the Nanny Blues

I'm at work (it's only one pm) and already desiring to leave. Well, no, its not that I dislike my job or anything. Although, if I could have my way with the dealings of my life I'd definitely call it a quits on this nanny thing and surrender willingly to a rather pleasurable toxicity of mine I like to call Procrastination (Yeah, that was an incredibly long sentence. I know it. But get used to it because you're going to find I make quite a habit of the skill. I mean, I haven't any other way to take your breath away, no other way to wow you. I'm not that great of a writer. So I might as well make you take a couple more breaths extra than you would normally in a standard sentence to achieve the feat. And my, you'll come to find, I'm sure, that you can suddenly run that ten minute monster of a mile you could never even think on before because of the anticipated horror of it. I'm sure of it.).   

It's not that I hate my job. I get to play mommy four days a week and its beautiful. And we all know what a mommy is: a disciplinarian, teacher, doctor, counselor, nurturer and best-friend all rolled into one. Did I forget anything? At least that's what I feel mommies should be. For eight hours each work day--and sometimes more--I'm privileged the luxury of changing poopey diapers, wiping runny noses, inventing the most grueling time outs, soothing boo-boo's, meticulously cutting the ends off peanut butter sandwiches, reading the same story 5 times in a row, trading home-made Yo Mama jokes and converting into a seemingly indestructible human-sized play toy. And that's only the fourth of it! Now, why wouldn't I enjoy a job like this that attains the miracle of coagulating so many facets into one big rewarding ooey gooey??! It's great. I like the challenge. I like having to schedule, I like organizing, I like putting up PJ's and underpants, telling Bible stories, and getting splashed on at bath time. It’s because of this job that I know I'll make a great mom someday. But you know, I guess today just isn't MY DAY. Come to think of it, neither was yesterday.

And it's all because of the BIG P.

I feel like some pregnant woman's labor pains have been reincarnated through me. That's how badly I hurt. Women, I know some of you understand the depth I'm talking about here. Guys. Imagine a 6lb. bowling ball in the pit of your abdomen with an attraction for a rendezvous with your crotch. Imagine feeling suddenly and irreversibly qualmish with nausea, when only a millisecond before you were giddy inside from plans to feed ducks with the kids at a peaceful park off 10th street. Imagine ten years worth of experience in learning patience brought down to a miniscule penny's worth!

And so...

I feel like going home to a hot shower and then crawling into bed underneath a warming blanket after devouring a hot bowl of yummy homemade chicken noodle soup. I feel like drinking 3 cups of hot Echinacea tea. I feel like giving in to Midol. But the reality of my life says I'm way too tired to take a shower, that I'd just hop into bed right away anyway. That I don't even own a warming blanket. That I don't know how to make homemade chicken noodle soup, that if I did it certainly wouldn't be yummy--it being my first attempt and all. That three cups of tea is way too much caffeine. And that I promised myself last night I'd never take any type of medicine again, drug store or prescribed, because doctors don't know shat and researchers know it but don't give a fluck. But the most important reality is that I can't leave work to go home anyway. I need the money.

And I don't just feel bad for me, I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient. You see, if there's just one thing I could say I've learned from this whole "Mommy" thing, its that Perspective Matters Most. I used to use intimidation to get grade A performance out of the kids. I'd squint my eyes, harden my jaw--make the muscles in it pop a little, lower my voice to a demanding whisper, and tense my body tighter than an amateur up against Oscar de la Hoya on fight night. And then *Lynn happened, born March 15th 2006--the fourth child of the family I work for. My threats don't scare HER. My threats prompt defiance. My threats fuel side smiles of mischief, stubborn pouty lips, and uncooperative diaper changing sessions. My threats are just, well, threats to her. And so I quickly determined that if I was going to survive opposite of not allowing her the luxury of life past age two, I'd better get creative. Thus, I developed the Talk. Whenever *Lynn acted up I'd simply talk to her, explain to her why she was wrong and how it made me feel. It worked SOME. I needed something MORE. I then developed the Tap. When *Lynn acted up I'd pretend that I was going to go down hard on her little hand only to end up doing an over-exaggerated tap. I don't like popping much and neither did her parents at that time. It worked SOME. Of course, I needed something MORE. And so, then came the Time-out-chair. After bad behavior, I'd say to her firmly "You're going to time out because (fill in the blank)," buckle her in, place her in a corner and then leave her there until the tears started flowing. If you've been following my path, you get the drift. It worked SOME. That's when I decided to utilize the 3T's as a team instead of using them randomly and individually as I had before. The Talk became her warning bell, the Tap--her "You're getting warmer missy, better straighten up," and the Time-out-chair her "last straw." But *Lynn's one tough piece of meat. I can honestly say I wanted to quit my job at one point. She made me feel powerless and because I grew up a kid easily intimidated I've always been conscious of remaining in control.

Now it just so happened around this time that I came to the conclusion for like the umpteenth time over the course of my 24 years that I. NEEDED. GOD. I just kept reading the Gospels over and over and over again in my bible. I guess I got kinda stuck there for a minute because I wanted so much for my heart to be sharpened from the sadness there was. I've been sad for much of my life. I wanted to put myself into Jesus' time, feel his compassion, feel his sacrifice, learn his kind of love. And I remember, around this time, reading elsewhere in the bible that we should seek to give God glory in every little thing we do. After the Gospels, after learning I needed to give God the glory in everything--it was ON. I started feeling sorry for *Lynn when she was defiant because I knew it would one day beat her at her own game if she lived long enough. I started telling her "You know what, you really hurt me when you did that. But I think maybe you've hurt God more than me. I think he's sad right now *Lynn. And I think you should tell him you're sorry." I started telling her she should ask God to forgive her for doing badly. And of course she can't talk well. She's one but she's still a babe. So I pray for her with her. And you know what? The most amazing things started happening! She got better almost instantaneously. *Lynn smiles when we talk about God together. Her chubby little cheeks widen like a chipmunks jaws do when chock full of nuts from falls release. She loves clasping her hands to say grace while intermittently unclasping them to take in gobbles of food before grace is over. She thinks twice about committing her favorite tormentuous deeds after we pray to God about helping her not to bite or scratch or hit or pinch her four-year-old big sis. She says "please" and "thank you" now instead of the alternate of crying for 45 minutes because she doesn't want to. God's brings out the best of that kid. And you know, he brings out the best of me too. God's perspective is definitely what Perspective Matters Most. I'm learning its love that changes people. That's the perspective God wants us to embody. But sometimes, I feel like I can't do it, you know. Its times like TODAY that I feel like I can't. I don't just want to go home because I'm sick. I want to go home because I feel Love slipping and I don't want it to. The Big P has caused a shift in mood and a physical pain so debilitating I've become horribly impatient. Part of loving others means sacrificing impatience--realizing it's not about you, representing God PAST affliction. But I'm so pained today. So pained. It hurts to walk, it hurts to talk. Thus, our usual playtime and banter has become an evaporation, and discipline has been reduced from "God loves you. Please show love and be kind like him," to "I SAID STOP IT. DO IT ONE MORE TIME!" And of course this breeds defiance. I'm not loving the children right today and they know it. And as I said before:

"I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient."

Now what kind of way is this to represent God?

I've got the Nanny Blues and a bit more growing to do.