I opened my eyes this morning to the sound of my three year old losing the contents of his stomach onto my bedroom floor. I grabbed him under his arms and rushed him to the toilet but was met mid-hallway by my four year old who took my disheveled jumped-from-deep-sleep-to-panicked-running look as an invitation to tell me how he’s sorry he put an egg under the recliner and that it cracked all over the floor.
This was not at all how I pictured my morning going. But, whatever, “hope springs eternal,” I think as I start to clean up the sick one (who, I later discover, was not sick but had eaten a handful of cheese although he is ALLERGIC to dairy and has a body that violently ejects all dairy contents from both ends until everything is out). After he is taken care of I begin to get things ready for preschool drop off.
After getting the four year old’s backpack together, I discovered the little egg-cracker had shut himself in his room and smashed a mini pumpkin he had smuggled out of the living room. Did you know mini pumpkins actually have a surprising amount of guts and seeds? I didn’t. But the carpet in the boys’ bedroom now knows it. “Yeah, I’m sorry Mom, I just broke it open because I wanted to see inside,” he said with a shrug when he saw the incredible tightness of my face and eyebrows-to-the-sky response. He may be struggling with heart attitude and intention but the boy knows how to check a box (Do the thing I want to do even though I know I’m not supposed to – CHECK; find mom, say sorry – CHECK; get away with the thing – CHECK…he wishes).
“JUST. JUST please put some pants on!” This was all I could spit out without coming completely unglued. It took him twenty minutes to put pants on and I was like I’M LOSING IT GET IN THE CAR RIGHT NOW I DONT CARE IF YOU DON’T HAVE SHOES ON.
We may or may not have been late to preschool.
So, let’s talk about control.
I want it. I want control over my house. I want control over the cleanliness of my floors, the contents of my refrigerator, the amount of sleep I get, the amount of sleep my children get, the laundry, the toys all over the yard, the food that actually goes into my children’s mouths, their behavior, and the fact that they are suddenly tall enough to crawl onto the kitchen counters. I WANT CONTROL.
When sin entered this world in the garden all that was perfect became tainted with sin, including myself, my children, my house, my marriage. The devil came bearing down on all of us and whispered “control” into our ears.
“You can control this. You are enough to control this little thing.”
That expectation of control pressed me into a flat hopeless pancake this morning. Because I couldn’t. I couldn’t control my children and I couldn’t control my time.
But, thank goodness, I don’t need to be in control. All of the above, as well as the souls and well-being of my family, are in the hands of Christ and “we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him.” (Romans 8:28)
So instead of remaining a flat hopeless pancake, I’m going to drink another cup of coffee, read another chapter of Romans, clean up the cracked egg, and mentally prepare myself as I pray over preschool pick up. Maybe I’ll listen to a gospel-centered podcast or audio book while I clean because what fills the heart is what pops out of the mouth in those moments of complete loss of self-control. So I’ll try to fill my mind and heart with goodness and grace and pray they bring me clarity in those “eyebrows to the sky” mornings.
Moral of the story: Never let your children go to bed without bells on, lest they wake up at 100% and rearing to go, without your knowledge.