Redemption…and the Patron Saint of Stomach Aches

Some days, my friend.  Some. Days.

The past couple of days have been…trying.  While it is true that nothing earth shattering has happened, all of the little things have been piling up in my world and have created something of a mountain in the middle of my life.  There are: unresolved health scares, endless laundry, too many bills, upcoming holidays (and all of the expense that come with them), not enough sleep, too many commitments, and general “life” stuff.  Don’t get me wrong.  I am glad for life and all of the drama and minutia that it entails, but some days there is just an awful lot of it.

Today is one of those days.

Mornings can be trying in any household.  Mine is no exception, except that today was exceptionally trying.  One of the kiddos decided she was “not feeling well.”  It was her stomach.  Her stomach seems particularly sensitive on days when she has P.E.  Go figure.

She refused breakfast (“Mom!  I can’t…my stomach!”)

There was much crying, screaming*, whining, cajoling, and feet dragging (about an hour and a half of it, truth be told).  I threatened to make her go to school in her pajamas if she didn’t suck it up and get ready.  She finally did…sort of.  She (barely) made it to the bus, albeit without the benefit of breakfast, brushed teeth, brushed hair, or a jacket.  (It seems that, despite her unbearable stomach pain, she had the wherewithal to fret over her appearance–which I found to be an encouraging statement as to her general health.)

I nearly had to drag her out of the car when the bus arrived.  I did have to wave at the poor bus driver to make him hold up while she finally relented and headed (wailing) to the bus.  Thank you Bus Driver, and I am sorry.  No really, please forgive any harsh words I have ever uttered about you.  You deserve a pay increase, too.  I mean it.

So I headed back home feeling like The Worst Mom Ever.

I had tried to explain to her that sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to…things we don’t feel like doing.  But we do them, because they have to be done, and because no one is going to do them for us.

I tried to tell her that there are only so many sick days, and you have to save them for things like fevers, and things that cause the contents of your stomach to expel (in one direction or the other…or both at the same time *shudder*), or things that are contagious.

I am not sure how much she actually heard, what with her meltdown and all, but still I said them.  I am pretty sure that I couldn’t make out even half what she was saying.  But that is probably A Good Thing, because of either of us could actually hear one another we would both likely have had some very hurt feels to contend with, on top of Everything Else.

laphroiagNow it is finally quiet, and the silence echoes in my ears the way that the lively commotion of three over-sugared kids never could.  I drink my tea (woefully devoid of a bracing splash of Laphroaig), and I try not to dwell too much on the morning.  I offer up a prayer (just who is the Patron Saint of Stomach Aches?  What about the Patron Saint of Sucky Mothers?), and wait until the day crawls on and evening offers me a chance to redeem myself.

If you have any wisdom to offer, or if you are a better Catholic than I am and happen to know just which Patron Saint to invoke, let me know!

* I actually shouted at one point, “For all that is holy, child! I managed to give birth to three children with less screaming and drama than this!”
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