Overwhelmed

I'm feeling an overwhelming mix of emotions right now. Sunday's are always among the toughest day of the week for any grieving person--a day formerly reserved for family activities has suddenly become a lonely day filled with memories of Sunday's past. My life and my grief is no different.

Today was an unusual Sunday. Instead of our normal 3-hour block of church meetings that begins at 9 am and ends at noon, we met instead with another congregation of the same faith at 10 am, and settled in to watch a series of speakers that were broadcast via satellite from church headquarters in Utah. This broadcast was slated to take up a full two hours. Normally during our three hour block of church, we spend the first 75 minutes meeting as a congregation. We listen to talks, sing hymns, and pray. The first meeting is called Sacrament Meeting, and it's always a challenge for young families to figure out how to control and quiet their children. In years past, Ammon and I would take turns pacing the hallway with whatever child was youngest at the time, and would trade off helping the kids with quiet activity. After the initial 75 minute meeting, the rest of the 3 hours is normally spent broken up into age and gender groups for individually focused lessons.

I knew several weeks ago that today would bring a change to our normal church schedule. I was fully aware that our 75 minute meeting--which on the best of days still stretches my children's (and myself!) capacity for sitting quietly and reverently listening--would be pushed well beyond the limits today. With a second pair of hands and another parent to even the frustration and stress, it's possible. By myself--the task seems nigh insurmountable. I strongly considered not even attending church today in order to save myself and the rest of the congregation from children that would almost certainly become unruly--but in the end decided that the benefits for regular and consistent church schedule outweighed the potential for disaster.

On that note, we rose this morning, bathed, and dressed in our Sunday best. We arrived at the meetinghouse about 15 minutes early to secure good seats, and waited for the meeting to start.

The first few minutes were fine. Within about 20 minutes, though, my children--the boys particularly--were having an extremely difficult time maintaining their behavior. I allowed them to bring a few extra quiet toys today, hoping it would entertain them for the longer meeting. At first, drawing seemed to be enough. Kadon quietly thumbed through his scriptures, and Jeremy drew with a pencil in an activity book. Soon, the first fight broke out. Loudly, Kadon demanded that Jeremy let him have a turn with the pencil. At this point, Brooklyn also began to fuss and want to wander around. I tried to stretch myself in three different directions, to no avail. Self-consciously, I felt the eyes of the members sitting near us turn to my children, and then to me. I felt as tough I could hear their thoughts--'Can't she control those children? They're acting entirely inappropriately for church!'. Likely, these reactions were only in my imagination. My church is full of good, kind people. Regardless, I still felt the burning of shame that my children aren't better behaved in church.

In an attempt to be less disruptive, I took my kids to the back of the room. I stood--holding Brooklyn--and tried once again to listen to the speakers. Within seconds, Kadon started toward the back of the room. Almost immediately after him, Jeremy came to where we were standing--walking past at least half the congregation to get to me. I asked them to sit on some chairs on the back row, and within moments they were fighting again--hitting each other with books and speaking far too loudly. Brooklyn was squirming to get down, and once released from my arms also found loud things to occupy her time. I attempted to get Jeremy to sit separate from his brother, and once on the floor Jeremy started playing with the metal piece of a table, making a loud clanging noise. Once Jeremy discovered this piece, Brooklyn also discovered it--so that while I could get Jeremy to move, Brooklyn continued to touch it and disrupt the meeting.

I grew increasingly more agitated as the meeting continued in this way. After only an hour, I made a hasty exit. Silently, I buckled the children into the car. Silently, I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Before I could reach the next intersection, hot tears were coursing down my face. I cried all the way home, and then--just as silently--got Brooklyn down for a nap and locked myself in my bedroom. The boys are downstairs watching a cartoon, and I am sitting on my bed trying to sort out how I'm feeling.

I am feeling an intense mixture of frustration, sadness, anger, and loneliness. I am beyond frustrated that church has become such a hassle for my family. I have come to the point where I silently loathe Sacrament Meeting. I abhor taking my children to this meeting by myself, and am frustrated that in a ward of good, honest, faithful and genuinely caring people--I am often found sitting alone, obviously struggling to care for my three children. My visiting teacher, whom I adore, has often invited one of the boys to sit with her. Occasionally, Kadon will go. More often, the kids are insistent on sitting with me. Occasionally one of the boys will ask to go sit with a friend's family, and sometimes I allow it--but even then I am eaten up with guilt that my kids are causing another parent stress. Really, it's a no-win situation. I'm frustrated that none of the older adult members have taken on the service of helping me during these meetings, but at the same time--I would be mortified if they asked. I would be ashamed that I even NEED help, and would likely turn them down anyway.

I feel like I've become such an angry mom. I'm nearly always frustrated with my kids. I snap at them, and speak unkindly to them, so often that I'm ashamed. They are my greatest treasure--and I regularly neglect them in favor of other pursuits. The other day Kadon blew on a dandelion to make a wish, and when he told me what his wish was, it broke my heart into little pieces. "I wished for a better Mom", he told me. "I wish I could have a Mom who is nicer to me." He's right. He, all of them, deserve a better Mom. At the very least, they deserve a Mom who isn't taking out their frustrations on them. In reality, these children deserve their Daddy. I am so ashamed of my shortcomings as a widowed parent. It's not a role I wear comfortably or well, but the learning curve is steep. I have so little time to get it right--and then they will be gone. Right now, I feel as though I am failing miserably.

I suppose, as usual, most of this boils down to grief. I miss Ammon. I miss his gentle reassurance, his helping hands, and his easy way of making me laugh. I miss having him around to back me up, and to help make the tough decisions. I miss holding his hand across the back of the church pew, while our children play between us. I miss, more than anything, being able to take comfort in the solace of his mind and in his love. This job I'm doing--it was never meant to be done by one person. Children, regardless of what society would have us all believe, were never MEANT to be raised by one parent. I believe with all my heart that this fact is why it takes two to create a child--it should take two to raise that child. Nevertheless, here I am. I am one person doing a two-person job, and doing it badly. What do I do now? Where do I go from here, and how do I fix it?