emotional breakdown #579

Over the last month, we've experienced a few set-backs and delays with our house renovation project. Set-backs and delays that have caused our simple addition to take quite a bit longer than expected.

Slow progress is not a problem unless you can't see your feet anymore.
Slow progress is no big deal unless you are popping out a baby in 2 months.
Slow progress is nothing at all --- unless you're hormonally challenged and feel like you weigh a million pounds.
Slow progress is no biggie unless you're pregnant.

The thing is, Pregnant girls hate to wait. Hate it.
Pregnant girls like food served right away.
Pregnant girls like Sleep Time right away.
Pregnant girls want the ever-growing To Do List completed right away.
Patience isn't something that pregnant girls are good at. Pretty ironic since pregnant girls have to wait over 9 months to have a baby, right? Believe me, the irony is not lost on me.

Instead of saying and doing things that could possibly send my child running to therapy and my husband running out the door, I tried to channel my frustration in more productive directions over the last few months.

Whenever I felt like screaming, I picked up a sharpie and labeled something.
Whenever my heart felt close to exploding, I scrubbed the toilet or alphabetized my canned goods.
Whenever I wanted to cry my eyes out, I decoupaged something.
It's a plan that worked beautifully for me.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I pulled into the driveway after a long day at the preschool and...lost my dang mind.

After hysterically sobbing for what was far too long to be deemed normal, I peered through my red, puffy eyes and saw David and Avery looking at me with what can only be described as complete bewilderment and shock.

I chose that moment to blubber out a mile-long laundry list of every irritation and concern that I had floating around in my crazy head.

After my rant was complete, David - my sweet husband - got up, went outside and began working like a mad man on the landscaping. At 7 at night.

That's love, my friends.
Or total fear.
I can't decide which.

After my emotional breakdown, something really cool happened: Our neighbors walked over to say "hi" and just...listened to us. Then they invited us to dinner.

That doesn't sound that cool, but it was...because it happened at the exact moment that our stressed-out family needed the diversion and conversation.

The timing of our neighbor's visit was no accident. God orchestrated it beautifully. It was like He reached down and gave me a big 'ol hug compliments of our sweet neighbors. I felt thankful, relieved, and totally understood.

When I thought about it all later, I realized (for the millionth time) that God cares about me. I mean, really, really cares about ME. He cares about those silly, hormonal pregnancy moments just as much as the huge, life-changing moments of heartache.

I tend to have this thought that God cares about the really big things in my life - but leaves the little details up to me to manage.

Not so. Not so.

I felt pretty loved when all was said and done. Loved by my husband, by our neighbors, but most of all, by my Heavenly Father.