Fill me up, Baby.

I often imagine that I start each week with a jar of patience. It's full of kind words, encouragement, and tricks to hold my tongue. It's full of deep breaths, and smiles and "Oh, that's okay honey"s. And the ability to speak softly. And hope. Hope, when I need it, for a better next day, next hour, next minute. I can imagine it sitting on my counter, this jar, and it's bright and cheery and polka-dotted. So I can find it easily. And because something as whimsical as a jar of patience would just have to be polka-dotted. That's what I think.

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 running and fetching nursing The Man back to health and well...there's no patience to be found around here.

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.