Friday, May 6, 2016

Finish Something.

That's my pep talk to myself today. 

After suffering with a 48 hour Bubonic Plague-like vomit virus, my house looks like a bomb went off. My dining room table has a halfway finished basket of clothes on top of it, approximately 13 items of clothing that happened to get folded yesterday, along with two opened and spilled boxes of PlayDoh supplies. (Thanks to my pushed-to-the-last-minute Mother's Day craft.)

My breakfast nook table isn't any better. Gulp. There are four semi-eaten, quickly congealing bowls of oatmeal perched atop it along with the other half of our Mother's Day project. My sink is overflowing, my countertops are barely visible and there is a pile of towels waiting to be washed that's as tall as I am. There are more clothes in the washer, more in the dryer and even more in the dirty laundry hampers. 

My poor husband, bless his heart, walked through our living room last night and declared it a disaster zone. We worked to pick up most of the insanity, but in a mere two hours this morning (Thanks in large part to very early wake times from ALL THREE of the kids.) our task appears to have been done in vain. 

There are toys and train tracks and tiny scraps of paper EVERYWHERE. Yay for patterned cutting scissors! (NOT.) There is not a single area of my house that is tidy. Clutter is like visual noise to me and the current state of things is driving me crazy and making me itch. It's overwhelming and over stimulating and I just threw up in my mouth a little. 

I wish was able to handle messes and piles and stacks of things, I really do. It's humbling because I realize that there are times God uses chaos to teach me to relax and rely on Him for contentment instead of seeking peace from a well vacuumed rug and neatly stacked bookshelves. SO I UNDERSTAND THE POOL OF HYPOCRISY I AM CURRENTLY STANDING KNEE DEEP IN. 

And it'd be easy for me to run around, putting out tiny fires of clutter all day and not really accomplish anything by 6pm tonight. I could huff and puff through my rooms, flitting from one incomplete chore to the next, starting all sorts of tasks but not finishing any them. But, if I really want to make progress, if I really want to get things done, I need to FINISH SOMETHING. Anything. 

Empty the dishwasher. Put the stacks of clothes away. Take out the recycling. File the mail. Clear off the breakfast nook table and wipe it down. Put the cast iron pans back into the oven for storage. Take out the bathroom trash and replace the liner. (Or, if you're like me- use an empty WalMart bag.::wink::) These are all chores that are waiting for me plus about 392 more. 

 I can walk into a room and see at least 7 chores like these that have been started and have been left incomplete. And, when things happen like 48 straight hours of projectile vomiting, your house is going to get turned upside down like mine is now. But when the dust settles and you are successfully digesting food again, you'll have your work cut out for you like I do today. But before you get flustered and frustrated and overwhelmed with all the things that need to be done, look around at what's almost done and FINISH SOMETHING. 

You'll feel like you've accomplishes something (AND YOU HAVE!) and that will push you on to finishing more and more and more. My motto for today will be to Finish Something, so that as I walk and work and worry about all the things I have to take care of today I'll remember that progress, no matter how small it may be, is still progress. 

Thanks for stopping by, y'all. 
Now I've got to go make up for the half hour I lost writing all this. I'll start in the kitchen! ('Cause that's where the coffee is.) ~Katie. 

Monday, May 2, 2016

PMS is A Liar.

I don't hate my husband's job, but PMS can make me feel like I do. 

 My husband has a fantastic job as a Project Manager (Way to go on your recent promotion, Boo!) with a nationally based HVAC company. He works hard. REALLY HARD. Like he-doesn't-see-the-kids-for-days-at-a-time some weeks kinda busy. It can really stink sometimes. However, the flip side is that, on some other weeks, he's able to hide at his desk answering phone calls and emails while listening to the screeches and screams and school noise work from home most days so our breakfasts and lunches and prenap time snuggles get to include him some, too. 

And y'all, most weeks I'm fine with his hectic schedule. I can roll with the punches and dig in deep to do the afternoons and evenings and suppers and bathtub water fights and teeth flossing and Bible reading and all the rest of our seemingly endless nighttime routine by myself. (How many times do I have to keep going into bedrooms before I turn into a zombie?? I do not know, but the current count is approximately 73.) I can survive it, mostly, with a can-do attitude and a few extra cups of coffee and not grumble too much. Bless.

BUT THERE IS ONE WEEK(ish) A MONTH WHEN I CAN NOT EVEN DEAL. Every late night is a personal attack. Every interrupted meal is a targeted insult. Every phone call from a job site wounds. The chip on my shoulder grows larger and my resentments build. I become moody and temperamental and extremely self centered. Gulp.

And it's not just my husband working late. PMS makes me believe that my kids are villains and my house is one step away from being declared a hazardous waste zone. I clean and scrub and still never feel like I accomplish anything. My pants are too tight and my fuse is too short. I storm through the days feeling irritable and vulnerable. I bark orders and pick fights over trivial things like forgotten coffee cups and misplaced marker caps and towels that don't get hung back on their hooks. I'm a 100% hot mess. And it ain't pretty, I'll admit it.

I can feel myself over reacting, and in the deepest part of my heart I know I'm wrong to do it, but the bigger, louder voice spoken by my hormones is sometimes too strong to withstand. So I snap! I harangue the kids and hassle my husband and hate myself while doing it. It's a vicious cycle of self pity and victimization and irritation and lost tempers and guilty consciences. 

Hormones are a beast, y'all. I've changed my lifestyle and eating habits and started taking some supplements that have helped me tackle these mood wrecking monsters TREMENDOUSLY. I feel better now than I ever have, but I still have to work to keep my guard up. PMS may try to convince me that I hate my life, but I've been given far too many blessings to allow myself to believe it. 

My husband is gearing up to face some long, tough days in the next week or so and it'll come just around the same time that I'll be looking to fight some long, tough days of my own. I'll survive by straight up coasting through some days, loosening the reigns of my clean freak/control freak nature, making tons of skinny chocolate and brewing loads of coffee. And I'll make myself go back and re-read this post to remind me that the world doesn't revolve around my monthly calendar.

PMS can make me feel like a victim BUT PMS IS A BIG, FAT LIAR. So there.