Today I woke up in a funk.
If I were to rate it on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being twirling-in-a-meadow-Sound-of-Music-style happy, and 1 being curled up in the fetal position crying and sucking my thumb, I'd say I woke up at a 3; maybe even a 2.5. My emotions were under control, but just barely.
The kids were fussy and quarrelsome, I was barely keeping my temper in check, my throat hurt badly (I think it's my turn to catch what's been going around) and my voice was pretty much nonexistent, not to mention the constant siren call of the guilt of unfolded laundry and uncleaned bathrooms.
I sent out a group text to cancel Joy School (it was supposed to be my turn to teach) and settled in for a long day of single parenting (while Steve returned from his trip on Sunday night, he has to be at either work or the library studying for another major test until late tonight; hence, I'm on my own once again).
Suddenly, I had a brilliant brainstorm--I was in a funk, so why not do some exercising in the front room with the kids? That required next to no talking, thus saving my voice, but hopefully could bring in some positive endorphines that were much-needed by me and my emotionally charged crew.
So I found an exercise video on our TV and encouraged the kids to join me in an aerobic workout (I know better than to try any kind of floor workouts with a bunch of kids who love to jump on me any chance they get).
Jack refused, sullen-teenager style, and instead sat on the couch sucking his thumb watching us, and Clark and Maggie joined me, making me laugh as they attempted to do aerobic steps in the way only little toddlers can.
By the time we got through about half of the warm-up, Clark and Maggie were bored and whining. Trying to remain undaunted, I got through about half of the work-out, using various kids as my weights and trying to make it fun, but after so much clinging and whining, I finally gave up the fight at minute 27 of a 56-minute workout, and instead turned my N*Sync Pandora station on, thinking I could make up the rest of my workout out of dancing crazily to my high school memories.
The kids enjoyed the change of pace at first, coming up with different styles of races we could do across the house, and then, at one point where I was squatting and putting my head down, Maggie came up to me, crying, and we bonked heads. Hard.
I immediately started crying, as did Maggie, and picked her up, turned off the music, and sat on the couch, feeling sorry for myself for a few minutes before I picked myself up and decided to try to get over it.
I'm still in my sweaty clothes, having gotten in approximately 2/3rds of a decent workout, not sure when or how I'll get a shower in before my piano lessons start, and listening to Jack whine about how we never do what he wants to do (namely, play board games with hundreds of tiny, toddler-inappropriate parts that are impossible to get through with the two younger ones about or build castles out of cans that I just organized yesterday and feel somewhat hesitant to completely unarrange), while Clark and Maggie bicker in the front room.
In The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis mentioned "ebbs and flows." Our lives go through high points and low points, and as humans, we sometimes get so blinded in the midst of those changes that when we are at a high point, we can be tempted to feel invincible and prideful, and when we are in the midst of a low point, we are tempted to feel despair and hopelessness. We often forget that change is the only constant thing, and get stuck on the idea that things will remain at their present state (good or bad) forever.
I realize right now that, due to several factors (some within my control, most out of my control), my mental and emotional health is at a relatively low point right now. It's February, my husband is necessarily gone a lot, and I'm trying to juggle a part-time at home job on top of taking care of three children who are still just getting over some major illnesses. I get it, and if I let myself, it's easy to believe that things will never get better; that I'll always feel stretched too thin and on the verge of losing it at all times.
But I remember feeling this way last February, and the February before, and when I went through PPD after each of my three children were born. We humans need to experience a little of the darkness to better appreciate the light, and if that means that I'll appreciate it all the more when I can get through an exercise video with no one but me crying about it, I'll take the lows I'm experiencing right now.
To borrow from my scale at the beginning of this post, I'd rather hit a 1 once in a while to get to the joyfulness of the 10s later on than to be stuck at a numb 5 for the rest of my life. And I'm pretty sure that's how God planned it to be.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean up a board game and its hundreds of tiny pieces.
