Weekends should be easy. I hear people rejoice in lazy voices about pajamas and quietly playing children. Meanwhile, I update my Facebook with:
And that's truly how it feels. Long hours of one yelling and the other crying, and then the crying one turns violent and the mean one howls. And then there's a crash-bang-thump and both are screaming and crying and my head might explode and the mountain man is sleeping through it all and all I wanted to do was sip my coffee and upload pictures and videos for 5 minutes and there's an entire floor of this house that's covered with toys and instruments and books and CAN'T Y'ALL GET ALONG FOR FIVE MINUTES?
The answer, simply, is no. They can't. They are nine and two and they are my warlords. I am the peacekeeper, therefore I'd better keep myself firmly planted between them, anticipating each dictator's next desperate and petty move. Heading off each battle strike and clinging to the hope that I can keep the peace.
I know there are people holding their breath and wringing their hands in worry about their loved ones, entire nations rocked by disaster and poverty, millions struggling just to put food on the table. I know this and I am grateful for what I have -- the fighting, the frustration, the desperate jealousy of children, and the joy of parenting. I know these things, and yet this is my life and I must be honest to it. I must acknowledge my frustration and give it a voice, too.
I am made small by the tragedy of daily life for so many, and yet the minutia of this life, this wondrous and gritty life, is what makes me the person who appreciates the reality of it all. And that is okay.