I am MAD

I've used this blog so far as a tool of connection between ourselves and our long-distance loved ones. It will remain that, of course, but I think I need to use it as of a chronicle of the lives and doings, opinions and emotions of Team Schweg, including myself, more than I have. The main thing that will change in this shift will be that I censor less. So hold on to your hats, or stop reading now, because I AM MAD.

I'm in a fight with myself and my current surroundings. As today progresses, instead of being able to talk myself out of the things that bother me, as (believe me) I have been trying to do, I find further things to swirl me downward. Some of them are irrational. A lot of them unfair. Nearly all of them are exquisitely human and some readers may lose respect for me for having them, or at least for admitting them so publicly. So, be it. I will get over this moment. I always do, but I feel like I need to write this down anyway. A few purposes behind that: 1) it should help me purge and move forward; 2) it's real, and it's good for me to not pretend all the time; and 3) my kids should be able to see that mommy had bad days sometimes and was cranky and threw fits and handled things poorly, awkwardly, or not at all, and she was still a decent person and didn't get struck down off the face of the earth because of it.

So, I'm in a snit. I'm mad that I need a new bed and can't afford it, so I wake up sore everyday. I'm irritated that I haven't had time to make a new batch of soap in months. I'm frustrated because my basement is flooding again and I can't find the source to stem the flow. I'm livid with myself for not getting everything in plastic bins and up off the floor since the LAST time it flooded down there. I'm unhappy that my basement--hey, let's be brutally honest--my entire existence, is so unorganized. I'm agitated that school is almost back in session and I didn't accomplish the goals with the children that I had hoped to. I'm vexed by the existence of Japanese beetles. I'm perturbed at how many times I have to repeat myself to get the kids into action, and how many times I have to repeat the steps to what seems a simple idea, and how often I have to stress and stress and stress the importance of something basic that someone has been doing wrong repeatedly for MONTHS, in spite of incessant, detailed instruction. I'm sickened by how that reminds of how Heavenly Father must feel about me. I'm furious our vehicles refuse to function perfectly and maintain pristine working order, and that my husband desperately needs a new car and I have to keep telling him we can't afford it right now. I'm galled with myself for blogging instead of working right now. I'm distraught that I don't know how to use power tools, or how to build a fence by myself so I can't help around the farm more. I'm disheartened by the knowledge that there is one person on this planet whom I truly, fervently hate. I'm boiling that we have had repeated predator strikes on our property again this year. I'm enraged that I keep incurring injury after injury so I never can seem to catch up. I'm irate that this also keeps interfering with my exercise program, and I'm perturbed that this makes me lazy, making it harder to get back into a program once I'm healed, however briefly. I'm annoyed that every day feels like I run around putting out fire after fire but never accomplishing anything concrete. I'm rankled that it seems the household supply of towels is a constant state of varying levels of dampness. I'm irked that all the band-aids are always used up. I'm bugged that my family doesn't see the things that need to be done and just automatically help. I'm chafed that when I do ask for help, I get blank stares, sighs, or even tantrums. I'm displeased that this upsets me like it does. I'm bothered that even for an instant I think of refusing new callings when I'm extended them. I'm exasperated that I can't catch up on laundry. I'm nettled that no one seems to be able to find the laundry hamper. Ever. I'm aggravated I still haven't taught myself to sew, quilt, can, dehydrate, and all other things homemaker-ly yet. I'm infuriated at dust. I'm incensed that we keep trying to do the right things and it seems we keep getting kicked for doing so. I'm offended that my hernia won't heal on its own. I'm peeved that I seem to be the only one able to find anything in this house. I'm perturbed that some of that is actually my fault. I'm indignant that I haven't been visit taught in months, and worried that I may have given the impression I don't need to be visited. I'm troubled that my kids are going back to school and I worry they will be behind. I'm terrified of summer-brain-drain, and feel like it will be my fault if they struggle. I'm plagued by the thought of sending them back into a school system that, for all its virtues, I know is flawed, and I'm frankly, freaked out about what they might learn from their fellow students. I'm distressed that I don't feel like I could handle home-schooling. Overall, I so want to be that all-nurturing, perfectly-organized, stunningly-prepared mother who flits from job to job, performing them effortlessly, children following behind, learning from every opportunity, stepping in mother's footsteps, growing into capable, responsible, loving, respectful, and skilled citizens of society. I rage at myself that I in no way resemble that woman.

 I scowl within my soul, at the uncooperative muck of my character that refuses to take the appropriate, desirable shape. What is wrong with you, soul? Why do you want to just be the person who is perpetually late, constantly harried, consistently forgetful, and always at least a step behind? Don't you WANT to be better? Don't you YEARN to grow? Don't you ache for--not perfection, but--something better than your current self? The answer pounding inside my heart and mind is a resounding, pathetic, plaintive "YES!" But then there is that ornery, squirrely, sticky blackness, the dregs of myself that catch hold of the willing, chuckling sinisterly, knowing that a little restlessness, a little sloth, a little defiance go a long, long way to pull down the good. The tarry, persistent, ugly "natural man." How I despise you. And yet how I cling to you, or rather, let you cling to me, as something finite, real, and present.

This is not written as a cry for help. It is not a pity-party. It is not a ballad of a lost soul who needs directed back to gratitude and God. I know all the right answers. I know the correct path. I know how to apply the balm of sacrifice, service, and sanctity. This is merely an acknowledgement of my current frailty, a snapshot of a weak day amidst the struggle of relative success. A cathartic ode to my purely human self.

The chasm of never-ending possible complaints seems, at times, too wide to bridge. But then, I give myself permission to feel it all, to rail against the injustice, the unfairness, and the just plain sucky. To embrace my humanity, because it is part of me, part of the plan, part of all of this jumble of existence that I need to figure out and master. As I feel it, it begins to dissolve and dissipate, like so much fog when the sun comes out. Then there is space, space for humility, gratitude, and love to come in. The flood of what is good, what is right, and how I don't have to be the one to bridge the gap rushes in to buoy me up, to lift me to the highland, to erase the less-than-perfect, or at least put it in its proper perspective.

And after all that, believe it or not, my dear ones, I have peace.