Skipping Sunday?

Yesterday was "ONE OF THOSE DAYS" - one of those days in capital letters that ends in weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - and feeling guilty about it (especially the gnashing of teeth part) because it's Sunday. One of those days, which, lately, happens every single week.

A new form of mommy guilt? On average, I see Woodstock for three hours a day - an hour in the morning and two hours in the evening before I put her to bed. Sometimes I cheat and put her to bed late because I want to play with her or hold her or something equally as selfish, but then I feel guilty because I'm depriving her of sleep. Which makes the weekends vital. However, on Sundays, if you take out church (which is full of weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth - on both our parts - hardly quality time), I see her awake for .5 hours more than I do on a weekday (which is the getting ready/eating/going to bed portions). It leaves Saturday not only the only day to get things in order household-wise, but to the only day I have to spend any amount of time with as a mom. And peopple wonder why the house is never clean.

Humiliation (Real or Imagined). Yesterday started out fine - if you discount Woodstock's self-imposed hunger strike. Then we got to church. Woodstock's morning nap ran long, I underestimated the time I needed to get her diaper changed and out the door, and we arrived 5 minutes late - in the middle of the opening hymn. There were plenty of seats available - in the middle of the pews. I walked in with Woodstock, loaded down with diaper bag, scriptures, blanket and "Meow" - no one slid over. I was already making a huge scene - and I didn't want to climb over anyone, only to have to climb back over them when Woodstock needed to be removed from the premise. So, I walked out and we sat in the foyer. Normally, Woodstock is okay if we sit in the foyer - not as many distractions. Not yesterday. I refuse to let her run wild at church, so Himself and I took turns pacing with her. At one point, during the switch-off, she escaped, and, with a delightful gleam in her eye ran straight into the chapel. Humiliated, I followed her in, listening to the congregation trying to muffle a giggle as she yelled "nonono!"

At the end of Sunday School, Woodstock fell off the chair on which she was sitting (I had set her there to keep her from darting out, while we gathered her things). She screamed bloody murder. I felt terrible, even if she was likely more scared than hurt. I grabbed her to comfort her and then reached for my scriptures, only to have them fall - divesting every scrap of paper I've tucked in them for the last 15 years. The notes and handouts and tithe slips fluttered to the ground silently, like snowflakes. Himself was picking up the apple pieces Woodstock had chewed up and spit out all over. The class had emptied. The older men filed in for their class, held in the same room. Woodstock continued to howl and try to wriggle free while I was chasing papers with the other hand. The leader got up to start class - no one seemed to notice us. Himself and I kept diving for chewed-up apple and renegade papers. Flustered, I made it to the next class and found a seat by the door, humiliated.

Asking Why. I had been in class no more than 3 minutes when Woodstock, tired of being quiet and nearly ready for her afternoon nap, arched her back let out a howl and began yelling "nonono." I stood up, determined to make it through the third hour. I paced at the back. Woodstock continued to howl. I went into the hall, to minimize the disruption. By the end, I had locked myself in the mother's closet and I read her a story and held her and let her yelp and run around. Hardly the lesson I want to teach my child - yell and mom will let you go to a room and have your own way - but at the moment it was better than losing every last piece of patience and self-composure. I tried not to feel bad for finding more peace in that "closet" than I had the whole rest of the service.

After, I put Woodstock to bed. I retreated to the guest bath and I cried. Great huge wracking sobs. I wondered why it mattered that I go at all. I couldn't recite a single word I had heard spoken, hadn't felt any claming spirit and certainly no worshiping was accomplished. I dread Sundays - the one day that used to inspire peace and rest and satisfaction every week. At the moment, it is a trial more challenging than anything else. As the sobs got worse, so did my thoughts - Why was I sacrificing the precious little time I get with my daughter only for everyone to be aggravated, upset and frustrated the entire three hours. How was I the only one that seemingly couldn't manage? Other people have mutliple children at church and survive. How could I be so at the end of my rope with one? How could I counter Himself's argument that it is just better for everyone to leave all together when everyone is worn and frayed and hurting by the third hour? The angel on my shoulder said, "It's the principle. It's the habit. It's the lesson you're teaching." The devil-may-care side said, "It's killing you. It's doing no good. Himself is right. You need to think of your relationship with Woodstock and your sanity."

It's a good thing there are 6 more days until next Sunday for me to adjust my attitude and try again.