Making the Switch

I am becoming convinced that I have made my life too hard. Perhaps by my own design, I have added obligations, outrageous sized work caseload, occasional personal appointments, and general things to busy up my world. I thought at one point that I had set my sights on being a more philosophical person. Almost transcendental with my approach to the rearing of the children and the balancing of my job. I wanted an ebb and flow of energy to make each day successful and rewarding. I like the challenge of work outside the house. I love the rhythm of a well-organized day. There is something zen about the flow of organization and planning done well.

Unlike most people, I am happiest when I have a plan for most of my day. The start to finish kind of plan that allows for rest, moments of reflection and rejuvenation, and some flexibility, but shows progress at the end of the day. For that reason the simple everyday tasks of laundry, cleaning, and homeschooling are indeed some of my favorites. There are fruits of the labor no matter how short lived they are.

For me to take mountains of dirty, grimy laundry from wadded messes shoved under beds, tied in knots, and hurled across rooms in four foot stacks and convert them to clean, neatly stacked and hung clothing feels like a significant accomplishment. When you consider that the average amount of laundry for our household consists of 7-8 loads per day in order to eliminate a hallway full of 4-5 baskets of clothing, the task takes on a new meaning.

My day job also has accepted piles of monumental work. Weekly notes and summaries for every patient. Evaluations and discharges for completed work, not to mention the assorted staff training for specific tasks. Each person to be seen for treatment for the prescribed time. Maintaining the continuum of collaboration with other professionals within the daily time frames becomes an added challenge. There are always newer ideas, and varying descriptions of treatment plans and diagnosis. If done well, the pace of the job can become demanding and obsessive.

Varying complexities of patients and their needs are added hurdles to meeting the care of the patients. Changes in documentation regulations and adherence to insurance demands alter the reams of the documentation. The alternating availability of the patient due to schedule changes compounds the day's scheduling conflicts. The give and take among the three therapies to best meet the patients' needs also creates the occasional conflict. It has created a vacuum on my time away from home. A sense of never being done, a festering frustration of imbalance.

Home has its own issues. As a parent, I am to understand and mediate the differences between children. Master the schedule of schooling, play, activities and diligence tasks. I am to plan the day to meet everyone's needs to the best of my abilities and with the assistance of other members. I was to maintain the household similarly to when I was at home. The current vacuum of time has changed my ability to meet that level of involvement with my own children and household. For my husband, Barry, this has changed his duties more and more. The complexity of the task slowly growing as he attempted to re-connect as "Dad" to our growing brood.

The original plan was for him to step into my shoes temporarily in order that I might work more to pay off more bills. The plan was a short term fix to eventually shift my schedule to less structured time away and less dependence on my portion of our income. Barry thought he would easily be able to work a later shift and keep up with the children during the day. Ultimately, as soon as the bills were caught up, I would again be the one responsible for the rhythm of the household. Barry would be the main income earner. A return to the most fulfilling arrangement for our marriage and family life.

He entered into the role with a strong desire to complete the everyday tasks, have time to improve upon the organization, experience the homeschooling, enjoy the kids, and hopefully, end up with the occasional needed nap. The task seemed straight forward enough. We had a plan of sorts and he had experience from past years when he was laid off. Then there were only seven or eight children, but fewer older children. A decided trade off of numbers and maturity. That of course, was pre-farm era. The children initially were cooperative to the change. No anticipated problems were seen on the horizon.

Thank goodness for a sense of humor. Thank God for grace. Thank heavens for the ability to step back and laugh at one's self and each other despite your anger and frustration.

Since our switch out, many days the poor man has been shouted awake to the frantic call of "the cows are out" or "the pigs escaped". With only two or three hours of sleep, he begins to rise from the comfort of the bed. Climbing from the fog of recently entered REM sleep, he groggily fumbles for his pants and shoes. Stumbling and kicking bed legs, he growls as he turns the corner of the bed to race out the kitchen door clutching a coat around his shoulders. Slightly dazed by daylight, he lumbers in the direction of the barn and shouting voices.

The cold and generally wet air hits his face with a slap to waken him. No longer dazed, he begins the chore of cornering the errant animal toward the pen or barn. Yelling to each child the directions of where the food should be located and how they should angle the stubborn beast back to their rightful place in the safety of the barn.

It is comical to look out the back windows as children clad in nightgowns and jeans tucked into work boots are running with their gowns waving in the wind. Their waving arms and shouts of excitement occasionally scaring the animals they chase. Their cheeks flushed and red both with the energy of chasing the animals and the bite of the wind. Once cornered and secured, the animals return to feeding. Heads hanging as if to acknowledge the chaos they created.

I can surely say, this is only the illusion of hope of some level of remorse for their actions. They don't seem to be at all intimidated not to attempt the next daring escape at a moment's notice.

In come the children, laughing and talking excitedly about the escapades of the current foiled escape. Talking loudly they outline for any missing assistants, the way in which they managed once again to herd the head strong steers back to their field or the stubborn pigs back to their pen.

Behind them walks their father. He is tired and still flushed by the chase. Cold and sleepy, his only desire is to return to the comfort of his warm and somewhat cozy bed. But the children have seen him. He is now in their minds - awake. He has no hope of returning immediately to his deserved rest. They don't intend on torturing him with the thought of sleep, they do it naturally.

Once they have seen the whites of his eyes they are set on him as the target. Calling for everything from permission to referee, his name is in the air. Grumbling, yelling and quiet responses rarely quell the din of children calling his name. Reluctantly, after trying to fall back into the bed with muddy pants, and exhausted sighs, he once again struggles out of bed.

They love those days. They are the days of eggs and bacon. The pancakes and sausage days. Where oatmeal and brown sugar flow from the microwave intermingled with the scent of the world's strongest coffee. Coffee so strong the cup could be dropped and the "liquid" would not be displaced. His elixir for forcing his tired and weary body awake to "be the dad".

They love watching tv in his lap as he pretends not to be napping; sleeping sitting up on the couch once they won't allow him to return to his bed. They revel in climbing all over him, chasing each other, kittens, puppies and toys across his stomach. He tries so very hard not to be too tired to smile and appreciate their play and devotion. But he is worn out.

I sometimes get angry about this. I am angry that we cannot make ends meet without my income. I am angry that I cannot do more for each and every one of them. That my full energies are taken by my job and my patients. I am angry at times that things are not organized and done "my way" because I understand them better that way. They seem simple to me and reasonable.

I get angry that he is forced to try to be a part of me that I am not ready to give up, and that I cannot find the energy in me to be. Because he is unfamiliar with the ways I do some things and the reasoning behind them, he, too, is angry. Angry that what I think is easy, to him not only seems like rocket science but also rocket science in a foreign language. He is angry right now, that he cannot change how much he makes. He is angry he cannot make me stay home and say we will make it regardless.

He also is angry that I, too, am worn out. That our weekends are lost as I climb into bed and find myself hurting so bad that I cannot move. That I can sleep away entire days without eating or talking to him and the children. That the medication that once held the pain at bay, is not as effective. He has a right to want more from me. But right now I am unable to give it.