The 90/10 Rule

Have you ever found yourself exhibiting high quantities of patience throughout the day, only to finally lose it before bedtime, destroying any harmony you worked so hard to maintain throughout the long, arduous day?

This phenomenon is what I call the 90/10 Rule, and it's literally the story of my life. Let me explain further.

I wake up in the morning, happy to experience life and be a mother. I am optimistic, singing and whistling and speaking to my children in happy, light-hearted tones. Then the whining begins. Followed by the fits. Followed closely behind by the fighting, which is followed by the begging for snacks and friends. My nerves a bit frazzled, I float through the house, solving every problem and softly but firmly redirecting all negative behaviors. I am like a goddess, fluidly working around each obstacle with ease and finesse, and above all, patience.

By noon, I am a bit tired. It's time for lunch and I barely got breakfst cleaned up. The whining has increased, as has the incessant complaints that "there's nothing to do." I fix a lunch nobody likes (including myself), all the while giving myself pep talks inside my head in hopes I can keep my cool and ramain a calm, well-collected mother.

The afternoon passes slowly, a combination of kids running in and out, leaving doors open, making messes we just spent the morning cleaning up, grabbing snacks they weren't authorized to grab, passing them out to the neighborhood, fighting about who got the most or the biggest snack, and on and on. My reserves are beginning to wear down a bit, but still I manage to take deep breaths and remind myself this is what having children entails; and besides, it's summer, so I should relax a bit and let my kids be kids.

It's now time to make dinner. I haven't thought about it all day and have no idea what to make. My husband will be home soon, hoping for something satisfying to eat and for a peaceful, enjoyable evening with his family. I feel the pressure. By now, the kids are pulling at my pant legs, whining more than ever, and I'm feeling just as tired as they are. I juggle putting together a make-shift dinner with refereeing fights between siblings and meeting the demanding needs of my toddler, all while trying to keep my wits about me. I'm counting the minutes until a reinforcement (my husband) arrives.

My husband walks in (late, of course). It's complete chaos. The house is diseheveled, the kids are fighting, dinner isn't ready, I'm holding on by a thread. I still manage to pull it together somehow.

Then bedtime rolls around. My nerves are raw. I'm tired, and so are the children. They begin to resist the bedtime routine, and . . .

I lose it!

I raise my voice, threaten, and stomp through the house on a small rampage. It's over in a matter of minutes, but still, the damage is done. All the patience I exhibited throughout the day disappears as though it never happened, and I am left feeling disappointed in myself as a mother.

It's then my husband looks at me in either of two ways: 1-like he' as scared of me as the children are, or 2-like he wishes I would handle things better.

I send myself to my bedroom, shut the door, and promise myself tomorrow I will make it through 100% of the day with my sanity in tact.

Sound the least bit familiar? It's the 90/10 rule, and it's amazing how consistently it appears in my life. I can't number the times I've told my husband that if he could only have seen what a wonderful mother I was while he was gone all day, he'd be thrilled and amazed. It's completely unfortunate that he happens to be home when the ten percent makes its appearance. The only glitch with that explanation is when the weekend arrives and life begins looking more like 60/40 than 90/10, and my husband is home all day to witness it.

Oh well, all I can say is that I was patient for close to 90% of the week!

Below are pictures of my two-year-old when he had his tonsils out this past week--when my 90/10 may have been more like 80/20. The surgery went well, and he's done great, except for the agitation and fits. I'm afraid my nerves have been raw all too often lately.

Boston--before surgery, listening to his heart--my sweet little boy

Boston--right before they wheeled him away--that adorable little smile has not come back since!

After surgery--sleeping with Daddy (before the fits started).

Patience is a Virtue

How many of you ever thought you were a patient person--until you became a mother? I could never honestly claim I possessed this virtue in abundance before I had four children, but I never realized until these little sweethearts came along just how taxing an attempt at patience can be. I've almost felt I would burst at every seam in frustration at repeated inappropriate behavior as I've tried to handle stressful situations with love and, of course, patience. There have been times I've had to take a breath, speak far more kindly than I feel inside, and hurry into my closet to stomp my foot and let out an irrepressible scream (oh yes, I've learned two-year-old tantrums never really leave our systems--we just get better at masking them).

The past couple weeks at my house have been more difficult than usual. It seems my children have ganged up against my husband and me and have decided to test our resiliency and, yes, patience. Children, I've learned, are very good at this--especially three-year-olds. I've always heard reports about the dreaded "terrible two's," but my experience has been the "three's" are far worse. It's not fair to place blame entirely on one person, so I've used the term "children," but in all honesty, it's my three-year-old (almost four, thank heavens) who seems to be at the root of most of our problems lately. How can one little child consistently make such humongous messes? How can one sweet little girl be so defiant and naughty? How can one tiny human change her clothes so many times in a day, leaving whatever she discards all over the house? It's really quite amazing what one small child can accomplish in the course of one day and how many times she can try a mother's patience. Yes, I definitely think patience is one of the five virtues motherhood is teaching me, and I have to admit at this point, I'm not sure it's one I'll ever master. Maybe if I did, I wouldn't need so many lessons on it.

Now, in all fairness, this unforgettable child isn't all bad, even if she is a chronic liar, a sneak, and a pest. She's also wonderful in many more ways. In fact, just last night (at the end of another brutal Sunday--this one much better than the last, thankfully), when I was cleaning an incredibly filthy kitchen, my little trouble-maker looked at me, and out of the blue, said, "You're such a good Mommy." I nearly dropped the dishes I was rinsing. I ran right over to her, threw my arms around her and thanked her, covering her in hugs and kisses. She must have liked this response because after a minute of thinking, she followed up with another amazing declaration. "You're wonderful, Mommy." Again I ran over to her and smothered her with love and thanks. A third time she reached deep to find something great to say about me. I couldn't wait to hear what she came up with. Finally, she said, with a huge, proud grin, "You're very not stupid, Mommy." It wasn't quite what I was expecting, but I loved her for it anyway. A few minutes later, when she was throwing a fit about going to bed, I tried to remember her sweet comments, then I tucked her in--very patiently--and sighed in relief that I had made it through another day.

I've always heard "Patience is a virtue," whatever that means. All I know is it's definitely something my children test and try on a daily basis. But then again, I guess it's only fair; after all, I was a child once, too, and I can still remember pushing my mother to her limit, and then some. Yesterday an older man in our ward was over talking with my husband and he made the comment, "People think parents raise kids; it's really the other way around--kids raise parents, and then the kids grow up and realize their kids are raising them." I couldn't agree more!