sixes and sevens

I'm all at sixes and sevens this week. Still tired, although not as people-weary as I was. This week everything felt difficult. I lost energy rather than gained it, and the house descended into more and more chaos as the days went on. Everything I did was undone as soon as I did it. The smell in the kids' toilet wouldn't go away, even after I cleaned it. Yesterday the kitchen floor was covered in crumbs five minutes after I'd swept it. There was no point.

It didn't help that Paddy and I had slipped back into our old pattern of confrontation, our bugbear. I sat on the toilet crying and realised, for the first time, that I don't have to wear it any longer. That I can fight this thing that brings out the worst in both of us. That I can say "no" with as much freedom as I say "yes."And at the same time, in such a funny contradictory way, I realised that I can wear it, I can take it, that I would lay myself down again and again for this marriage and this family of mine.

This morning I read a quote from Richard Rohr at Heather King's Shirt of Flame and cried.

Christians indeed have a strange image of God: a naked, bleeding man, dying on a cross. It's not what you would think the image of God could be or should be. Is God eccentric here, or is it we who have not diagnosed the human situation correctly?
Jesus receives our hatred and does not return it. He suffers and does not make the other suffer. He does not first look at changing others, but pays the price of change within himself. He absorbs the mystery of human sin rather than passing it on. He does not use his suffering and death as power over others to punish them, but as power for others to transform them.

I read Luke 6 while I was crying on the toilet this week. You know, turn the other cheek, give your coat to the one who steals your shirt. This is how Eugene Peterson paraphrases it in The Message:

To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with the energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt, giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of you, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously. Here is a simple rule of thumb for behaviour: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the initiative and do it for them!

This is possibly the hardest, most misunderstood thing that Jesus ever taught. If we think it's describing a passive, gutless life, then we should think again. Jesus was not a victim. He could have walked away from the cross. Instead he was steadfast and unflinching, and what he accomplished was possible because he took his fate willingly. Giving is always a choice.


Luke 6 in The Message goes on like this;

Don't pick on people, jump on their failures, criticise their faults - unless, of course, you want the same treatment. Don't condemn those who are down; that hardness can boomerang. Be easy on people; you'll find life a lot easier. Give away your life; you'll find life given back, but not merely given back - given back with bonus and blessing. Giving, not getting, is the way. Generosity begets generosity.


I realise now, right now, that there are things in our marriage and in the daily grind of motherhood that I have subconsciously felt victim to, that I have felt I had no choice but to accept. That invisible victim-hood was a quiet, small fire that fueled on-going resentment. Resentment doesn't stay hidden, and it brings along its sister bitterness with it. Those two are a no-fail recipe for a hard heart.

I washed Abigail's feet this morning in the bathroom basin. She had run around in bare feet all day yesterday and I had forgotten to do it before I tucked her in last night. I was about to put socks on her this morning when I saw how filthy they were. I couldn't bring myself to put clean socks on all that dirt. She was happy as I gently rubbed her feet in the warm water. Even happier when I let her put some soap on her own hands and join in. Then I sat on the toilet with her on my knee and dried those two small feet. And I realised that service is the embodiment of my love for her, and the best way (along with physical affection) that I can assure her of that love.

I could walk away from it all. I could walk away from the battles, the impossible effort it seems to truly know and understand another person. I could walk away from the smelly toilet, the crumbs on the floor, and the weariness that chases me whichever way I turn. I could say no to all of it. But I won't.

tired

I know I've written this before, but I'm very tired. We are at the end of two weeks' school holidays, and it has been lovely having the girls at home, but a bit too busy for my liking. Somehow the days turned into a blur of social visits and errands. And added to that, I've developed a bad habit of staying up too late. It's not a winning combination!

Tomorrow we are heading off to our church camp for the long weekend. The girls are beside themselves with excitement, and we'll have a great time. But I have to say that the thought of spending all weekend with large numbers of people just makes me feel even more tired.

It's taken me nearly all of my life to admit that I really am an introvert. I used to think I was an extrovert. I'm pretty outgoing and I love people. I remember at one point a long time ago thinking "why would I ever want to sit in a room by myself and write?" Now I'm in no doubt at all. All I want to do is sit in a room by myself and write!

I read this post at Conversion Diary about being overwhelmed and it made me think back to the days when I couldn't even recognise let alone understand my emotional state. I've experienced exhaustion and burnout more than once. For me, they have always triggered depression. But even though I had helpful counselling each time, I never recognised that part of my exhaustion was related to my introverted-ness. I was an introvert living like an extrovert and it was almost killing me.

Now I get it. I'm tired right now, not just because I've been staying up too late, but because I just haven't had much time to myself over the last two weeks. In the past this feeling would have had me worried that I was doing too much, and the feeling of wanting everyone else to go away and stop talking to me would have made me think I was on the road towards burnout again. But now I understand, that feeling is simple. It just means I need everyone else to go away and stop talking to me!

In her post about being overwhelmed, Jenn at Conversion Diary describes the emergency "burnout gas mask" steps she takes as soon as she starts feeling overwhelmed. I like the idea of having steps that I have already thought through and default to automatically as soon as I start to feel really tired or overwhelmed. These would be mine. As in, I should be following them right now.

