I Cry Over Spilled Milk

This is how my day started out, via my facebook status this morning... 

"Whoever made up the phrase, "Don't cry over spilled milk" obviously never actually spilled an entire cup of milk inside their son's bag, while loading the kids in the car, already running late, and unable to go back inside to get a new bag, because of said lateness. That IS tear inducing! Or at least seriously scream worthy"

I did end up laughing at this because sometimes that's all you can do. Between the milk filled bag experience, and a conversation I had this morning, my tolerance (or lack thereof) of mess and unexpected, was made very clear to me. A fact about myself that I already knew, but became glaringly obvious. I'm grateful for that.

The laundry, dishes, cleaning crumbs, managing clutter, and the day to day routine, can send me to my max very quickly. I think every mothers' tolerance and capacity to handle the unexpected is different, but I know mine isn't very high. I'd like to say that I have myself in check all the time, but truthfully, I don't. It's one day at a time, one moment at a time even, and I definitely cry over spilled milk. 

The best way I can describe the delicacy of my balancing act, is to compare myself to a scale. On the left side is my capacity for messes, etc, and on the right side is all of the messes and craziness. Each day, I try to start it off balanced and even on both sides, but inevitably, the right side is always more packed with adventure, catapulting the left side, my tolerance, into the air. Then I feel frenzied, and it takes me awhile to come down from being shot so far off the scale.

I'm the most of aware of this uneven scale, that I've ever been, and though the awareness makes my inner anxiety, painfully visible, you can't change or tweak what you aren't willing to acknowledge... and I acknowledge, that I need to get my scale balanced. In becoming aware of my disproportionate angst and tolerance to mess, I also am realizing the obvious, that this is all about me. My kids are just that...kids. They fly out the womb, ready to tornado through your "normal." It's not malicious, it's nature, God's why of saying, "This life really isn't all about you, remember." Messes are in kids' dna. In my right mind, I know this, but in my maxed out mind, a mess is a violation to me, an offense punishable by anything I deem appropriate. Watch out! Ok, not really, I'm not that cruel, but I do have a physical reaction in seeing a mess that I cannot control, and that physical reaction often heightens my lack of tolerance. The goal is figuring what I can let go of, what can wait, and what I can do to take care of myself, so my scale can stay balanced even a little bit longer.

It seems, at the root of all of this, there is a need for control. The more my inner world feels chaotic, the more consumed I become with managing my outer world- my surroundings. There is certainly a healthy amount of energy you can put in to making sure that your home and your kids aren't infested with dirt and grime, but once again, it's all about balance.

Here's the clencher for me. There is always, always, always going to be something to clean or pick up, but my kids are only kids for this short window of time, and the more I put my unbalanced angst ahead of time with them, the more I miss out on the wonders they are. That would be the biggest tragedy in this whole thing.

I don't have the answers yet, but I do know that I am going to try and do what I can to make sure my bucket of tears over the spilled milk doesn't overflow into a massive flood- making a bigger mess. I'd like them to become just a few manageable drops, that I can wipe up quickly, and then move on right away. We'll see how that goes.