Life is a little bit hard right now. I am not exactly excelling at the job, "homeschooling, mother of three." And there is this voice in my head that always says you can't complain because you signed up for this gig. No one forces me to homeschool. In fact, there is a public elementary school within walking distance of my house. Sometimes I pitch these tiny (and not so tiny) fits because I want that to be my calling. I want to be called to public school. Instead I feel called to classical conversations, and most days I am thankful for that. I really am. It's such a contradiction. In the exact moment that I am crying out to God to give me the energy to get through one more minute because I am so, hang-my-head exhausted, I am also whispering a prayer of thanksgiving that I live in a place where I have this freedom. I have this choice. I just don't feel gifted in these areas. I am not organized. I never felt pulled towards the elementary age. Give me high schoolers, and I feel much more in my element. And in my secret of secret places, I dreamed of teaching at the college level. But here I am, "L says..." with my four year old. And he dumped all gazillion of the rubber bands out on the school room floor today. And Evie has gone back to 45 minute naps during this stage of crawling and putting every single small, choking hazard type object into her mouth. And Ada has developed the habit of rolling her eyes, but when I call her on it, she claims, "I don't know that I am doing it," and I wave the white flag. Evie is nine months old, and I wave the white flag. I am not getting better at parenting three. In fact, I think I am getting worse.
I think it is a good thing, though, maybe, for my children to have a front row view of my brokenness. Maybe? Because all pretense of having it all together ended a long time ago. This morning alone, I yelled, apologized, yelled, apologized, yelled again, apologized again. And I tell them, his grace doesn't run out. I am going to fail them again and again and again and again and again. He won't. And we keep preaching the gospel to ourselves. I tell them, He did it perfectly. He was the perfect seven year old. He got it right every time. In our place, knowing we were failures, he got it right. And then, in our place, he took the punishment.
I am exhausted, ya'll. It's exhausting to never, ever have a break from motherhood. But this is what he has called me to do, and I keep reminding Him, "you're power is made perfect in my weakness!" It is my mantra. Because I have never been more weak.
