placed at the entrance to the chapel. I scan the different time slots and I see my name at 6:30 p.m. I automatically blush and I get a tingling sensation churning inside of me. I walk into the chapel where the piano, mic, and choir seats are. There is a large iridescent blue material that hangs from the ceiling. It separates the chapel from the gym where the majority of the nativities are placed. It sways and it sparkles in the soft light.
I hate my performance anxiety. I have dealt with it since I was a child. I would botch the pieces at recitals and performances. Here I am again thirty years later trying to improve myself. I want to slap myself across the face and knock the nerves right out of me.
I grab the baby in the carrier and we walk up to sit at the piano. Sidnee, Addy, and Brit stand at the mic and we do a quick check of everything. I put my baby next to me at the piano and I give the kids a count of five before I start playing their introduction. I accidentally give them a false start and they start singing. I hurry to catch up to them as I motion them with my eyes, ‘Keep singing…keep singing.’ We make it through the first song and I play a rough interlude as I bring them into their second song. Finally, I roll them in on their last song and it ends up being not too shabby. They finish singing in the mic and Addy walks over to me and asks, “Mom what happened on that one song? We didn’t know what to do.” I nod as I point to the mic that is on next to the piano keys. I put my finger to my lips and I motion for her to go sit down where I can see her in the choir seats. I take a deep breath and I command my hands to stop shaking as I start to play my piano solo Christmas songs. A few people wander into the chapel and sit down in the pews. My heartbeat starts beating at a pace I can’t control as I see people staring at me in the audience. My hands randomly jump to the wrong notes and I seem to have lost a portion of my agility.
I look up from the black and white keys and look over the light-grained piano. I notice a red blur moving in my far peripheral vision. I see my son in his red sweater and a bow tie bobbing up and down on the light blue choir seats placed around the piano. Again I try to pull my eyes from the music for a split second and direct him to sit still. Inside my head, I am telling him, “Sit down right now!” My nerves must be interfering with my superhuman mom’s powers because he doesn’t seem to get the message that I am transmitting from my brain waves into his brain. He jumps up and starts running through the choir seats. He turns and looks at me and waves with a sly smile. I am fumbling through the song I am playing as I try motioning with my head for Addy to go get Britton and sit down. She just stares back at me and shrugs her shoulders. I play a few more notes and now Britton is circling the choir seats at full pace. I can’t speak, I can’t express myself and I can’t help my kids right now. I am using gestures and body movements to try to get my oldest child’s attention to help me. Unfortunately, my hands and feet are busy at the moment. All I have is my voice yelling inside my head, an angry tilt of my head, and a jerky eye movement.
Britton is at full speed whirling around me and the seats in the choir section. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to hide out of view of the blue iridescent curtain. I am chained to this stupid instrument for the next 15 minutes. I play the music in front of me as it rests on the music shelf. I try to direct my kids to help me! Addy finally jumps up and starts chasing Britton around and around. Finally, she catches his red sweater and he screams out loud. She lets go of his shoulder and the chase begins again. I am begging Sidnee to please help me. I can tell she is contemplating what to do. If she chases Addy and Britton it could turn into chaos and the mic could pick up three baby elephant sounds running around the piano. The chase continues as Sidnee decides to join in. No one can catch Britton. He makes a bold move and turns to run behind me. There is a rest in the music and I lean back to swat him from behind the piano bench. I can’t catch him! I lose my place in the music and in full frustration, I pick a random note in the song to start playing again. While the girls are trying to coral him and trap him in his own game. The chase continues.
I lost all of my grace and dignity in the middle of a concert.
Finally, Sidnee gets ahold of him and I motion with force to get that kid out of here! I am almost finished with my horrible performance and the next performer comes in five minutes early. She probably notices my red blotchy eyes, my twitching hands, and my right foot that is glued to the damper pedal. She kindly and quietly offers to take over five minutes earlier than expected. I nod my head in appreciation. I walk out of the chapel and I am like an irritated mama bear on the hunt for my insolent and ill-mannered cubs.
I hold my tongue until we are in the car and the windows are sealed up tight and the doors are locked. There is no escaping my wrath that I am about to lay down. Outside the rain plops quietly on top of our van as we make our way to the top of Eighth Street. The night sky is beautiful with a brilliant array of stars shining down on the black asphalt. Inside our old red minivan the tension is rising and the serenity of the night is absent. I lose my cool at the turn-off of Blaine Street and I come unleashed. Britton unrolls the middle window and says, “Mom, stop yelling, all the neighbors can hear you.” I respond with fury and a few tears, “I don’t care if the @#$# neighbors can hear me. If you did to them what you did to me they would be yelling too!”
I pull into the driveway with force because of all the adrenaline and anger pumping through me. I march my three older children like a sergeant on a mission up the stairs with the baby in one hand and I point directly to their beds with the other hand. At this moment all I can say without brutally ruining their little minds with nasty words is “Get into your bed and do not come out. I am going to sit at the top of the stairs. I do not want to see any of you until 7 a.m. tomorrow!” I slam the door to their room. I have not fully served them their punishment and so I commence to sit at the top of the stairs. I yell through their door about the events of the night for the next ten minutes. On the other side of the door, they all throw themselves on the full mattress on the bottom bunk and cry. They talk in hushed tones amongst each other for a couple of hours until sleep takes hold of them.
I am so angry and overwhelmed by my own emotions I hold my baby close to me at the top of the stairs on the hard wooden floor. I rock her back and forth and I let my tears fall over us. I cannot let go of my anger. I am feeling so many things right now:
angry
embarrassed
overwhelmed
helpless
alone
a failure
stupid
unprepared
the list goes on….
I get up to lay the baby down and there is a little white folded piece of paper that was pushed under the door. I unfold the paper and there are sweet words written in pencil and crayon. Colored on the bottom right-hand corner is a picture of two girls drawn with light blue tears on their sad faces.
Mom, we are sorry. We didn’t mean to chase Britton. We didn’t know what to do. We were just trying to help you. Please don’t be mad.
Finally, 11 p.m. rolls around and all of the children are asleep. I sit in our old red recliner staring at the twinkling Christmas lights through our window. Alan walks through the front door. “How was the Crèche?” I look at him with regretful eyes, “It was dreadful and I am an awful mom.”
Undoubtedly this is a memory that my girls have NOT forgotten. Britton has no memory of this story. I shared it with him and all he could do was double over in laughter.
I admit, I was overwhelmed and I should have arranged for someone to help me that night. Or maybe I shouldn’t have taken on something that I was completely unprepared for. I was way over my head and I became a little irrational, argumentative, and very angry.
There are lots of things that can help when we get overwhelmed. We can try journaling, connecting with our senses, exercising, meditating, and even making a friend can help us feel encouraged. Here are a few other suggestions:
Make boundaries. I should have said “no” to this opportunity. I didn’t have what I needed to be successful. (babysitter, time, talent, etc…) There were a lot of other options I could have chosen besides the unfortunate situation I ended up in.
Ask for help. Maybe I should have realized that I didn’t need to be “independent” in all things. Neighbors, friends, and religious communities are all great resources to reach out to when we need a little extra help.
Delegate. If I had had a friend play the piano while I directed my children at the mic…the night would have been beautiful and glorious.
Overall, sometimes we do get overwhelmed and we fall flat on our faces. It is okay to be in this situation and we have to allow ourselves a little kindness and grace. We all hit rock bottom and the only way out is up!
Mini Memoirs 