Every Day

Every day Noah wakes me up at 6:30 am, screaming as if someone is choking the lifeblood out of him. His wake up times have risen steadily over the last month and I'm afraid he'll start waking at 6:00 am soon if I go to him immediately when he cries. And so I wait until 7:00 am to relieve him, the whole time, my bones aching with stress and sadness at the sound of my wailing child. "Good" morning.

The bane and boon of my existence--all joy and no fun.

Every day I face a mountain of dishes. And I heroically tackle that mountain, only to find another, even higher mountain materialize after lunch. I tackle that one with all the spare time I can muster. And then I tackle the Mount Everest of them all after dinner. I've learned that emptying the dish drying rack is just as crucial as washing dirty dishes. And surprisingly, it takes just as long.

Every day I look at piles of laundry in various stages of unwash and feel defeated.

Every day I rack my brain trying to figure out what to feed Judah, The Pickiest Eater on Earth. Noah is not a great eater either. Whenever meal time rolls around I have a mini-panic attack.

Every day Noah naps for 40 minutes and then cries indefinitely until I hold him for the rest of his 2-hour nap time. Of course I can't be holding him for an hour and 20 minutes each day so I let him cry. And again I feel like dying a thousand miserable deaths.

Every day I look around the house and frown at all the things that are not in their rightful place. Why is my toothbrush on the couch? How did Noah's shoe get under the kitchen table? All the upstairs things are downstairs and the downstairs things are upstairs. And I ask myself The Question--is it worth the effort to set it right only to have the kids mess it up again in an hour or so?

Every day I look at the dry rough patches and open sores on Noah's body--where his lower ears connect to his face, his chin area, his knees and calves, his feet and hands, the back of his neck--due to his eczema and I feel like a failure. Each rough patch whispers silent condemnation--you've failed. You've failed to cream him as much as you should. You've failed to figure out the right combo of creams to use. You've failed to adequately care for your baby. But the worst feelings of failure by far is when I open up his diaper to find that a huge, slightly acidic dump has started to eat away at his skin because I didn't know he had a dirty diaper for God knows how long. You'd think I would smell those suckers from a mile away, but I have honestly lost my sense of smell.

Every day I am doing house chores, washing, cleaning, picking up, setting right, activities up until my 10:30 pm bedtime.

Every day I feel like an over-educated domestic servant.

Every day I pray for sleep. And I thank God for mercy. I thank God I got through another day in which I did not too badly emotionally scar my kids (I think, I hope) by yelling my head off and shaking with rage at the end of what always feels like a looooooooong day.

Every day my will is thwarted. My desires are frustrated. My ability to have any meaningful control over my day is mocked. I have mini-tantrums and seethe that I never get my way.

And I feel like a stone being pummeled and worn down by the massive, unrelenting, magnificent ocean waves. And I am changing...into what, I do not yet know.