Yep, thats a bag of uncooked oatmeal you see spilled across the floor.
And this is the moment I broke down.
You only see the oatmeal.
I saw the hundredth fire that I had to put out that day. I saw that dinner still wasn’t made. I heard my small baby crying wanting something to eat. I remembered that the living room and kitchen were both still a mess after already cleaning it twice…in one day. I felt my own stomach rumble-reminding me of my own humanity.
My curious toddler tore the bag open. The oats spilled across the floor. And I simply sat. I stared off and took several deep breaths - while my two kiddos played with oats as if it were freshly fallen snow.
Then I heard them skating across the pile of oats like figure skaters--laughing and giggling with the utmost joy.
I couldn’t get up.
Well, I could. But this time, I chose to sit. For whatever reason I couldn’t muster up the unction to go at it again. To plough through. To think positively. To even worship and rejoice in the midst of the chaos.
I turned on some Nat King Cole to calm my nerves (random, I know).
I texted my husband: “Pray for me."
I FaceTimed my sister.
I contacted the mother of my “mother's helper” - a sweet preteen who lives down the street and helps me for a few hours a week for $$- to see if she could come over abruptly (something I never do.)
The oats continued to scatter. Into the living room. Into the crevices of our baseboard. Into our half-bathroom. But I sat still.
I didn’t have the energy to even react.
Without me giving him any context, my husband texted back saying, "I’m on my way home."
The mother of my mother's helper understood (a mother of four herself) and texted back, “She only has 50 min to help, but we are on our way.”
And without me knowing, my sister got in her car and drove 20 min to come over immediately.
Ought I to have better systems? More organization? A fool-proof plan?
Life isn’t that simple. Oh, what an understatement.
It wasn’t the spilled oatmeal that sent me to a state of breaking down. It was my own precious humanity.
I’m not a supermama. What makes me “super” are the additional hands and feet that come alongside me when I simply can… not…do... it.
On this day, I cried. God saw beyond the spilled oats. And He supplied His sufficient grace through additional hands and feet.
To all my mamas out there with little ones… you’re not alone. This is just a season.
Here's the crazy thing.