Meltdown Momma!!

I try to have a melt down at least once a month.

Okay, so I don’t actually try to…it really comes quite naturally.  And the whole “once a month” thing isn’t an actual goal, but I do seem to be making that quota as overall as I’m batting about 12 for 12 (12 melt-downs in 12 month’s time).

Here are the necessary ingredients that combine to create my monthly recipe for disaster; too many goals (my fault), too little sleep (my fault), too much striving in my own strength (my fault), too big of pride to ask for help (obviously, my fault again) and last (but certainly not least), too many unused Kleenexes in our home that are feeling lonely and need to fulfill their nose-wiping/mascara-swiping destiny.

I could perhaps blame it on the busyness of life with four tiny blessings underfoot each day…but I was still batting 12 for 12 when I had just one kid.  So maybe if I was child-free I could cope with life’s stresses in a more balanced way.  Hmm…sounds like a nice theory, but again, reality tells a different story as my husband has many fond recollections of hanging up his “The Doctor Is IN” sign on a monthly basis during our dating and newlywed years to be my listening ear as I bawled my eyes out.

And, honey, don’t even THINK that I was melt-down free before I had a man because let me tell you, then the tears came even more frequently as I lamented the void of good-hearted men in the universe.

In conclusion, the only common denominator in these monthly melt-downs is.... Moi’ (note to any men reading: don’t assume this always fell during the “Pass My Shotgun” week as there were the plenty of occasions when it didn’t).

The funny (or not so funny, depending on if you’re my husband or not) thing about Mama’s Meltdown Day is it could strike at any moment though it is usually preceded by days of suppressed feelings (most of which I haven’t had time to analyze and figure out) and if you throw in a few diaper-explosions or burnt dinners, the great day could arrive even sooner than anticipated.

When “Mama’s Meltdown Day” does arrive, it is sure to never dissapoint in the amount of drama that it produces.  “Days of Our Lives” and “As the Stomach Turns” have nothing on me.

The ideal setting for the meltdown to take place is usually someplace that gives off a pathetic vibe and isn’t too cheery because misery loves lame company.  I try to hold it together (ever the brave, sacrificing marter of motherhood that I am) until the children are napping or watching a movie in the hopes they won’t land in therapy when their older for being a live witness to a hysticarl alien taking over their normally happy mother and watching her inhale an entire box of Kleenexes in a single breath.

Once these elements are in place; children distracted, Kleenexes in hand, dark corner of the bathroom located, and (bonus) a quick glance in the mirror to remind myself I’m truly pitiful (greatly helps if I didn’t have a chance to change out of my pajamas and never put on make-up or did up my hair)...then the dam breaks.  Look out Hoover, you have real compition now.

Of course, it gets rather boring just crying, eating Kleenexes, dwelling on all of the negative things in my life (NO positive thinking or praying allowed!!) and just SITTING there, so after awhile, I do what any responsible and accomplished woman would do: call your man and share the love.

Since my man isn’t always aware that Mt. Meltdown has been having some suspicious activity under the surface the previous week, when he first picks up the phone and hears me sobbing on the other side, unable to articulate what’s happening, the hair on his back stands up in alarm.  Is she okay?  Was their an accident?  Did something happen to one of our kids?  Is the house on fire (or, more likely, dinner?)…did the car break down?  

“Baby!  Talk to me!  What’s wrong?”  His worried tone is fuel for my fire.

“I can’t do this…it’s so hard!”

“What’s hard?  Are you okay?  Where are the kids, dear?”  

“They’re watfching Sesame Street, don’t worry about them.  Ths is about ME.  I’m NOT fine!  I’m having a…(tears)…a….(sobbing)….a…(deep, ragged breath)…a MELTDOWN!!!”

“Oh.”  His voice sounds relieved, “That’s good.  I thougth something was wrong.”

Ah, men.  No wonder they have a shorter life expectancy than women.

Work deadlines will have to be pushed back an hour…or year…while I pour out my woes and unload the burdens of this world onto the hefty shoulders of my own John Wayne.  The only feedback needed from the man on the other end of the line are these words,  “Yes.  Oh.  Uh-huh.  Really?  Yes.  I UNDERSTAND.”  Of course, when the dumptruck of emotions has unloaded, I can think a little more clearly and realize I am an desperate need of some quiet time with God.  As strong as my man’s shoulders are, he can’t carry my burdens for me.  The only One that can is the One that promised me, “Cast your cares upon me, for I care for you.”

Well, there you have it.  That’s a moment-in-the-Mama’s-Meltdown-Day for you.  It’s nothing fancy, not something I’m proud of and typically I am at fault for arriving to that point.

But, the way I see it, if I DIDN’T have a monthly meltdown then,

1.  The Kleenex company would be out of business.

And,

2.  I wouldn’t realize how desperately I am a sinner in need of a Saviour (and having a good man and a bucket of icecream helps too).