the real story

When I posted about Easter, I mentioned that I had made the each of the girls a skirt.  I also mentioned that they were cute, which they were.  But I had to laugh when someone told me how amazing I was to do it.  Why?  First of all, because they were so easy.  But most of all because I didn't tell the whole story.

You know the real me?  The part about how anytime I try to tackle anything above and beyond my typical mediocrity I fall apart?  How I don't know when to stop?  Yeah, that's the one.

And so. . .At the risk of everyone knowing how emotionally unstable I really am, I have to tell how it really happened.  Not because I like everyone to know I'm crazy, but because I want my girls to understand the real me (in the off chance that they don't already vividly remember all of my failings).  Someday I hope they are mothers.  And if they are?  I'm pretty positive they are going to have days when they are overwhelmed, out of patience, and teetering on the edge.  Perhaps it will help if they know that it's not their fault?  They come by it naturally, you see. 

Girls, here's you excuse:  YOU CAN BLAME IT ALL ON FAULTY GENETICS.

Now.  Back to the skirts. . .

I set out to make four skirts. 
Against my husbands advice. 
They are super-duper easy and only cost $8.00 a piece.   
Skirt one- 2 hours max (probably closer to one).
Skirt two- about the same.
(I am feeling somewhat proud and giddy at this point).
"I told you so." says me smugly to husband.
Skirt three- oldest children come home from school.
Oldest children feel very grouchy and uncooperative.
I'm on a roll, I don't want to stop.
I keep on sewing.  Sewing, sewing, sewing.
Untangle Claire from the thread for the one thousandth time.
Reset the dials that Claire has adjusted for the ninety eighth time.
Giddiness fades.  Pride starts to wane.  Patience wears thin.
Ask older children to manage Claire. 
Oldest children aren't feeling it.
I feel frustrated.  I slip into martyr mode.
After all, "I'm doing this FOR YOU!"
Know I should stop for the day, but don't want to.
After all, I'm on a roll.  Got a job to finish.
Skirt three- three + hours.
Start skirt four.
Chaos erupts. Crying/Yelling/House-full-of-girls-falling-apart ensues.
I fall apart.
I pick up the keys.
I mention my departure to husband (who is busy working on our latest wall-moving project).
Drive 1/4 mile to a deserted place, park, and cry.
Cry, cry, cry.
Say a prayer, wipe the tears, go home, and be mom again.
I finish the skirts, girls are happy, and we all arrive at church on Easter Sunday looking pretty as a picture.
Everyone asks how I do it all.
I smile and assure them that I don't.
They think I'm just saying that, but I know the truth.
Admit to myself that I wasn't doing it just for the girls.
I kind of wanted to do it for myself too.
I like them to look cute.
I like to finish a job.
I like to be creative.

I'm just not so good at being crafty and being a good mom all at the same time.

You know what my dad used to say?
It's hard to be beautiful.

Amen, Dad.  Amen.