So, this morning started off wonderfully when the kids didn't wake me up until 8:30am! I woke up, and got a bit scared because they hadn't woken me, and I knew Shane had left for work hours ago. So I rushed into their room, to see them happily chattering to each other, having a grand old time in their beds. It was a good start to the day.
Unfortunately, it all went downhill from there.
We had breakfast, and as I wandered past the lounge room I noticed a wet puddle on the floor in the corner (I am so glad we have wooden floors in there). I immediately called Chloe and stuck her outside, but I wasn't really that surprised, considering how late we slept.
Later, as the kids finished breakfast I disinfected the puddle and then flicked the T.V on and the kids went into the lounge room to watch Peppa Pig. I came in soon after to get them dressed and spotted a little poop on the floor. I shrieked at the kids to stay away from it and then rushed to clean it up, trying to identify if it was human poop or dog poop. (This story has a lot of poop by the way, in case the title wasn't enough to clue you in). I decided it must've been a little dog poop I had somehow missed.
After I cleaned it, I could still smell that lovely poopy aroma, but I couldn't find anything, so I opened the windows and then went to get the kids dressed, thinking one of them might have a dirty nappy. I jumped into the shower, and then when I came out I noticed what looked like a whole lot of mud near the toy basket, that Charlie was rolling his truck in.
I got closer and almost vomitted. Yep, more dog poop. At that point I kind of went into panic mode, I furiously cleaned it up, bathed the kids, soaked toys, cleaned up more poop (Charlie decided to drop one in the bath... awesome) and as I was cleaning I was getting angrier and angrier.
My inner monologue was basically going "It's not fair, I am the only one who ever deals with any messes in this house! Poor Me!" I was really ticked off, and was swearing my head off. It was really ugly and I'm not proud. I kicked the kids outside on the deck while I scrubbed at my floor, and I just basically had a big angry sorry for myself session. Blaming Shane, because you know, he was at work instead of helping me clean. Blaming the damn dog (I so wanted to kick her, but don't worry, I didn't). Afterwards I looked around my house and I just hated it all, it all just felt too hard, too much, I didn't want to wash clothes or do the dishes. Sometimes I don't mind being the designated housework fairy, and other times it angers me beyond belief, constantly cleaning up after everyone else. This time, I was angry beyond belief. My house still smelled like poo and it was filthy.... I was just so frustrated.
I went outside with the kids, and just sat on the steps and watched them play and I cried. Big heaving sobs. Just over it. I didn't know what to do or where to start and I didn't want to be the one to have to do everything or anything, you know? I was just raging inside, until I had nothing left "It's not fair!!"
And then, that still small voice.
No. It isn't.
And my mind was flooded with the image of Jesus on the cross. Cleaning up the mess of this world. So much mess, so much pain and sorrow and wickedness that he had to deal with. It wasn't his fault, he didn't deserve it, he shouldn't have had to do it. But we couldn't do it for ourselves. And he did it because he loved us. Loves us.
I cried and I cried, so sorry for all the pain and the hurt we cause him. So much evil that is so awful I can't even begin to comprehend it.
If He can love the world so much, love people who don't even acknowledge Him, and do it with such grace "Father forgive them the know not what they do"..... surely I can clean up a bit of poop.
And so eventually I stopped crying, picked myself up off the ground, and I started cleaning up again.