Melatonin For Breakfast

I was in the worst mood last week. It started with the rain, perpetuated by A Star is Born (I’m still not over it), and culminated in drugging my kids with melatonin before their school day.

One day in between I had gotten a babysitter so I could try to write a book proposal, but I sat there and bit my fingernails for 8 hours instead. Another day I drove to Houston to talk to a group of lovely ladies about rest and renewal and showed up EXHAUSTED and stressed out. I couldn’t seem to stay on top of laundry, my dog threw up in my bed, avoiding a social media melt down with people who think that pro life only pertains to people in the womb was nearing impossible.


Dog barf, book proposals, social media— I know these aren’t real problems. And maybe that was the real rub. Feeling sad without good reason to feel sad makes me feel sadder. Shameful, really.


But, the afternoon that I drugged my kids, when they got home from school, we got in one bed together even though we don’t fit all that well anymore, and I said I was sorry. I admitted that I felt distracted and in general wasn’t at my best. They laughed, played with my hair, and offered to paint my fingernails. I asked them the specifics of their day because I wanted to know the exact damage I had done, feeding them depressants for breakfast. Just how tired were they? They reported nothing out of the ordinary (did I get placebo melatonin?!) then we moved on to other topics. 


It’s not that I don’t ask about their days. Because I do. So maybe it was the seriousness of my intention, or the novelty of being in bed together again, or that they thought it was delightfully scandalous that I had made a potentially dangerous mistake— whatever it was, something made them open up in a way that really only comes around once in a blue moon. I learned about the typical stuff: a fickle friend, a heroic playground move, a skinned knee, a special art project. But then with a little more prodding I learned about a nagging thought, some bad theology, and a deep seated worry. 


And even though this lesson isn’t necessarily profound I needed it again: The Lord can more easily bless what we willingly choose to turn over. 


In bed with my kids, I listened to the things they were up against. Frankly, things easy for me. And it occurred to me anew that if we lean into our aches and turn them over to the people meant to carry them, then there’s less opportunity for them to hang on, set in and take root. My kids reminded me that worries become problems when we refuse to feel them. It’s not self-indulgent to recognize sadness and call it what it is. There is a difference between recognizing sadness and obsessing over it. In fact, holy sadness is a price our soul is supposed to pay when we pay attention!


And just like that, I feel better. Was it that the rain let up, or that my babes offered to fix my manicure, or that I turned my attention to someone else’s pain? I don’t know, but I feel better.


I’ve been on two podcasts recently. I’m working on some exciting ones myself. I sat by a lake with my best friend. An online friend won a poetry award with a piece of writing that makes me feel things. I sat out in the cold last night watching my oldest be more mature than me while playing football. Emmanuel said “Dada” for the first time. The world is beautiful again. And I am reminded that giving sadness space keeps it from becoming aimless anger. Press on, friends, I love you.