In the past week it seems like our house has literally been falling apart one piece at a time. It started with the plumbing. Escalated to the air conditioning. And then smaller things, like my vacuum, decided to join the club of broken valuables.
So our basement is flooding every time we do a load of laundry. Our house is hot, with one small exception. And now I can’t vacuum up messes. Overall, I am one spilled bowl of cereal away from a stiff drink and dozen donuts.
I’m overwhelmed, hot, and irritable, and then there are my children…who have been arguing constantly.
So here is how life goes: They snap at one another. I snap at them for snapping. Then they argue with me about who is actually at fault for the original grievance, and then full blown arguing begins. I try to calmly diffuse the situation, but nine times out of ten, Jonah’s voice goes high, Luke goes on the defensive, and Jude takes his stance as the boss until the moment ends with me yelling for everyone to stop.
It isn’t even 5:00 yet, and I am already exhausted and dreading this upcoming week.
This arguing isn’t normal for us, and when they act like this, I seriously doubt my effectiveness as a mother. I know that children argue and fight. It is completely normal, but I also know that when my children act like this, they deep down know better. A part of me feels like I am failing them. And because I am the way I am, I beat myself up about it.
And then I walk upstairs to their room and see a note pinned to the board above Jonah’s bed. And all of a sudden, I can breathe again.
I am not failing. Obviously I am doing something right.