1. Quiet.

2. Sleep.

3. Write.

4. Time alone.

Unfortunately not all of these things are completely within my control. I'll have to ask for help. But I know that if I don't, I'll only feel worse. It's a no-brainer really.

meet my enemy

Meet our stove. It looks pretty innocuous, right, a very ordinary stove. But don't be deceived. This stove is a menace. I've been cooking on this stove for nearly four months now, since we moved here in June, and I can tell you, this stove is nasty!

Let me tell you why. Only one element can actually be turned down. The other three just burn and burn. The largest one in particular gets so hot that I'm scared I'll hurt myself. And it's only got one setting. Burning hot. It turns off, but it will not turn down. 

In the first weeks after we moved here I swore a lot in the kitchen. I even cried a couple of times. Every pot we own now has black on the bottom. I've burnt everything from rice to potatoes, eggs and even the onion and carrot I was trying to sweat to make soup. Tell me how am I supposed to cook something on a low heat when none of the elements produce a low heat? 

I can tell you I've tried everything. I've had two elements on at the same time, one being small and therefore slightly (slightly!) cooler than the other, and I've moved the pot from one to the other. I've tried every element and every setting on every element, going through all the options in case I'd missed the magic combination. I've even resorted to standing in front of the stove and lifting the pan about fifteen centimetres off the element and cooking that way. (It still cooks!) Everything boils over at some point, so the trays under the element are covered in black and often with a little pool of old cooking water that burns up the next time I use that element and stinks the house out.

So after the first two months we realised the stove had to go, and we started making plans to buy a new one. Now, sitting in the kitchen next to the said stove, is a second hand but shiny and beautiful stove. It's gas top and electric oven, it's big, and it's getting installed today. We won't know ourselves! 

When I finally got to show mum how bad our stove was she couldn't believe we'd put up with it so long. I told another friend about it and her reaction was the same. "It must drive you mad!" was her reaction, or something along those lines. 

The funny thing is that after I admitted how bad that stove was, and once we'd decided to eventually get a new one, the stove stopped making me mad. I even stopped swearing about it (mostly!) The food was still burning, and the pots were still turning black, but it didn't get to me anymore. I just expected it.

I was thinking about this one day this week, on a day when Abigail was being particularly trying. It was one of those days where she was climbing on the tables, opening the fridge and helping herself to a glass of milk, getting the bread out and trying to make her own lunch, and throwing the girls' best coloured pencils all over the floor. It was the kind of day that when Paddy wakes up from his day's sleeping and comes out to see us the first thing he hears from my mouth is "that baby is driving me nuts!"

But somehow, in the midst of cleaning the honey off the floor, and picking up the coloured pencils for the umpteenth time, my frazzled brain managed to make the connection between my frustration with Abigail and my frustration with the stove. And I realised I'd started to feel like Abigail, that sweet two year old of mine, was my enemy.

Now I was smart enough to know, once I'd figured that much out, that there was no point in going down that track. If I continued to see that two year old as the source of all my problems and frustration I would only end up more frustrated, and she would probably end up on the unfortunate end of a fair bit of venting. And that wouldn't be fair on her. 

So I'm adjusting my expectations. I'm no longer surprised when she chucks the girls' pencils all over the floor. I hardly blink when she grabs a glass and helps herself to water out of the water dispenser. I merely make a murmur of disapproval when she helps herself to the milk and pours it, half into the cup and half on the floor. And I now know that she's capable of getting herself a slice of bread from the fridge and helping herself to the pourable honey from the pantry. These things no longer take me by surprise. And I'm reminding myself that she won't be two forever.

Frustration can be blinding. We rarely think straight when we are frustrated. And frustration leads to resentment and resentment becomes a weight that's very hard to shift. It makes us desperate for a scape goat, desperate to lay the blame somewhere, because if we are going to feel this bad we might as well have a good reason for it. 

That stove wasn't my enemy, it was just a malfunctioning stove, and Abigail's not my enemy either, of course. She's just a very determined two year old, who will only be two for eight more months. Right now I should be giving her breakfast, but she wouldn't let me put her in the high chair. She wanted to join in the with the big girls' game of school. So she sat down on a little chair in front of them and turned the pages of an old biology text book, and talked to herself about "buzzy bees." Then while I was writing this she came over to the servery behind me, reached up and grabbed Isobella's bowl of half-eaten cereal, and pulled up a chair. She's sitting next to me eating it now with an adult size spoon, and the milk is going all the way down her front and onto the chair. At least I'm not surprised!

Poetry Friday : Instructions for how to get ahead of yourself while the light still shines

If you have a bike, get on it at night
and go to the top of the Brooklyn Hill.

When you reach the top
start smiling - this is Happy Valley Road.

Pedal at first, then let the road take you down
into the dark as black as underground
broken by circles of yellow lowered by the street lights.

As you come to each light
you will notice a figure
racing up behind.
Don't be scared
this is you creeping up on yourself.
As you pass under the light
you will sail past yourself into the night.

Jenny Borhholdt, Miss New Zealand: selected poems
(Wellington: Victoria University Press, 1997)

Because this poem has always made me smile!

More Poetry Friday once it's Friday at Great Kid Books.