Hopefully in writing this down I can reign in some of my craziness.  Dial it down to just carousel craziness instead of roller coaster craziness.

Today was the primary program at church.  I woke up this morning at 7:00 in a good mood, excited (for once) to actually get up and begin the wrestle that is Sunday morning.

Flash forward five hours later and I am leaving the chapel holding Livvy, obviously on the verge of tears, and dragging Jace and Cameron behind me.  Driving home through blankets of tears.  Putting children down for naps through blankets of tears.  And now sitting at this computer, red eyed and boogery.

And now I'm trying to figure out just what exactly caused the roller coaster to pick up such crazy speed, and then derail.  And here is what I have concluded:

Sundays, for me, are hard.  There is no spiritual enlightenment at all.  From the time I wake up in the morning to the time I drive away from the church, I am in a constant craze of battling with children.  Brice is always gone early Sunday morning (and also, P.S., I know a lot of women in the church have husbands who are gone Sunday morning and handle it well.  I do not.  I never will.  I hate it.  And if that makes me a wussy mormon wife, then so be it.  I don't care) so I am left to get the kids and myself ready for church alone.  

We're usually late.  I'm always frazzled.  The kids are extra rowdy Sunday mornings.  This morning outside was basically a swimming pool because it had rained alllllllll night.  We actually were ready to leave the house twenty minutes before ten but when I opened the door and saw the wading pool of a yard we would have to cross to make it to the van, all hopes of a smooth exit to church vanished.  

In order to get the boys safely (and dry) to the van I had to carry them one at a time.  Then I had to get Livvy there.  But when I got to the van I realized her car seat was still in the house.  Swearing occurred.  By the time we were all ready and buckled in my feet and bottom of my skirt were soaking wet and patience had long since vanished.  And I still had to wrestle with kids for the next three hours (one hour in sacrament and two more hours in the nursery).

But today was the primary program.  And I was excited.  I feel like the primary program is the one Sunday a year when mothers of young, difficult children--such as myself-- can sit back and feel the reward of their struggles.  A time to see your sweet child singing his heart out from the stand, looking at you with a smile, so proud of himself.  It's the one Sunday out of the year that you actually feel like it's worth it to go to church.

Jace practiced his lines.  He memorized them all.  He knew part of all the songs, and some of them he knew really well. He was singing them around the house when he got home from the practice yesterday.  I couldn't wait to see my sweet little boy smiling at me proudly from the stand.  To make me feel like a good mom, for once.  To make me feel like going to church on Sunday is not just a waste of time.

But, like most things, if you set yourself up with high expectations, you are sure to be disappointed.  Jace didn't say his lines like I knew he could.  He waited for them to be whispered to him. That's okay, though, no big deal.

But then he also did not sing a single song.  He stood there with a blank look on his face, his mouth firmly closed.  I mouthed at him from the audience, "SING".  He did not. I gave him my scary teacher eyes and mouthed it again.  Nothing.  He would not sing.

And for some reason that crushed my soul a little bit.  First there was rage.  And I wanted to march up there and shake him and yell, "SING DAMMIT SING"  Then disappointment came pouring in and I suddenly felt like I was going to burst into tears right there in front of everyone.  After the first four songs of not even attempting to sing, I just wished that it would hurry up and be over.  Because disappointment kept crashing in harder and harder.  And then the guilt came, because why did I care so much?  Why was I feeling so mad at him for not singing?  What kind of a mother wants to say to her five year old when he comes off the stand, "What the heck was that?  That sucked big time."

Is that crazy? Yes.  I know it is.  But the heart feels what it feels.  Sometimes it feels what it feels magnified because of stupid hormones.  But it doesn't make what it feels any less real.  And right  now my heart feels sad that my little boy would not sing lovely primary songs in his primary program.  And also sad at the way I let it bother me. And also sad because it has never hit me more fully that no matter how hard I try, how much instruction I give, how many scary eyed threats I issue, Jace will do what he wants to do.  And sometimes his choices are going to be disappointing.  And sometimes they're going to make my heart cry just a little bit.  And I know that this really isn't a big deal.  Probably even in just a few hours I will feel better and wonder what I was so upset about.  But someday it will be something else that disappoints me and makes my heart hurt.  And I don't know if I'm ready for that.  How do parents handle it?  I am not doing so well at this little, insignificant thing.  How will I handle real stuff?

Even though three year old are like little terrors, I think maybe I wish my kids could all stay three forever.

I tried explaining to him why I feel disappointed and sad, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't get it or even care.  Which is fine.  Because he's five.  And there will be plenty of other primary programs.  And  you better believe I will be threatening him with a beating if he does not sing, or even pretend to sing, at the next one.

I went in to tell him to lay down and rest and he said to me, "Why are your eyes so red."

"Because I've been crying."

"Well, you look like a monster, kinda."

Awesome.