Losing Perspective

I sat in the kitchen chair, filled to the brim with tension. I could feel the anger bubbling at the base of my skull, and it was going to blow if one more person interrupted me.

And they did.

KA-BOOOOM!

"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M TRYING TO MAKE YOU A GIANT FLOOR PILLOW SO THAT I'M A GOOD MOMMY AND YOUR CHILDHOOD IS COMPLETE??? WELL??? CAN'T YOU!?!?!?"

The frightened little person (whom I couldn't see clearly due to the amount of smoke and steam that had violently exited my face) ran off, and I turned back to my sewing machine. Because, I assured myself, they needed giant floor pillows.

And then the guilt crept in. 

It always does.

Because, even though I feel accomplished for having made giant floor pillows, or Loch Ness Monsters, or quiet books, blankets, or whatever, what they need is a mommy who doesn't explode like Mt. St. Helen every five minutes.

And that's hard for someone who likes "accomplishing" things. 

Today was particularly sad for my children. 

I blew my stack.

They scurried away.

Wash.

Rinse.

Repeat.

After progressing like this through the entire day, my children beside themselves with their irrationally cranky mommy who was "doing things for their benefit," I sat disgruntled in my chair unsuccessfully regaining any composure.

The kids had scattered, and I was trying to work, dang it.

One by one, though, they each tried to come near me, only to be shooed away.

Finally, Eden, not knowing what to do with such a mother, wrapped herself in her well-loved blanket, inched across the kitchen floor, shuffling her chubby feet, then stopped at my side, and rested her head on my arm, her eyes looking up at me with confusion and sadness.

I would like to say I tossed everything to the wind, and repented of my wrongs, but I didn't. I kept going, just wanting to get what I needed finished finished.

But that doesn't change the fact that my kids don't want giant floor pillows, or Loch Ness Monsters, or 50 different books on composers, artists, or inventors like I think they do.

They want me.

They don't care if I'm in my pajamas. 

They don't care if I'm not "on top of it." 

They don't care if I need to lose weight.

They just want a soft place to go to, and while pillows are a bonus, they only want them if mama isn't a crazy mess. 

My heart aches that I crumpled this day for them. Childhood is fleeting enough without having to deal with grumpy adults. 

I only hope that those great big hearts in those tiny bodies will have enough compassion on such a flawed woman to forgive her for not being a real mama today, and that they'll let me make tomorrow a better one for them.