And each day, goodness each hour, I scoop a bit out. To referee an argument, to refold the laundry Clara has dumped all over the floor, to calmly explain to one of my children why I have to punish them for speaking to me disrespectfully, to clean the poop out of Ben's underwear, to tell Allison for the 327th time to practice, or Brandon to take out the trash. To help me not explode when someone says "I don't like that" about the dinner I prepared while Clara cried. Like she does every. single. night between 5:30 and 7:00.
And then sometime during the week, usually around Thursday, I reach in to find myself scraping bottom. And that's when I start to slip. Yelling a bit here. Slamming a bit there. Sending kids to their room or telling them they can. not. speak. one. more. word. or. they. will. be. grounded. all. weekend. long.
And I know it's time. Time to find a way to get away. Alone. To visit with a friend. To go wander through a bookstore. Even just to take a bath or pray or read. And that's why my dear husband lets me leave him alone with the kids almost every Friday afternoon. So I can fill back up again. A new supply for a new week.
But last week, because of his knee surgery, my outing was rightfully postponed. And that combined with the fact that I have been
Not a drop.
But tomorrow. I am back out the door. Freedom is only hours away. Okay like 18 hours, but who's counting?
I'm just so thankful for a husband who continues to espouse my need - for everyone concerned - to escape and replenish my jar.
The one with the polka dots.