The Wall

My husband has been working 18 hour days for the last 4 weeks. This usually means he gets home after I am asleep and leaves again before I am awake or while I am out running in the morning. I pretend he's out of town, but the illusion is hard to stick to when I'm still doing his laundry and cleaning up his breakfast. He is finishing up his trial this week so hopefully by the weekend he will exist in our lives again, but for now I am officially finished with this whole single mom business.

I should probably be feeling more compassion for my poor husband. After all, he's working horrible hours including every weekend for the past month. I should definitely have more respect for women around the world who are single mothers for every day of their lives. At the very least, I should be more understanding of my children who are desperately missing their daddy. But yesterday I finally hit the wall. So although I know I should buck up and count my blessings, I'm giving myself the next 2 hours (and 2 minutes) to wallow in my own self-pity. That's how much longer Anna's friends will be here playing with her and filling her social needs. Then it's back to the "All Mom, All the Time, Variety Hour."

The months of May and June have been overflowing with "extras" in school, sports, piano, dance and my Young Women's calling. I have been the taxi, cheerleader, coach, whip-cracker, teacher, CEO, and nurse. It feels like there is nothing left of me to give, but I know that in 1 hour and 54 minutes, I have to put my smile back on and head out to the store to pick up the eclairs for Zachary's oral report on France, the cleats for Noah's track meet, the groceries, snacks for field day, a prescription, presents for two birthday parties, and something for Father's Day not only for my husband, but for my dad and my father-in-law. And when I get back I get to look forward to yet another afternoon and evening of getting kids where kids need to be, motivating (translation yelling at) them to get their homework and chores done, getting them fed and in bed at a reasonable hour without any hope of assistance or even grown-up conversation.

It will all be fine. I know this because it always has worked out before, but knowing this doesn't make the moment of the trial any easier. In 1 hour and 46 minutes I will wipe away my tears and put on a cheerful face and will acknowledge all the ways my Father in Heaven has blessed me today and every day of these challenging weeks. But for now I will count down the minutes left until this weekend when I get to "escape" for 24 hours in a 180-mile relay race. To many, my whole running obsession probably seems like a lot of hard work. This motherhood business is much, much harder. Today I say: Give me a marathon! 1 hour and 37 minutes to go.