Kid's boots > Info Center > Children as a means of relieving stress, as opposed to creating it Children as a means of relieving stress, as opposed to creating it
The Over-worked Mom Syndrome has become an increasingly regular part of our world. Here is one Mother’s account of just what happened the day she “lost her marbles.” It was a rush. All a rush as I had gotten out of bed at 6:30 a.m. to get the car to the mechanic, walk home, gather up the bikes, as we’d have to ride today, get Michael’s things for school, get Michael to school, only to find he was running a fever, get him home, get fluids in him, continue sending things via e-mail to my disgruntled boss, take a call from my sister who was at her wit’s end with my mother, remember to pick up the car at the Mechanic’s and pay with money I was afraid might not be there. My day was spiraling out of control with deadlines, the desperate need for groceries, worries over my current circumstances, a demanding and disappointed boss, fear about the coming bills. On top of this, the laundry pile had grown to epic proportions, and my own need for sleep had grown just as high. I snapped. I dropped a plate (accidentally) and looking at the mess that needed cleaning up was the final straw for me. Michael came out of his bedroom, wearing those pajamas that needed to be replaced, and asked, “what’s wrong, Mom?” I just looked at him. Poor thing. He’d been missing his father for more than a year, and the visits disappointed him in the end. He would return home with a question mark on his face, disappear into a game or a book, withdraw a little farther. I had been doing my best to be Mother and Provider – to create a safe and loving environment for him – to be a “good, single mom.” And I was burnt out. I couldn’t even pick up that broken dish. I smiled at Michael, and told the truth. “Michael, honey… Mom’s lost her marbles.” I shrugged and turned to clean up the mess on the floor of the messy kitchen. I paid no attention to Michael as he left the room. An hour later, I went to the kitchen sink to pour a glass of water for Michael. Sitting just next to the faucet was a lone, green marble. I looked at it, picked it up, turned it over in my hands. It was smooth to the touch, and I loved the memories of days gone by that flooded over me just by having the thing in my hand. I walked to the kitchen table and stuck the marble into an empty fruit bowl. I checked in on Michael, who was sleeping soundly, the fever seemingly broken. I headed to the laundry room to begin organizing the piles. Opening the Laundry Detergent box, I jumped a little. Another Marble. This one blue, with a little “swish” of white running through the middle. Smiling, I ran the marble to the little bowl on the table, and headed back to start tackling the laundry. I “caught” Michael only once – sneaking into my bedroom to place a marble on my pillow. The day went on, I faced my boss, helped out with my sister the best I could, looked closely at my financial situation. Each place in the house that I moved, I would find another marble—placed carefully out in the open where I would be sure to find it. I continued to make no remark, checking in on Michael, making sure that he was resting comfortably, keeping the comic books coming. He smiled each time I entered his bedroom, but made no comment of his own. By dinner time, my kitchen was clean. The bills were in order, and I noticed there was enough to take Michael to the movies on the upcoming Saturday. I had made an impressive dent in the laundry pile, and even gotten the clothes folded and put away. I found myself straightening up the front porch, just a few touches (even found a marble there), and had gone back into my own bedroom to put clean sheets on the bed, take the time to make the bed. I had accomplished a task for my boss that made her shine with relief. She’d even told me to take the rest of the day off, knowing that Michael was not feeling well. I decided that Michael and I should have candles for dinner (a marble in the candle drawer) and set the table with a flare for excitement. I folded the napkins into the shape of boats, and made Michael’s favorite: Spaghetti. There was a marble in the silverware drawer, a marble on the stove. He’d even managed to put one in the refrigerator, ballanced on the remaining loaf of bread. I called Michael to dinner, and we sat down happy to our meal. He looked inside the fruit bowl and could not keep himself from smiling. There were exactly fifty-two multi-colored marbles filling the bowl. Michael said, “What’s this,” feigning indifference. “I seem to have found my marbles,” I said with a smile. And we’ve been doing a little better ever since. I keep the
bowl of marbles on the kitchen table. And sometimes, on the days
I forget myself, I’ll find another lone marble sitting out
in the open, a gift from my son Michael – the boy who is making
sure I never, never again, lose my marbles. [ Return to infomation center ] Related topics:Childrens
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