Today I can’t convince the washing machine to finish its final spin cycle. I’ve fought with it for the past hour. It’s trying to remove the water from a pink cotton blanket and a full-sized mattress pad. The combination of the two bulky bed linens is just too much for my sensitive machine, and its computer is
too smart not smart enough to override the error code.
The unbalanced washing machine in the next room is an apt metaphor for my life: I’m trying to juggle raising three teens, running a household, and teaching part-time with keeping my sanity and my marriage intact. But it feels like there’s not enough room to do all of those things well.
I’m struggling today, and it seems counter-intuitive to write a blog post. But I’ve neglected my writing for too long. I’ve let it go because too often I feel weighed down by worry, caught up in appointments and carpools, and distracted by unpleasant surprises.
I know I’m not supposed to worry. After all today has enough troubles of its own, right? Why worry about tomorrow? Jesus tells us not to worry, but when you have a child who actively seeks trouble, you start to wonder if your child takes this mandate more seriously than you do. Yesterday I received a text from another parent: “Can we chat for a minute?” Today it was a phone call from an assistant principal.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Matthew 6:34, NIV)
Over Thanksgiving it was an unexpected, inexplicable virus that put me in the hospital for two days and brought six weeks of physical therapy. In December it was the accident that totaled my car.
And then there’s lice. Yes, I typed lice on purpose. Our household spent 12 weeks under siege. I’ve lost count of how much money it’s cost us to battle these tiny parasites–or how many hours I’ve sacrificed combing out hair, washing sheets and towels, vacuuming carpets and furniture, and making beds. My kids hate the smell of rosemary and tea tree oil. And I hate lice.
Throw in a whopping case of ADHD, hormones times three, Type 1 diabetes, and a pilot-husband who has to leave in order to pay for all the water, electricity, Oxiclean, and laundry soap that we use.
So here I am today–typing with tear-stained cheeks. It’s just past noon and I’m too tired to worry about tomorrow. Right now the day is full of its own worries. I’m heading to the grocery store to buy dryer sheets and more cleaning products–right after I fold the pink blanket.