For my Catholic readers, have you ever been so acutely aware of your need for Confession (not talking mortal sins here, just a metric ton of venials) that you could literally feel the obstacles stacked between you and God’s grace? Yeah, that was me the past, oh, 3 weeks or so.
I normally don’t let 2 months lapse between visits to the box because I am one angry mother when I don’t regularly take out the trash — it’s so much more apparent than before I had children and a husband to care for. It was easy, at least for me, as a single person to kinda let things sliiiiiide in the reconciliation department because honestly, I didn’t have all that much in my life riding on me being in a state of grace. I mean, except for the glaringly obvious possibility of dying while being willfully separated from the mercy of God. Yeah. But other than that…it wasn’t all that obvious to me when it had been ‘too long’ so to speak, in between sacramental sessions.
Now I have children and a spouse, each of whom challenge me in unique ways and each of whom are worthy of my best self, not the nasty sin-bedraggled self who loses her damn mind when watermelon rinds end up in the toy box and wet towels are slung across her precious footboard. I mean honestly, sometimes I can lose sight of what is a legitimate complaint (using the shower curtain as toilet paper comes readily to mind) and what is merely something that comes with the territory, something that I shouldn’t let drive me down the road to rage but should instead calmly and serenely correct and then forgive.
This second category would probably involve every particle of food under our kitchen table. And perhaps dirty socks that are bunched up rather than stretched out. And, okay, fine, crystalized toddler urine ringing the toilet seat and, frankly, the entire “guest” bathroom. (Boy moms: Does anyone else have such a hideous toilet situation that you direct your guests to tromp through your bedroom to use the master bath rather than face the shameful music to the tune of tinkle tinkle in the secondary latrine? No? Just me?)
Anyway, confession. It’s amazing how fresh and clean the week can seem when Sunday starts out with a double dose of Sacramental grace. Add to that the two excellent books I devoured this past week (the Nesting Place in a matter of hours, truth be told) and I’m just feeling so much more rightly ordered. And I know they know, if you know what I mean. At lunchtime Joey smiled and me and said “You’re pretty when you make a happy face, Mommy.” to which John Paul immediately chimed in “You’re pwetty mama.”
I’ll take it, boys. But don’t think I didn’t see the pile of bread crusts and roly-polies (sicksicksick) you left me under the kitchen table. Lucky for you mommy’s soul was in a state equal to the challenge.
p.s. Speaking of walking (which we weren’t, but, you know, last week we were…thanks for the huge response!) this made me feel even more firm in my resolve to move mah buns every day. Who knew?