A Great Battle and a Crazy Angel

It started with playdoh. You were supposed to make some for your kid’s class this month, and you did but you didn’t make enough. You knew you didn’t make enough and you had time to make more but you didn’t feel like it. There were other things you wanted to do on the weekend more then mix together cream of tartar, flour, salt and water.  It stinks, those things all melting together.  Also, why did you have to make it? Why couldn’t you just pick some up at the store?

But you signed up to make playdoh but you didn’t make enough and now it’s Monday and you tell your preschooler that if this isn’t enough you’ll make more.  She’s not upset but you are. You feel you’ve failed her in some way because you didn’t make enough playdoh and now she and her little friends won’t have the cognitive pre-reading skills or whatever it is that playdoh provides. Maybe it’s imagination. Your daughter and her friends will never learn to read, and they’ll have no imagination and it will be your fault.

You mixed glitter into the playdoh and you wonder if that will make up for the lame amount you made.

Then there was the phone call from the nurse at your other daughter’s school telling you that normally they don’t let kids administrate medicine to themselves unless it’s on their medical card, but, the nurse says that you said it was OK so she let her do it.

“What medicine?” you ask and the nurse tells you that your daughter brought in ointment for a scratch on her face.

“What scratch?” you ask and the nurse tells you that your daughter has a significant scratch running from her forehead to her cheek.

You tell the nurse you did not give your daughter medicine and that when she left for school she did not have a signifiant scratch running down her face. The nurse tells you that the medicine is organic and that the scratch is from sledding.

You tell the nurse that you are coming to school and as you drive you think back over the weekend: there was sledding and a movie, there was hot chocolate and there were toys all over the floor like normal. You don’t remember a scratch, but were you distracted? You had a deadline and you’d been writing so your husband was watching the kids. Maybe you didn’t notice that she’d been hurt? Maybe nobody wanted to bother you with it because you get too involved and worked up when you’re writing, and why is that? You shouldn’t be so distracted. You need to relax. You need to take more breaks. How could you not notice your daughter has an injury and send her to school? Shame on you.

You are practically shaking with sadness and also guilt by the time you get to your daughter’s school.  You want to tell her how sorry you are that you didn’t notice that she’d been hurt. You walk into the office and there she is, her cherub face and chubby cheeks free from any marks save for crumbs from lunch around the corners of her mouth. You need to pack napkins in her lunchbox. Or maybe wet wipes.

She is standing next to her classmate, a sweet looking little girl with a significant scratch running down her face.  It’s from sledding.  There was a bit of a mix-up. Your daughter was the one who came in with a stomach ache, not the one with the organic balm for a sledding mishap.

You are home fixing a snack for your kids and you are wondering why you always get so worked up. Why do you blame yourself for everything? Of course you’d notice if your kid had an injury. And who cares about the playdoh? So you make more if you have to.

But that’s not the issue. The issue is you want to be perfect and you can’t be. You think you can always be better then what you are right now. You are always capable of being better. What you are right now is not enough.

So you give the cut up apple with cinnamon on it, juice that’s half water because you don’t want the kids to have too much sugar, and some goldfish crackers to your kids and you text your husband to ask him when he’s coming home.  You tell him you need to go to the gym. Alone.You think of that story in the Bible when Jesus had to go away by himself. He got in a boat, didn’t he? He needed to get away. But he went to pray and you’re going to the gym. It’s not the same thing.

You think as you drive over that it’s not the gym you should go to. It’s church. You should go to church and pray.  But you can’t sit still like you’re supposed to in church.  You need to punch and kick and run.  A very small voice tells you, gently, that it is when you are doing these things you are praying and you believe it so you accelerate to get to the gym faster before that voice goes away.

About 30 people are in the class and at the instructor’s direction you begin to run.  You run and run until she yells, “Stop,” and points to one of us. That person drops and does push ups, or lunges, or jumping jacks. Whatever she does,  the rest of the group copies. You follow and think this is nice. We’re all working together here giving our own contribution. You wonder why this is easy for you but when you have to make small talk, when you have to pass the peace, when you have to play a get-to-know-me game, you can’t do that. When it’s your turn you do a little ski jump from side to side, as though you’re slaloming.

The class is an hour and there are crab walks, and jumping over things, there’s a punching bag, and planks, weights and resistance bands.  You are dripping with sweat so that it stings your eyes, making more tears.  The instructor has you pair up and your partner puts a strap around your waist so that you are like a horse ready to take passengers somewhere. She tells you to run and you do, going nowhere but trying and trying with everything you have.  Your partner lets go and you sprint to the hula hoops, scattered on the floor. You jump into each circle bouncing and flying and the voice that was small is screaming now, “Look at me! Look at what I can do! Watch me! Watch this! Are you watching? I can do this. I am good at this.” And it’s stupid but you imagine Him saying, “Well done. Well done.”

The music stops. The class ends. You bend to rest on your knees and sweat plops on the floor, onto your shoes. Another pair of shoes stand next to you. They’re old and a little grimy, a white-ish tan. The lady wearing them still has her work socks on and her hand is on your sweaty back.

“I am so proud of you,” she tells you and you stand abruptly and take one step back so her hand leaves your back. But you keep looking at her, startled and wondering. Her hair is up in about thirty five bobby pins and she’s wearing glasses that are sort of thick and a band around her head will keep them on for her workout.

“I was watching you out there,” she says, “and I turned to my friend and said, ‘Look at her. She’s working so hard. She looks like she’s dancing.'”

You look at your shoes. You look back up at her.

“I just wanted to tell you that.” She pivots and finds a spot on the floor before you can say thank you. You are left standing there, the sweat starting to stop and cake around your eyes, feeling as though it’s shrinking your skin.

You walk to put your sweatshirt on and to pick up your keys. The music for the next class starts and the lady starts marching, just a tad off beat. Her bobby pins look like they won’t stay in for the duration of the class, and you worry her glasses might fall off while she’s jumping around.  You want to tell her thank you, but she’s no longer concerned with you. She’s going to dance now.

She’s left you: full and thankful and walking towards whatever it is  you are going to do next.