what do you do when…

…you find yourself in the following conversation…

I emerged from the co-op dragging Brighton in one hand, a bag of groceries in the other, Levi strapped to my chest in the Bjorn, and the rest of the groceries strapped to my back in the trusty co-op backpack.

I find my stroller being used as a footrest for old, annoying male #1 sitting on the bench outside the co-op. He is discussing how much he raked in gambling over the weekend at Atlantic City with old, annoying male #2.

The following conversation ensues…

Me: Um, excuse me. Would you mind me grabbing my stroller.

(Even with my sweet, sappy smile, old, annoying male #1 still shoots me a disgruntled look. Now his feet have to rest on the sidewalk, for petes sake!)

O,A,M#2: Did you know you left your keys in your stroller?

(They were hidden under the rain shield in the bottom stroller basket…how he found those, I’m not quite sure. Why he’s even asking me about my keys, I’m even more clueless at this moment)

Me: Yes, thanks.

(With a forced smile, turning to walk away)

O, A, M#2: Did you MEAN to do that?

(I stop in my tracks. Now I am really annoyed. I don’t even try to be nice or polite)

Me: Why are you asking me that question?!

O,A,M#2: Because it’s really unwise to leave your keys lying around.

Me: Well, it’s hard to keep track of everything with two little kids to take care of.

(Trying to cough out a laugh)

O,A,M#2: Well, it doesn’t seem to be for MOST people. With more kids that two.

I immediately decide to stop carrying on this conversation and instead turn around, buckle Brighton in, smile with daggers coming out my eyes and walk away before I disembowel the man.

My sister, Callie, had just called this morning to share an experience she had with the little girl she nannies, who was reprimanded my a man sitting in the booth behind them at a fast-food joint after she patted him on his back. “Get control of your kids!”, he had barked at my sister.

She wanted to know how you shake something like that off. Something that triggers you in a way that few things can. For moms, I think it’s this whole being corrected or reprimanded by strangers when we are feeling like we’re barely swinging this whole mommy-thing anyhow.

Why is it that I want to rail on this guy about all the injustices mothers face and to give me a freakin’ break and how in the world he thinks it’s his place to tell me how to keep track of my keys. Yeh, I know it’s rude of him and all, but what does it mean to me in that very moment that I am bound to Christ?

How does He come in to these very real, every day moments? I hear plenty about loving your neighbors and grand ideas about Christ being enough, not needing others approval and the whole big vision about being a Christian, but in the dust and heat of the daily grind, what does He look like?

What does He look like to me when I stand there on that sidewalk floored that some strange man is teaching me how to take care of my things? Do I even CARE that I’m a daughter of the King at that moment? Does it even matter that I am cherished and adored by Christ? Or do I just want to run home and tell Matthew about the gall that guy had and rant and rave about how looney he must be? Totally forgetting where my identity lies, NOT in the hands of that man.

These are things I haven’t figured out, so there’s no sweet, wrapped-up “lesson-learned” ending for this post, I’m just musing and would love to hear your thoughts.

This is what I’m longing to dig more deeply in to these days. What are the messy, slushy guts of my faith really about? How do they keep things running smoothl or not-so-smoothly? What the real sweaty, muggy daily in-and-out is all about. Not Sunday mornings. Not the face I wear around other Christian friends at times. But those hundreds of moments that come up each day. When the milk cup drops from the high chair. When the car keys are lost yet again. When the white towels are thrown in with the new red shirt. When the lovingly prepared dish burns to a crisp, forgotten in the oven. When the antibiotics cause explosive diarrhea. The hundreds of moments I have to make a choice to really believe what I talk about or to just get by and survive the day.

I almost always opt for survival and figure I’ll pick up Christ when Sunday rolls around again. Because, come on, HOW does He relate to dirty diapers, meals to be made, toys to clean up?! But I know He does. In my sane moments I even believe He does and I sense Him there. But I don’t quite understand it all. I don’t know what it looks like to find Him when I’m faced with a fellow shopper who is annoyed that I can’t juggle a toddler, a baby, a bag of groceries and a credit card slip to sign. Or a harsh email regarding a blog post. Or a snotty comment from two old men on a bench.

I want to scream that I have rights, you know. Whether it’s mothering rights, or just plain human dignity rights. I have rights, so leave me alone.

In the face of those emotions, how does Christ become sweeter? How does one come back to reality and hold the world and it’s opinions loosely?

Maybe I’m just more sensitive because I’m tired and worn out, but I think I remember feeling annoying at life and people pre-kids, so I don’t think this is simply a pooped-mom syndrome. I think we’re all faced with it. I think we all have these moments throughout the day that we have a choice to just slide by and forget who we are.

Any thoughts?

And yes, we’re home. We arrived last night and had a hellish day upon our return. Explosive poop and tantrums. I think everyone is in need of a return to some normalcy and routine.

To end on a light note, from Post Secret’s Father’s Day Edition, there were two funny dad stories I couldn’t pass up. One writer confessed that his father used to tell him that the music from the ice cream truck was what the driver played when he was all out of ice cream. Another writer confessed that his dad would ride over the rumble strips on the side of the highway and say that noise was the car getting mad that he wasn’t behaving. We should have used that one on Brighton yesterday on our return trip.