Tumbling Interruptions

Most days, I love motherhood—slow morning coffee, walks to the park, and playdates with friends. But some days, it feels like an endless cycle. Cleaning, cooking, and comforting children. Wiping up snotty noses and the kitchen counter for the thousandth time.

At the end of the day, it seems like I do everything, but finish nothing.

And on the really hard days, I feel like a bubbling pressure cooker, ready to blow.

The baby won’t stop fussing. The crumbs multiply under my feet, and the smell of dirty diapers irritates me. My mind is mush, unable to process my circumstances.

“Mooooom!” my toddler interrupts my thoughts with a sing-song voice, begging me to play.

I consider my options—pause the house cleaning and build a tower with him, put on a show and hope he doesn’t cry when it ends, or play.

I try to divide my time, but some days, I don’t want to give my time.

“Moooooooooooooom,” he yells.

The pressure bubbles. My skull squeezes in frustration, why is it so hard to finish a chore?

I yell back, “Can’t you just play by yourself for five minutes?”

His little body shivers in sadness—his lips quiver.

I exhale, guilt gnawing at me. All he wants to do is play.

I take a deep breath and apologize for yelling.

“It’s ok Mummy,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. 

I gently hold his hand and we walk upstairs for naptime. We collapse into the rocking chair surrounded by his wooden crib and deep blue curtains and wind down with a book. After snuggles and a song, I lift all thirty pounds of him over the crib railing as he wiggles back and forth.

“I love you,” I whisper, a reminder for myself too. 

“Wuv you too, Mummy.”

A wave of relief washes over me. 

//

Side by side, with tight wetsuits and eight foot boards, my husband and I wade into the ocean. 

I kick the kelp off my board and sigh—my husband catches waves with ease. I bob up and down, trying to dodge other surfers.

As I sit in the ocean, I remember the advice of a surfing instructor.

“Grace, you need to keep your eyes up, don’t look down at the board, look up at the shore.”

Another big wave comes and I take his advice. I think I can do that—focus on the shore instead of the waves.

Suddenly, I look down as the cold water rushes over me. I just want to go home.

//

My son yawns as I turn off the lights and crank up the sound machine. “Good night, buddy.” I hold my breath, twisting the knob, savoring the satisfying clink of a closed door and a quiet house.

But the moment is short-lived. As soon as I plop onto the couch, noise emerges from his room. I walk back up the stairs to his room wondering what he needs this time.

“Mommy, Mommy!!” his high-pitched voice crescendos. I peer into his bedroom and turn on the lights.

He stands up tall in his crib, holding a bottle of magnesium sleepy time gummies.

My eyes widened, “James, how many did you eat?”

He tilts his head, “Pobably—four.”

Except the bottle is half empty. 

I grab the bottle and consider my next steps. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t keep the gummies so close to his crib. Worst-case scenarios flood my mind. Will we have to go to the ER? Will CPS file a report?

I feel out of control and scared.

My fingers shake as I call poison control.

//

“Come on, Grace, catch this wave!” My husband yells.

“Luke, it’s too big. I can’t.” I forget all the advice about looking up, and consume myself with the thought of failure—getting tossed under the water with boards smashing me into the sand.

But then I remember the thrill of slowly popping up and standing on the board. And unlike other waves, no one else is going for this one—I have a chance. Paddle, glide, paddle. I stroke hard, hearing the wave build behind me. Gush, wush, grr. I thrust into a plank position, but I cower. I slip off the board and tumble into the ocean.

The salty water rushes over me, tossing me like a ragdoll. 

I push up, gasping for air.

//

I hold my breath as I wait for poison control. After explaining the situation, the operator assures me my son will be okay. I exhale in relief, no longer upset about a missed nap time, because my son is safe.

“Mommy! Come on, it’s time to play!” His squeaky voice interrupts my thoughts, his big green eyes beckon me to come. Instead of being irritated by the interruption, I pause.

I like to be in control of my environment. Catch each wave with ease and set my own pacing. I want to remove interruptions and scary sets of waves.

But maybe that’s where the growth happens.

The next time I’m interrupted, I want to look into those green eyes and remember interruptions aren’t wasted—they’re chances to grow.

I won’t always paddle perfectly. I’ll tumble. I’ll yell. I’ll call poison control. But I’ll also learn to apologize, get back on the board, and play, even when I’m tired.

So when I’m upset, I can lift my eyes, and my children's eyes, to the maker of heaven and earth.¹

And if I still can’t calm down? Well, I might need some magnesium gummies. ;)

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Green."

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1. Psalm 121:1