It was one of those mornings. You know the kind. Before the clock had even struck seven, I was already cursing motherhood.

It should have been a great morning. We love Wednesdays in our house. The kids have what they call "late arrival" at their school, which means they have to be there at 9 am instead of 8 am. If your school doesn't know about this late arrival idea, I encourage you to bring it up. You might even want to start a petition or, honestly, a picket line. Late arrival is that good. I don't know how to explain the greatness of a sixty-minute schedule adjustment other than to say that is's a perfectly timed change of pace, a blissful way to reach the middle of the week. I'm sure it's even more blissful in some homes because there are probably children in the world who are capable of sleeping past 6:45 in the morning. Unfortunately, I don't live with such children. Still, our family looks forward to late arrival Wednesdays.

Why? 

One word . . .

Breakfast.

On Wednesdays, mommy bakes.
I try to feed my kids healthy foods like the rest of you well-meaning parents out there. They eat a lot of high fiber cereal in the mornings, with almond milk for the protein, of course. Sometimes they have Greek yogurt and bagels. My daughter has even been known to go for a cheese stick and some applesauce before school.

But not on Wednesdays. On Wednesdays, we have an extra hour of prep time on account of the fact that my kids get up at the same time every morning regardless of their school's schedule, or their parents' for that matter. On Wednesdays, we can make waffles and pancakes and blueberry muffins and, if daddy is up for it, his famous French toast. I even throw a little flax seed and protein powder in whatever we make just to ease the guilt over the amount of sugar I'm allowing my children to consume before they begin their day.

So this Wednesday started out like the others, with plans for baked goods. Only mama had an inspiration. You see, the night before, when daddy was putting Charlie to bed, he issued his usual Tuesday evening reminder.

"Now remember son, tomorrow is late arrival so you can sleep late."

Hey, you can't blame us for trying, can you?

Charlie's response, however, had nothing to do with sleep.

"Yay! I love late arrival. What is mommy going to bake for us?"

Well . . . when my husband told me what Charlie had said, my chest got all puffy with mama pride. You know that feeling too, don't you? It makes your heart swell and sing and feel as if it's lifting right out of your chest with unbridled happiness. As my heart lifted, I decided I would make something extra special for my kids the following morning. Forget the waffles. I would surprise my children with something new, something exciting, something they would swoon over. And so I jumped out of bed on Wednesday morning and headed straight for the oven to begin preheating.

The kids came downstairs a few minutes later and did what they always do. They headed straight for our bed and climbed in to snuggle with their dad so I could go through my morning routine - turning on the coffee maker, emptying the dishwasher, transferring laundry. But this morning, I put the routine on hold and got right to work on my baked goods.

My plan wasn't unique, I assure you. I just rolled out some canned biscuits, coated them with butter, cinnamon, and brown sugar, and topped each one with a chocolate chip. I popped them in the oven before the kids emerged from their snuggling session (which, as usual, had turned into a wrestling session) and eagerly anticipated the smiles on the faces of my kids when they discovered what chef mom had made for breakfast on this late arrival Wednesday.

And then, in all it's impossible glory, motherhood came calling.

"What's for breakfast mama?" He grinned as he walked towards the kitchen and saw the oven light shining like a sweet beacon.

"How about we have muffins, mom?" Her grin was just as wide, right before she put her thumb back in her mouth.
"Well kids, we're going to have something different today."

As I turned to face my offspring, the smile on my face was, by far, the biggest of all. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

The grumbling was both immediate and intense. It sounded a lot like this, only in stereo because the words were tumbling out of the mouths of BOTH my children at the same time.

"I don't want anything new because I wan't waffles or blueberry muffins because it's Wednesday and we always have something good and I don't want something I've never tried before and it's probably something I won't even like because it's not waffles or blueberry muffins and why can't we just have something we love like waffles or muffins because it's Wednesday."

The heart that had been raised in gratitude for almost twelve hours sunk like lead in my chest.

They presisted with the complaints and I decided to go the ignoring route. It seemed my only option as I knew I couldn't convince my kids that the baked goods in the oven were sure to knock their socks off. They did, in fact, knock their socks off. They ate all but two. Still, the tone of the morning had been set. My kids were ungrateful and I was pissed off about it.

We made it through the extra hour that late arrival Wednesday, but only by the grace of the God whose wisdom I was secretly questioning the entire time. And the moment I dropped my kids off in the carpool line at a quarter to nine, the tears began to fall. My mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy.

How can I be doing such a terrible job? What kind of mother raises kids who are so rude? How can I be such a failure when I'm trying so hard?

I didn't say anything to the kids that afternoon or evening about how tough my day had been because of their bad attitudes that morning. I wasn't quite ready to have those conversations about being open to new experiences and treating people with respect and being thankful to have food on their plates every day when millions of people all over the world do not. Those are big conversations. Conversations I've already had with my children on numerous occasions. Conversations I'll likely need to have with them a dozen more times . . . this month alone. I just couldn't muster up the strength that afternoon. I was spent. I was hurt. I was defeated. I was sure it wouldn't matter anyway.

I put them to bed the way I always do. With books and prayers and cuddles and the phrase I say a dozen times a day but which seemed to come out a little less smoothly that particular night.

"I love you."

And when I got into my own bed a short while later, the prayers poured.

Dear God, please help me. Please help me love my children when they act unlovable. Please help me have patience with my children when they try my patience. Please help me know what to say when my children say things they shouldn't. Please help me model the attitudes and actions I want my children to emulate when their attitudes and actions upset me.

I could feel my anger dissolving, my sadness dissipating with each whispered prayer.

After the events of the day, I was certain of two things . . .

My children weren't always listening.

God was.

I slept well that night. And the next Wednesday . . . I made waffles.