Whack a Mole, Smoothie, and Catch Me Some Rain

The parable of "Whack a Mole" 

For the past year I've felt like I was playing an impossible, never-ending game of "Whack a Mole." The moles were each different aspects of my life that needed attention.
"Do the dishes" *whack* "no clean dishes" *whack*
"Meal plan" *whack* "something in the back of the fridge is moldy" *whack* "what's for dinner? *whack* "I don't like this food. Can I have a cheese stick?"
"Work on your marriage!" *Whack!* "We're not a good fit." *whack* "He deserves better than me."
"You need to eat healthier!" *Whack* "You still have no energy."
"Read the book your kid has been asking for" *whack* "read it again" *whack* "AGAIN" *WHACK!*
"work on your church calling" *whack* "You should be doing more" *whack* "You're terrible at this"
"Keep your house clean! Your piano students won't want to come if it's this filthy" *Whack* "The kids storm through and leave hurricane wreckage" *whack* (That mole is my least favorite.)
"Laundry!" *Whack* "Laundry!" *Whack* "LAUNDRYYYYYYYYYY!" *Whack whack WHACK* (that one is broken and never stays down)

In the last few months I've started to feel like the Whack a Mole game is actually reversed. I'm not the player, I'm the moles. Life/my depression is the one with the mallet and it's kicking my butt.
"I did the dishes!" *whack* "they're dirty again"
"I put away the laundry!" *whack* "Ammon wet the bed. Start over"
"I'm doing okay! *whack* "now you're sick."
"I found an antidepressant that is making a difference!" *Whack* "depression slams back in unexpectedly. I should seek medical help again" *WHACK* "why bother. I'm broken and that's just the way I am. 7 other psychiatric medications haven't been able to fix me and drugs are all that doctors really have to offer."

Some days I feel like I wake up to life slamming the mallet into the holes. Cracks are forming in the plastic above me. I haven't even gotten up yet and if I do I'll just get knocked back down again.

I want to stop playing for a few minutes to catch my breath. But there's no off switch.


The Parable of the Smoothie

Having kids is like making a smoothie. Everyone told me how delicious it would be, but that it's also messy. As I anticipated Quin's birth I proverbially gathered all the ingredients together, breathlessly excited to turn it on and see what motherhood tastes like. I set my cup out on the counter, but wait; where's the lid? I open the cupboard to look. In my moment of absence "life/reality" saunters up to the blender with a wicked grin on his face and turns it on high speed. My beautiful, carefully placed ingredients catapult in a fantastic mess all over the kitchen. The smoothie is now covering the ceiling, walls, papers stuck to the fridge, the counter. And yes, is very sweet. Sweeter than I could have imagined, but it's also very a mess. I scoop up as much as I can into my cup, determined to enjoy it as much as possible. Everyone reminds me how amazingly good it is and to enjoy every sip. I smile and nod, trying to stop the dripping from the ceiling, slipping on the puddle on the floor. It's as if this exact scenario has happened to every other parent, but the older ones only remember the taste of the smoothie and not the overwhelm of the sudden mess. It is so delicious, I can't get enough. But that's because it's sprayed everywhere. I'm trapped between wanting to savor the delicious moments of motherhood I've managed to scoop up and feeling the need to hurry and just clean it all up before it dries and gets sticky. I love it, but it's hard in ways I didn't anticipate. And I would encourage other people to make their own smoothie if they desire, but know that it's not going to turn out the way they plan.


I'm getting thirsty, catch me some rain

Me and the 3 kids were at a 3 year old's birthday party. The weather started out okay but suddenly gloomy clouds converged and burst in a torrent of rain. In the covered area we enjoyed cake and the remnants of dinner. After eating cake, Quin became thirsty. There was only apple juice, which apparently would not work for him. Water was required. My water bottle has been trapped in the boys room for the last few weeks, thus I did not have any water to offer him. The drinking fountain had been de-commissioned and moss and a few sprigs of grass popped up from the hole where the drain used to be. There wasn't even any metal left, it was just the concrete stump of what was once an edifice of sustenance. As things escalated from silly to ridiculous, I jokingly suggested to Quin that he could walk out into the rain and open his mouth to catch some if he wouldn't drink the apple juice. He considered this for a moment and then ordered me to use a small plastic cup and catch him some rain. I had Ruby in the baby carrier with no way to shield her sleeping head from the rain, so I politely declined. He persisted. I encouraged him to make the attempt himself, repeatedly suggesting we return home where adequate hydration abounds. Eventually he did try to catch some rain, but ultimately he became more agitated as the erratic drops landed everywhere but his outstretched cup (which he was darting back and forth). A tantrum erupted from inside him. We made our loud and embarrassing departure. I calmly suggested he attempt to catch the tears falling from his frustrated cheeks and drink that. He did, but we learned that tears are as difficult a substance to fill a cup with as raindrops.