Chaos Theory
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[0 Comment]As the mother of two small children, I was in a constant state of exhaustion mingled with a nagging notion that there was always something waiting to be wiped, washed, warmed, whisked, plucked, patted, preened, sterilized, sewn, sorted, darned, dusted, or dipped. I felt as if I was part of some odd lab experiment, the sole purpose of which was to see how physically active I could be while actually accomplishing very little.
One particular day began as many others. I opened a weary eye to the sight of a jumping, half-naked 5-year-old. He was so thrilled he'd stayed dry during the night that he insisted on peeling off his pants and waggling them before my half-opened eyes. I honored the dry underclothes with awe and reverence.
Before long, child #2 appeared at the foot of my bed. The 21/2-year-old crawled slowly forward, smiling like an angel with his beautiful golden curls shining in the predawn light. The sweet cherub opened his mouth to speak the first encouraging words of my day: "Ick," he said. "I'm wet." And so we begin another day.
After successfully caring for my children's personal hygiene, I began the wild quest to attend to my ownbut this was not to be. Instead, as I made my way to the kitchen, I was mystified that a pile of dirty clothes had magically appeared overnight.
I wondered if I had created a new amino acid in the drain of my kitchen sink. I wondered what type of foodstuffs in my bathroom could be so tantalizing to so many tiny ants. I wondered why dog hair floats in the air for days, only to landall at oncein any egg dish I happened to prepare.
In the midst of all this wondering I became aware of the yowl of our disgruntled cat waiting to be let out. I opened the kitchen door a crack and he ran under my robe and out the door.
Not wanting our pet to end up as pat矦or the neighborhood pit bull, I ran after him. While wildly shrieking, "Heeere kitty-kitty-kitty, he-ee-ee-ee-ee-ere kitty-kitty-kitty," I was suddenly aware that I was hydroplaning across the patio on a midnight deposit made by our elderly dog. I'd been up for an hour, and the only thing I'd accomplished was attracting stares from the neighbors.
At that precise moment there came from inside the house familiar rumblings of two hungry young men who were already foraging for food. I was still entranced in my odious two-step and could not immediately get them their breakfast. In trying to swab the dog poop out of the creases of my unlaced sneakers, I managed to smear a goodly amount of the terrible stuff on my hand. In a flurry of motion, I raced frantically through the house toward the one sink that could handle such a job. After dodging the sink ants and completely sterilizing my feet and hands, I crunched my way into the kitchen on a trail of Cheerios left by my little foragers.
Originally published in: Christian Parenting Today, Page 34
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