If I were to rate it on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being twirling-in-a-meadow-Sound-of-Music-style happy, and 1 being curled up in the fetal position crying and sucking my thumb, I'd say I woke up at a 3; maybe even a 2.5. My emotions were under control, but just barely.
The kids were fussy and quarrelsome, I was barely keeping my temper in check, my throat hurt badly (I think it's my turn to catch what's been going around) and my voice was pretty much nonexistent, not to mention the constant siren call of the guilt of unfolded laundry and uncleaned bathrooms.
I sent out a group text to cancel Joy School (it was supposed to be my turn to teach) and settled in for a long day of single parenting (while Steve returned from his trip on Sunday night, he has to be at either work or the library studying for another major test until late tonight; hence, I'm on my own once again).
Suddenly, I had a brilliant brainstorm--I was in a funk, so why not do some exercising in the front room with the kids? That required next to no talking, thus saving my voice, but hopefully could bring in some positive endorphines that were much-needed by me and my emotionally charged crew.
So I found an exercise video on our TV and encouraged the kids to join me in an aerobic workout (I know better than to try any kind of floor workouts with a bunch of kids who love to jump on me any chance they get).
Jack refused, sullen-teenager style, and instead sat on the couch sucking his thumb watching us, and Clark and Maggie joined me, making me laugh as they attempted to do aerobic steps in the way only little toddlers can.
By the time we got through about half of the warm-up, Clark and Maggie were bored and whining. Trying to remain undaunted, I got through about half of the work-out, using various kids as my weights and trying to make it fun, but after so much clinging and whining, I finally gave up the fight at minute 27 of a 56-minute workout, and instead turned my N*Sync Pandora station on, thinking I could make up the rest of my workout out of dancing crazily to my high school memories.
The kids enjoyed the change of pace at first, coming up with different styles of races we could do across the house, and then, at one point where I was squatting and putting my head down, Maggie came up to me, crying, and we bonked heads. Hard.
I immediately started crying, as did Maggie, and picked her up, turned off the music, and sat on the couch, feeling sorry for myself for a few minutes before I picked myself up and decided to try to get over it.
I'm still in my sweaty clothes, having gotten in approximately 2/3rds of a decent workout, not sure when or how I'll get a shower in before my piano lessons start, and listening to Jack whine about how we never do what he wants to do (namely, play board games with hundreds of tiny, toddler-inappropriate parts that are impossible to get through with the two younger ones about or build castles out of cans that I just organized yesterday and feel somewhat hesitant to completely unarrange), while Clark and Maggie bicker in the front room.
In The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis mentioned "ebbs and flows." Our lives go through high points and low points, and as humans, we sometimes get so blinded in the midst of those changes that when we are at a high point, we can be tempted to feel invincible and prideful, and when we are in the midst of a low point, we are tempted to feel despair and hopelessness. We often forget that change is the only constant thing, and get stuck on the idea that things will remain at their present state (good or bad) forever.
I realize right now that, due to several factors (some within my control, most out of my control), my mental and emotional health is at a relatively low point right now. It's February, my husband is necessarily gone a lot, and I'm trying to juggle a part-time at home job on top of taking care of three children who are still just getting over some major illnesses. I get it, and if I let myself, it's easy to believe that things will never get better; that I'll always feel stretched too thin and on the verge of losing it at all times.
But I remember feeling this way last February, and the February before, and when I went through PPD after each of my three children were born. We humans need to experience a little of the darkness to better appreciate the light, and if that means that I'll appreciate it all the more when I can get through an exercise video with no one but me crying about it, I'll take the lows I'm experiencing right now.
To borrow from my scale at the beginning of this post, I'd rather hit a 1 once in a while to get to the joyfulness of the 10s later on than to be stuck at a numb 5 for the rest of my life. And I'm pretty sure that's how God planned it to be.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to clean up a board game and its hundreds of tiny pieces.
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