Motherhood *sighs*, Routines and Homes.

James and I had a "brain stretching" pow-wow tonight. He asks the most incredibly intricate, exhausting questions. I don't know how to answer them. Sometimes I'm afraid to answer them because I am terrified he'll actually try one of the things he's come up with! So tonight, after supper, I called him to the couch and said, "Hey, buddy, let's stretch Mommy's brain." We came up with silly, outlandish scenarios and explored them. He snuggled and giggled. He laughed. He was really, very, very sweet. Then he went upstairs and messed with the electrical plugs, playing musical outlets w/ his lamp and nightlight. (A constant source of contention since he's been moved to his own room, along with the "keep out" sign and the hoarding of goods under the bed. *sigh*) Argh.

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John lost his sword this week. Oh, he knows where it is, but he cannot have access to it for a week. It is far too handy to use as a retaliatory tool on your big brother. It is far too convenient to use it as a pre-emptive strike on your big brother. So, the sword is on sabbatical. *sigh* He asks for it no less than every fifteen minutes.
"Can I have my sword?"
"No, you may not."
"Why?"
"Do you want me to remind you, or do you remember why you may not play with it."
(He sighs heavily and goes off to play with the myriad other things at his disposal, or brings me a book and we read. Fifteen minutes, repeat.) Then tonight he asked me to read a book to him. I was en route to the Suburban to get a paper for Zorak and promised to return to read the book. Got the paper, went upstairs, and *zzzzzzzzz* he's drooling on his pillow. I feel so bad. I even tried to wake him up, but had no success.

Motherhood is chalk full of ups and downs some days.

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OK, ok, I will admit it. Routines do make my life much simpler. I hesitate to give license to myself even to utter that statement in the darkest recesses of my closet, let alone commit it to eternity in cyber space. Still, as stubborn and hard-headed as I can be, er, um, tend to, no, AM, when I'm wrong, I'm wrong, and I am totally (well, mostly) ok with admitting it.

It's true that my soul remembers with fondness the bygone days I spent as Zorba; my gauze-dress clad, toe ring wearing, barefoot, nymph-like alter-ego. The braids and beads, crashing at a friend's "pad", arguing the finer (? yeah, ok) points of civilization on the veranda at a wine tasting... free of structure, routine, and obligations.

But you know, I really didn't accomplish much then. There is no way I could have actually developed the sticktoitness required for motherhood (or wifehood, for that matter). It took a change, not of garments (for there are still funky gauze dresses hanging beside my Rockies), and not of activities (one day I will attend another wine tasting, oh yes, I will!) but of mind.
Heart.
Soul.
Point of view.
It's not about me, and it's not about the grander schemes of my youth. It's about God's purpose for my life, whatever that may be, and having the fortitude to look at the oftentimes overwhelming list (was going to say "laundry list", but then the washer hit the spin cycle and that seemed a little too cheezy, even for me) of things to be done and saying, "Uh, yeah. OK, this is going to take some organization."

Again, what it's not. It's not the three-ring binder fetishist's four-day binge on double stuffed oreo's and coffee, *sip* furiously rearranging the lives of everyone else within a 100 mile radius in order to "get organized". Not that coffee is a bad thing, mind you, *sip* Ahhhhh.

But what it is... it is being able to say, "This needs to be done. I don't necessarily want to do it now, but it must be done and that's OK." It's the "that's ok" part that usually makes me stutter like mad. Just as my son is learning, so am I. When we balk, there are consequences: in my case, an unkempt home, unorderly days, harried Mommy, confused and cranky babies. When I suck it up, do what it is my job to do, maybe even smile about it a bit (you know, sing a song, dance like you think you're alone in the house), the converse consequences are blessings that far, far outweigh the insanity of shirking my responsibilities.

And that, for me, my friends, comes in the form of a routine. A routine doesn't mean you are caught in a trap of a deadlines and strict hours (although if that works for you... well, if that works for you, then just reading my blog probably gives you hives.) It's about not being idle, about doing your utmost in the best way you can given our natural tendencies to slack off and hide from the unpleasant. Routines teach us to make the most of those three minutes between points A and B, to do something productive and loving for our homes and our families when we just don't have the time to plan a black tie gala to show our appreciation.

I caught myself telling James yesterday, "Honey, you have had the same exact bedtime routine every night for nearly six years. I would think at this point you would understand that it's easier on everyone when you do your part." Hmmm, funny, God whispered the same thing in my ear when I went to bed. Every night after supper, Zorak takes the boys upstairs for bath time. I am alone, just me and the kitchen. Our eyes meet. I used to scamper off to the back porch with a book and a cup of coffee. "I need this break," I'd tell myself. Pfft. No I don't. I need to clean the kitchen, need to tidy my home and then I need to enjoy a quiet evening- maybe even all evening- relaxing with my husband. He needs to have a nice home. But, nooo! That's a routine, that's responsibility, that's haarrrrrddddd. (That would be my "inner child" whining there- you know, the one that would rather take twice as long to do something after being told all day to do it than to just get on it and do it right the first time.)

Lately, with thanks in large part to the encouragement, humor, wit and insight of the wonderful blogbuddies I have here, I've been better about it. I don't don the pearls and touch up my makeup before Zorak gets home, but I do tell the boys, "OK, Daddy will be home shortly. Let's tidy up!" We've talked about how good it feels to Daddy when he can tell we have been expecting him. We talked about how much work we put into the home when company is coming, and how much they appreciate it, so think how good it must feel for Daddy to see that we've blessed the house 'specially for his arrival!

Yes, all this to say, "I did my job today". It's not looking for accolades, as this is really the bare minimum of it all. I'm sharing this to encourage others who have a petulant 17 year-old Inner Child. *wink* I've done my routines most of the past month and a half, in fact, and the difference has been wonderful. The boys are reacting positively to it, Zorak's happier when he gets home, and I feel like I have more time (imagine that) to really enjoy the rest of them!

So now, the dishwasher is running, a fresh load of wash is going, the house looks, feels and smells great... and I have the rest of the evening to enjoy my home. What a great routine! Maybe I'll go braid my hair...