Birthing Beautiful Ideas

Sometimes I whine.  Sometimes I cry.  Sometimes I whine and cry.  And sometimes I whine and cry and gaze at my navel when I write on this blog.

And by “sometimes,” I mean right now.

What can I say?  I’ve had one of those weeks.

Lately, it seems that I’m flailing about in a sea of problems that, when looked at individually, are just a bunch of small potatoes–just a bunch of little things that, on their own, don’t really warrant cries of “WOE IS ME!” and “SAVE ME, I’M DROWNING!”

But when you add enough small potatoes together, you can end up with a 50 pound bag of spuds–a bag that you might need a little help toting around town.

And what, you might ask, is in my giant sack o’ small potatoes?

What about seven consecutive nights of sleeplessnes, thanks to my overactive (because, strangely, he’s overtired) toddler?

Or the morning that said toddler rubbed crushed chili peppers in his eyes?

Or perhaps the major meltdowns that ensued?

Or the fact that I can’t deal with hearing about yet another sick family member?  That I’m far more prepared to confront my own mortality than theirs?

What about the fact that Tim and I just learned that we are now stuck with paying over $1300 in deductibles and rental car fees because a drunken, unlicensed, and uninsured kid smashed up both of our cars, and his parents’ insurance won’t cover him (because he’s not on their policy) and the insurance company won’t cover the car owner (who is the kid’s girlfriend’s grandfather–UH HUH) since the driver supposedly didn’t have permission to drive the car, even though the owners never filed a stolen vehicle report?  (Have I lost you?  Don’t worry–I feel lost too.)

What about the fact that we’re probably going to have to resort to litigation in order to get this substantial amount of money paid not by us but by the person who is unequivocally responsible for the smashing up of the cars?

Or the fire?  What about that bedtime-obliterating electrical fire?

What about the fact that I threw out my neck and back for the first time ever this past Sunday (and subsequently learned to appreciate just how much we humans use our necks and backs each day)?

Or how about the fact that on the night that my back began to feel better, M (4) came down with a cold?  And I was up with him throughout the night, (lovingly, though still tiredly) rubbing his back and propping up his pillows each time he woke up?

And on the night that Tim went away for a business trip (i.e. Thursday night), A (2) came down with a cold?  Except I didn’t know that he was coming down with a cold, and in my haze of fatigue and pain and stress, I yelled when he kept M and me up until 3:30 a.m. with his constant screaming and flailing and kicking?  And I yelled again when M started whining?

What about the fact that I feel like a horrible parent now?  For all of the yelling, for my short temper, for the way I’ve been gritting my teeth each time one of my children asks me for food or for help turning on the light or to “LOOK AT THIS, MOMMY” for the seven-thousandth time?

The small potatoes–they’re weighing me down.

(You think I could whip them up into a giant, greasy, ranch dressing-slathered batch of potato skins?  Because then I could eat them, and the problems would disappear….into my hips and thighs and butt.)

These weeks are what make sanity a truly precarious beast.

They are what make the difference between asking your partner to be “a little more careful next time” or acting as if he and Beelzebub conspired to destroy you and all of humanity by messing up the garden hose when he used the power washer to clean the siding on the house.

And on these days or weeks or (GOD HELP YOU) months, I think that we parents (and we human beings, because these trying time aren’t just unique to those with children) need a “reset button.”

We need a little life preserver thrown our way.

A bone.  A helping hand.  An offer to take all of those small potatoes and make them into that greasy batch of potato skins (with the reassurance that they are the nutritional equivalent of a heaping bowl of spring greens).

We need a moment to close our eyes, take a deep breath, and begin again anew, afresh.

Sometimes, I make my own reset button when I need one.  Like the days where, if both boys are napping, I tell myself that the work and the cleaning and the responsibilities can wait, and I settle down with a homemade latte and a couple episodes of Sex and the City.

Other times, I’m lucky enough–blessed enough–to have others hand me a reset button.  And sometimes, I need to hit that button over and over and over again.

This post is dedicated to all of those people who have recently showed up at my proverbial doorstep with a basket full of reset buttons.

To my fantastic in-laws and parents, who watched the kids for me last weekend so that I could spend some time with my long-lost girlfriends.  (RESET!)

To my fabulous college roommates, who spent a girls’ weekend with me in one of their fabulous apartments in Chicago’s South Loop.  (RESET!)

To various blog readers, who have sent me all sorts of kind comments and emails and tweets and Facebook replies, all of which make me smile, and some of which make me cry tears of joy and humility.  (RESET!)

To my husband, who brought home Chipotle on Wednesday night and pizza last night.  (RESET!)

And to my children, who gave each other the biggest smiles ever when they saw each other after their naps today, and who love me unconditionally, even when I’m a “bad mommy.”  (RESET!)

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Do you ever need to use a “reset button” in your life?  What do you do to fashion your own such button?  How have others given you one recently?

For what it’s worth, this post is also dedicated to all of you who are in need of a reset button.