A song of the exhausted mother. Accompanied by the piercing cries of small children and dinner boiling over on the stove.
O, Lord, I feel weary and oppressed.
My patience has withered beneath a sun that seems never to set;
the relief of bedtime always just out of reach.
I am assaulted with questions until I feel I will go mad.
I have grown weary of my own name.
The "Mama" that once made me glad,
has become a scourge upon my ears.
Little hands and crying faces press in on me from all sides;
I am surrounded by needs that are never satiated.
Dishes and laundry conspire against me--
multiplying at an impossible rate.
I am in a desperate way.
My only sanctuary is the bathroom,
while a little person stands outside the door asking,
"What are you doing in there?"
Even a full night's sleep cannot banish this exhaustion.
Will I ever again complete a day feeling sane?
I am done in, yet, I will not despair;
the Lord is my true salvation,
because Dora the Explorer only lasts twenty-four minutes.
Patience elludes me except by Your Spirit,
and gentleness in the face of blatent disobedience is what I long for.
I will take joy in the moments when "Mama" is accompanied by "I love you,"
and not, "I pooped in my pants."
I will meditate on Your words--
the ones printed on the decorative plaque,
across from the couch,
where I find my glassy-eyed, quiet place while my child naps.
When my alarm clock wakes me from a dead sleep,
and I am tempted to curse the sun's consistency,
I will try to remember this is the day the Lord has made,
and children are a blessing from the Lord,
and then REJOICE,
for soon these years will be gone and I will miss them--
proof that motherhood really does kill brain cells.