When "suffer the little children" means actual suffering

I like to think of myself, ten years and soon-to-be six kids into motherhood, as a veteran parent. I don't claim to know a whole lot about a whole lot, but I know my kids fairly well and we have finally reached a stage where I have confidence in my role as their mother. This isn't to say that I am never overwhelmed or frustrated or at my wit's end, but at least I have finally realized that I just need to ride the crappy times out, and things will work out. Where my "veteran" status shows, in my opinion, is in public where the girls are almost always mannerly, sweet, calm and collected. Although it used to happen more than I would like to admit, I can't remember the last time I found myself overwhelmed and in tears in a public place.

Actually, I mean the last time before today.

Chris got up early and went to mass alone this morning, as he had stuff to do and the rest of us couldn't go to mass until noon, once we had returned Katie's friend after a sleepover. Taking the kids to mass solo isn't a huge deal anymore. Chris did it all the time when I was working, since I usually had to go to the too-late-for-the-little-girls Saturday evening mass, and he never had a problem.

It just wasn't my day, though. Lucy tripped and fell on her way out the door, and although we had bandaged her bloody knee, she never really recovered. She was whiny and demanding from the get-go at church, and the deck was stacked against us as it was a bilingual mass, which to the girls just means twice as long as usual.

At one point, I hauled her to the back and discussed rather vigorously where her behaviour had gone wrong, and what she needed to do to get things back on track. We seemed to be in agreement, so back into the church we went.....Five minutes later, I was staggering under the weight of her squirming 3 year body as I beat my way to the back again while she screeched at the top of her lungs, "I am really mad at you!"

I had to take her outside, because she was too loud even for the back of church. There we stood, my screaming toddler and I, as my eyes filled with frustrated tears and I felt like I was 3 years old myself.


Lesson learned: there is no such thing as a veteran parent. I may have a better idea of what I am doing now, but all that really means is that I have a dim flashlight as I still grope my way through dark territory. I don't think there is a point at which I will be able to sit back and congratulate myself on having it all figured out. That's probably half of the point of having kids in the first place: you teach them, they teach you. I am finding their "humility and growing patience" curriculum to be pretty effective.