Practice

I am letting go of my temper a bit while making tacos, nursing an inattentive (but hungry) infant, correcting children, trying to ignore the building noise and hyperactivity... the dinner hour at our house seems far from peaceful.
"Lord... You're going to have to make me more patient!" My prayer hisses out through clenched teeth.
Realization.
This is supposed to make me more patient.
I will probably face more trying circumstances than these.
If the supper rush around our home makes me lose control how can I expect to handle real difficulty?

I'm practicing patience.
Practicing.
Practice makes perfect, it doesn't mean that it already is perfect.


When I'm perfect at patience, I won't have to practice it... I'll just be patient.
And probably dead.

Last Worms

I'm up early most days. I like being the

Earliest Bird of the House.

It makes me feel more In Charge of my Day.

Maybe I need a badge to fulfill my power urges.

The silly part is, once I'm fueled by half a cup of coffee, (who actually gets a cup finished when it is still hot?) the others' bodies start moving, and I'm suddenly,

packing lunches,

tying shoes,

flipping eggs,

pouring milk,

scrambling eggs,

(because we can't all like the same style eggs; it would be communism!)

making ponytails,

nursing baby + surfing 'ternet...

and I realize I haven't had my favorite meal yet: breakfast.

But it is still morning, several hours till noon when I would have to officially declare breakfast skipped. So I eat last.

The early bird sometimes has to take the last worm available.

But she doesn't mind.

Baby Tears

I'm extra-tired today.
That explains why I nearly cried.
I was holding Baby, and she was not crying.
Sometimes the perfectness of rounding little arms and legs, the brightness of two round eyes edged by fragile eyelashes, the cooing "O" of a mouth, the wispy hair... well, sometimes the beauty of my Baby makes me cry.
Maybe because she is so sweet. Maybe because a baby is so hopeful and pure in this ugly, evil world. Maybe because I love all five of my babies so much I hurt.

Or maybe because I am tired.

Sitting Around, Not Doing

If the cupboards in my kitchen could see my invisible thoughts, they would slap their doors in raucous laughter. If cupboards could laugh, of course. Each morning this week, I purpose that This will be The Day that I sew Those Easter Dresses. If the cupboards can laugh, they probably can talk to the sofa as well. If the sofa is listening to the gossip through the house, it would shift its pillows in disgruntled agitation. "Sew? What about running the vacuum around here? How will she ever do anything if she never gets off my cushions?" Assuming a sofa can fuss, this one must also be bothered by the frequent diaper changes upon the upholstery. The house may be laughing at my neglect of duties and hobby, but A tiny head, soft with downy hair, just fits in the crook of my elbow, and it won't fit there for long. A small body, new to this world of light and sound, sleeps best when resting on my chest. A little mouth spends every waking moment rooting around for something to snack on. Yes, every waking moment. How do I take care of all that when sitting before a sewing machine or marching behind a vacuum? So I'm mostly just sitting around these days, justifying myself out of the chores and fabric. Ok, I don't sit that much, but it feels like I do.