We spent the afternoon at the library (and I patted myself on the back for my parenting plus).

The newest reader was so overwhelmed with the allure of the words that she couldn’t wait until we got home to dive into the pages (and I praised myself for the obvious inheritance of a love of literacy).

I spied, as she opened an anthology of imaginary worlds and touched the pages as if they were gold (and I imagined for a moment that I was in a world with nothing to blog about).

And then…

 “Mommy, I am going to read every single episode of this show.”

And suddenly, I was reminded of reality, and my evident need for this ever growing avalanche of humility I call my life, as apparently without them…well, I would have nothing to write about…

and maybe I would be left to read more to my children…

and then I’d have nothing to write about.

Pride is a cyclical sin in the world of a writer.

 

Setting: Our week has revolved around a mountainous, all-consuming, impossible deadly deadline (make that five), which has resulted in a continual assembly line of putting out fires (which simply set more fires from the friction in our family). So perhaps I shouldn’t have found it surprising that the crescendo of our week of wildfires should consist of nothing less than the wildest of fires to date. And while effort and exhaustion were both on my scoreboard, with a 3:30 bedtime and a 6 AM rise and fight, I still found myself facing the flames, as my final fleeting sparks of hope to complete the final project, shower off the shmuzz of sleepless nights, get my little people presentable, and drop off, prior to the final deadly deadline, stopping the insanity, was now closing in on the truly impossible point when…

Me: “Stapler! STAPLER! Where is my stapler?”

Enter Small Sweet Confessor: “In timeout.”

Me: “What?”

SSC: “I put your stapler in timeout.”

Me: “WHAT!?!?”

SSC: “He wanted to pinch you, so I put him in time out.”

Enter Flashback to a recently suppressed mortifying moment in Mommyland (of which I have an entire storage unit in my unconscious), when I was trying to take on the impossible (a.k.a. every day), when The Tiniest attempted to take my “desk toys” as a means of dulling  the boredom of neglect. Now at any other moment of clarity I would never have allowed a toddler access to office tools that can easily be transformed into weaponry, when mixed with terrible twos. But at that particular moment, I “didn’t hear him” (wink, wink). And when the afternoon emerged without injury, I convinced myself that my passive parenting was perhaps passable.

Now I found myself suddenly at war with my prior passivity.

Me: “Where did you put the little stapler in timeout, Sweetie?” (suddenly switching to pandering, with the hope that my prayers for project submission might still be granted.)

SSC: “I dunno. I forgot.”

Me: “Hmmm…can you think? Where did you put Mr. Stapler? I buttered, as I frantically tore apart my home office (a.k.a. my entire home).

SSC: “I dunno.”

And the fire consumed me, as I became the bipolar antagonist who cycles through begging, bribing, pandering, and pleading, and ultimately falling to the ground, curled up in a ball, and surrendering.

Enter thief (or office supply disciplinarian…depending on your opinion of the role of my mini antagonist.)

SSC: “Hey Mama. I found him. He said he promises not to pinch now,” setting the coveted stapler aside his flailing caregiver.

Interjection: Sometimes I wonder if the Lord views my life as some sort of sitcom, highlighting the hilarious juxtaposition of moral lessons in submission and self control paired against, well…my life.

So I uncurl, brush off the cheerios once left for the littles in an attempt at breakfast, thank the thief for his confession, and compose myself enough to pack in the troops for Mission Completion: Project Submission.

To clarify any inquiries from my inevitable content editors, I didn’t forget to include a final chapter on the success of showers or necessary preparation of the little people prior to meeting with my professional mentors. You see, today’s sitcom was entitled “Priorities”. With that said, if any of you saw a mob of wild beasts being herded through the city the other afternoon, with the panicked leader clutching a briefcase in attempt to masquerade as “professional”, well….

I suppose next time, if you have a problem with our presentation, I might suggest that you just put me in time out. Maybe I’d finally learn those lessons in submission and self-control. Regardless, I wouldn’t mind getting lost for a little while anyways.

 

 

So I was discussing business and ethics with the 6 year old and I posed her the classic scenario of the penniless father stealing milk for his baby from the greedy store owner, and asked her who was being more ethical. This was the outcome…

Z: “Well, why doesn’t he just get a job, and be responsible?”
M: (winging it) “He tried. The store owner is cruel and won’t let him get a job.”
Z: “Then he should go apply next door?”
M: (still winging it) “Okay, the business owner owns EVERYTHING and he hates this man and won’t let him work anywhere. There are NO jobs!”
Z: “Well, he could just move, or maybe…why does he hate him?”
M: (losing it) “Ugh! Should he steal it or not?”
Z: “Well, couldn’t he just tell his wife to get a job?”
M: (lost it) “His wife died. She’s gone. He has no family…expect the starving baby! What does he do?”
Z: “Problem solved!”
M: (she lost me) “What?”
Z: “Life insurance!”