I was messaging with Leaf last night, and I wrote, "The poo soup was not even the worst part of my day."
I haven't written about poo for a while. Nearly thirteen years into my mothering career, I have mastered poo. Poo doesn't get to me anymore. Potty-training-outtakes-poo on the floor, the dog eating poo, poo explosions. Until, that is, the poo soup. And it wasn't even the worst part of my day.
It begins with toddlers who love to put things in toilets. It continues with two blocked toilets that I have been plunging for weeks. We have a third toilet, all the poo is supposed to go in there, but we are forgetful people at times. Yesterday, with two blocked toilets, I woke determined to fix it all. I bought a plumbing snake, some hardcore toilet clearer, and a new plunger. The downstairs toilet was really and truly blocked. Do I even need to tell you what happened? I added the chemical to the water, it cooked the poo, the vapor rose to fill the house, and then I died. Or I decided to move. Or burn the house down.
The septic guy came out and blah blah blah, something with a hose and stuff. I don't think it's actually completely fixed yet.
The point is, it was horrible. But there are things more horrible than poo soup, like yelling at your dear husband. That was the worst part of my day. Because a slight criticism on his part (had nothing to do with the plumbing problem, and more with my tendency to fret) led to me getting VERY defensive and striking back, guns blazing. After all these years, I'm still not the best at taking criticism. And yes, it was the first day of my period, and yes, I started that day, not on some cushions with dark chocolate and a favorite book, but in the poo soup. And yes, I tend to worry about money.
Fighting with my husband didn't make me feel better about any of this. Demanding to be understood never works. Bad days happen. But here's a letter to my future self:
On days like these, take a walk, lovely. Make a cup of tea. Go to your room and turn the lights off and put music in your ears and imagine forests. Go for a drive. Soothe yourself. Then open your hands, give your husband (your loving, kind-hearted, human, well-meaning husband) a big hug. Accept that he won't always say the thing that makes you feel the best. Move into the day with grace. Know that grace is there for you. Stand under the waterfall of grace for a while. Accept that he might be right about his critique of you, but that doesn't mean you aren't lovable. Remember that you are a monk, your spiritual work is taking care of kids and plants and making food and reading aloud.
Only love and grace can heal. Hold it in abundance for all those around you, and especially for you, because when you want to return fire, guns blazing, you need to pour a little extra love in your cup and keep your heart and your mouth quiet.
This letter might work for you, too. Or maybe you can write your own letter, for those days that start with poo soup. Put it somewhere safe, and pull it out and read it when you need to. I'm going to try it.
And my husband is kind and forgiving, and all is right with the world again. (Sort of, except that I think we're still stuck only using one toilet.)