Saturday was a fabulous day. A particularly long day, but it was pleasant and enjoyable nonetheless.
Lance left the house at 5:20am to go to Knoxville to the Tennessee game. Easton was up at his normal DST hour of 6:30am. DST is for the birds. FOR. THE. BIRDS. 6:30am is far to early when you don't have to go to 'work' and school. Anyways. Easton was up early. I did somehow manage to get him to lay in the bed with me until 8. We got up, had some breakfast-
'what's those color tangs again mommy?' Fruit Loops...for him. Green Smoothie for me.
My mom came over. We took some maternity pictures, then we headed out to the Mall. We pushed it through nap time. Easton was a dream. He'd walk some, then ride some. Walk, then ride. Listening to what we said, cooperating like a champ. We had some lunch, rode the carousel, got Gigi's cupcakes, kept on shopping. A full day indeed. But fun!
I thought surely he'd fall asleep on the way home, but he didn't. By the time we got home it was 4:00 and far too late for a nap, but gracious, we were tired and Lance was still not home, nor on the way. Van trouble in Knoxville. So, we hunkered down in the bonus room for Toy Story and I did a little sewing while he watched the movie and played.
Easton said he was getting a little bit hungry and that he wanted oatmeal. Easy enough. I went down and fixed him blueberry oatmeal with a side of banana. He ate and continued playing.
He wanted to play 'hockey' and dump
all the balls out of this basket. I reminded him he didn't put them up the night before but then he said 'I promise I'll put all of them up'. I told him he could dump them out as long as he'd put them up. Sweet little thing climbed up on the couch and gave me a hug and said 'I promise'. 'You're my sweet baby' I said, as he got down off the couch. He looked at me and said:
I jus been growin up. So I can't be your baby anymore. I'll get little again one day.
I gave him a sad face and he went on about his playing. He really is no longer a baby. But it seems like just yesterday when I was sitting on this very couch in this very same large state longing for his arrival. We played baseball a few minutes and hockey a few more.
But then the mood changed. The back talking started. The attitude. The nap that was missed was rearing its ugly head now.
Calmly, I told him we were going to get things cleaned up and take a bath then come back up and lay on the couch together. Oh, the whining that ensued after this. He didn't want to clean up. He wanted to play balls. There were too many to pick up. He didn't want to put the cushions back on the couch. On and on and on and on.
A little too much attitude and I sent him to the corner. Where he protested. Loudly. And very unkindly. I kept my cool, although I was burning on the inside. After all I'd done for him today, lunch out, cupcakes, carousel ride, skipping nap, some really cool bear house shoes, etc. He got louder and louder. More defiant with each second. I started raising my voice. "After all I've done for you, and this is how you act..." I began to try to reason with him.
But I'd had it. I spanked him and raised my voice. I don't spank. I don't think it's the answer. I was never spanked as a child. Probably needed it but never was. Talking was always the discipline in my house. Sometimes I think I'd rather have been spanked. But Saturday, I spanked. I needed him to know I meant business. I'd tried the calm approach. I'd tried ignoring him. Nothing was working. Spanking was the next route. The one I rarely ever take.
I cleaned up all the balls while he kept crying, acting ugly. I put the couch cushions all back on the couches. I picked up the baseball bats and the hockey stick. We proceeded to the bath room, where we would NOT be playing, but taking a bath then getting in the bed. At 7pm.
I. WAS. DONE.
As the bath went on he said 'mommy, I'm done being ugly. I'm sorry for being ugly upstairs.' And the waterworks started. I got him out of the tub, dried him off and explained to him that he hurt my heart and I did not like getting on to him. He apologized again for his actions. He hugged me and said he was sorry. I told him I was sorry too. I cried a little more. He hugged me again.
We made up and I let him come back upstairs to
rest on the couch until bedtime. 10 minutes later, he was sound asleep. I started recounting the nights events. My heart was hurting for spanking him. I was praying I wouldn't go into labor and have this be the kind of memory I'd have of 'the night I went into labor'. And the words I'd said to him were ringing back in my head...
'after all I've done for you...'
How many times does Jesus feel that way about me and my ungrateful attitude? Rather- how many times
can He feel that way, yet doesn't. Simply opens His arms and says
easy does it sister, you've got all you need. And more.
This stay at home mom thing is awesome. Wonderful! But it's really an adjustment for me. It's hard for me to be home all the time. It's hard to know how to fill 8-10 hours a day, productively and fun. I'm trying to be very conscious of what I spend and what I do because we are now a one-income family. There's not a lot to do in the fall & winter that's free or cheap. Not to mention, I'm VERY pregnant and low on energy. And that's when Satan creeps in and steals the joy that I've been given. This joy to be home with Easton, and soon, Emerson. He puts me on the pitty party train and I ride it a long way. Yet. This is something I've prayed for. Longed for. Hoped for. To be home.
And that's when it hit's me.
He's given me so much in this gift of being home. Yet, like a 3 year old I get in the corner and kick and scream and lay down and cry because I don't get to go to Joann's or Hobby Lobby every time I want and buy something else to craft. Or because I can't go to Target or the Mall and get new clothes. Or go out to eat dinner every time I don't feel like cooking. Those things are limited now. Those things are bonus now, instead of the norm. BUT. On the flip side, I'M HOME WITH MY CHILD! How extremely selfish of me!
This is an adjustment period for us all. But I pray that each time I start acting like a 3 year old, even though most of my battle is done internally, never seen by anyone, that I remember the blessing that I have been given. All the other is just stuff. And I pray that I can say 'I'm sorry' as easy as my child does when I do act like a 3 year old, and that I trust and believe that I am forgiven and can climb up in my Heavenly Father's lap just as Easton climbs up in mine.
