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ONE BLEAK DAY 18 years ago, I was awash with self-pity. I was quagmired in the "terrible twos"—a parenting stage that started early and lingered long at our house—and there was no hope in sight.
The morning began with the usual activities, but I tried to rush my two small sons through them. Company was coming that evening, and I wanted a clean house. I'd finished cleaning the living room and had begun the family room when I heard whispered giggles coming from my boys. With a sense of foreboding, I tiptoed to the doorway and gasped in dismay at the sight before me.
"Doesn't the living room look pretty, Mommy?" Tyler, my then four year old, held a giant-sized empty jar of silver glitter, while two-year-old Landon danced around in happy circles. The entire room—carpet, couch, coffee table, everything—glittered like a giant 4th of July sparkler!
Banishing the boys to their room to play with Legos, I dragged the vacuum back into the living room and started over. By the time it was restored to its original shape, my schedule was in shambles—and I was thoroughly exhausted.
Stepping up my pace, I returned to the family room. "Look, Mommy! We're helping!" my boys shrieked in delight. This time the empty container was an economy-size can of Comet cleanser I thought I had in a locked cabinet. I was too shocked even to gasp as I surveyed the scene before me. The floor and every book, plant, knickknack, and piece of furniture were covered with a fine layer of bluish-white grit.
The worst was yet to come. The last room to be cleaned was the master bedroom that we'd recently recarpeted in pale pink. As I walked into the room, my attention was immediately drawn to a large, black spot smack in the middle of the floor. Beside it sat an empty bottle of permanent black ink I'd inadvertently left out. I crumpled to my knees in tears.
THAT'S HOW MOST of our days went during those preschool years. We bounced from disaster to disaster: perfume poured on my new satin bedspread; the phone cord cut with scissors while I was talking on the phone (I didn't know children's scissors could cut through anything, much less a phone cord). If it could be poured, dumped, sprinkled, or sprayed, Tyler and Landon did it. There was no shelf the two of them couldn't reach, no lid they couldn't pry off.
After I discovered the ink spot that morning, I called my mom, but she didn't provide the sympathy I expected. "Honey," she replied, "I know it feels as though this time will never end, but believe me, a blink of your eye and it'll be gone. You have to find a way to cherish this season of your life."
This is NOT what I want to hear! I thought. But I knew she was right. I just didn't know how to switch from surviving to cherishing. So from that morning on, I asked God for help. And in the process, I became aware of some patterns that had squashed my capacity for joy. Life in the Mathers' home lightened up as I worked to change the following habits:
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