Long ago, after a day that started at 7:00 in the morning and didn’t end until 1:30 a.m. the next day, my daughter, Jodie, said, “Mom, it’s probably a real blessing that you have the grandkids so much. It gives you lots of material for your writing.” LOL
We were preparing to teach a room full of sixth graders how to make gingerbread houses out of graham crackers. It took over ten hours of preparation. It was a gift to the kids for a fundraiser they’d put together to help with my granddaughter Maggie’s therapy.
However, a big project doesn’t pause the rest of life. Maggie still needed her therapy session that day. The other grandchildren needed care. Meals had to be cooked. After a mentoring session with a family I was helping, Jodie and her kids arrived around noon. We began cutting crackers and bagging candy, while fielding questions, settling squabbles, keeping the littlest one out of the tree in the yard, getting drinks, nursing a baby, changing diapers, etc. You know how it goes.
After several hours of work, Jodie left to take Maggie to her therapy appointment. I kept going. When the therapy session ended, Jodie came back, and we worked together for a while longer, since she had an evening planned with friends, a plan made before the gingerbread project came up. When it was time, Jodie left for her party, and the grandchildren stayed the night with Don and me. He helped me cut cardboard bases, and once we’d stopped to feed everyone, he kept the kids occupied so I could keep working. At 6:00 p.m., I was still cutting crackers.
The Edge
By 8:00, our nursing granddaughter was at the end of her rope. She would crawl into the kitchen and pull herself up on the backs of my legs, then tumble down when I moved to catch her, which hurt her feelings every time, and she would cry. Our grandson was riding an adrenaline wave, wild the way kids get when it’s time for bed and they’re exhausted but refuse to admit it.
I kept watching the clock. I still had four or five hours of prep left. Seven batches of frosting to make. Eighty-seven pastry bags to fill. The stress was climbing. I picked up the baby once more, walked out of the kitchen, and felt an overwhelming urge to scream. Not at anyone. Just scream.
I hadn’t felt that in over fifteen years. It had been so long I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to have little kids all day long. Years earlier, I would have screamed, yelling at kids, my husband, whoever was nearby. But that night, I swallowed it down and did what I’d learned to do instead. I looked at those sweet, tired children, and I stopped.
Choosing Calm
I sat on the couch with baby Mary and gave her a bottle. I talked with little Jack, sat with Maggie, and let go of the feeling that time was running out and the world would fall apart if I didn’t move faster. You know what happened? Baby Mary calmed down. Jack calmed down. Maggie started laughing. I felt peace settle back into the room. Why hadn’t I done this earlier, before I needed to scream?
It was a long night. Jodie returned after her party, and we finished at 1:30 in the morning. It had been a challenging day, but we got through it. The children were happy for the most part. I remained calm, if frazzled, and nobody yelled.
When life feels as if it’s spinning, the answer isn’t to run from the chaos. It’s to sit down in the middle of it, hold whoever needs holding, listen, breathe, and let go of the fires you think you must put out right this second. All these years later, it’s still true, whether the chaos is a room full of tired grandchildren or a hard afternoon caring for my mom or ill husband. The setting changes. The practice doesn’t.
That night, all those years ago, was one more time I chose to stop instead of scream. I’m still choosing it now, one hard afternoon at a time.
