Last Sunday was a little ugly. I'm not afraid to admit it.
We're a go-to-church-every-Sunday family. (Except for dad, although that only plays a small part in the story.)
I got up early to work on my lesson. I'd been up for an hour or so showering, curling my hair, making cute little handouts. Things like that. I was in a pretty good mood. It was going to be a lovely day at church.
Then it was time to wake others. One daughter was out of town. That took a little pressure off. One daughter was exhausted from performing in the orchestra for her school play the night before, but she's kind of a morning person (at least compared to the rest of us) so she groaned and got up. One daughter is in college. She got up, looked at the clock, and said she was going to be late (I'm thinking, "Then why don't you get yourself up in time to get ready like an adult?" *grrr*).
The morning started to turn at this point. Oh, did I mention that I started new meds a day or two before that have been affecting my moods? No. Well, that could possibly have played a part in the day as well.
Last two. These two are the toughest. They have never been morning people anyway and are both at that age when their bodies need a lot more sleep. And they haven't gotten to the point where they will get up and do something they aren't dying to do if they are still tired.
I wake my son. Four times. Every five minutes or so. The last time I am not pleasant. "Get up here now or you are grounded from the computer for a week!" (You've got to know their currency.) He stumbles upstairs like the living dead. I tell him to find his clothes before he eats. He groans an assent.
I wake my youngest. She tells me she is *cough, cough* sick. I tell her she is tired and to get up. We argue back a forth a bit, me getting more impatient every minute.
My husband and I have a deal that I won't force the kids to go to church. (And really, if you're forcing someone to go to church will they be getting much out of it? The gospel isn't really about force; it's about choosing.) I agree with this in theory but it's a little tougher to live up to Sunday morning as my stress is climbing.
I tell her that it can't be a decision every Sunday. You just have to plan to go. Otherwise you're going to choose to sleep in more often than you think. Soon you won't be going at all.
I hear my son eating. I ask if he found his clothes. He tells me he did. (Let me add here that he has grown many inches lately and now only has one pair of church pants and one church shirt. I know, I need to get on that.)
The daughter refuses to go. We are both grumpy and snapping at each other now (fairly loudly). I tell her I am leaving and I am disappointed that she won't go. Son is still eating. I tell him he's going to be walking (only a few blocks) and he'd better get there soon to do his duties. Two older daughters are ready and head out to the car with me. As I pull out of the driveway son peeks his head out the door, gets my attention, and tells me he can't find his shirt. I tell him good luck and he'd better look harder. I drive away. (I am now cursing my sleeping husband for not being up to help me.)
Youngest daughter gets to church just as it's starting and tells me her brother still can't find his shirt. (I'm fairly certain there is smoke coming out of my ears now.) I get in the car, drive back home, and start hunting. I can't find it either. He gets a lecture for lying to me about having found his clothes. And another one about learning to put his clothes away. At rather high volume. He finally ends up wearing one of dad's dress shirts (at least four sizes too big).
We drive back to church (son has missed his duties) and I am trying desperately to let it all go so that I can get something from the meeting.
Throughout this morning the thought that kept running through my head was, "I'm going to kill him/her." I must have thought that ten times. Maybe not the best mood to go to church in. But, if you're in that mood, I guess church is the best place to go.
At this point, the wordsmith part of my brain kicks in. What's the word for wanting to kill your child? Homicidal is too general. Fratricidal is wanting to kill your brother. There's got to be one for wanting to kill your kid(s). I can't come up with anything.
After the meeting, and before the others, I speak to a couple of my friends I know pay attention to Greek and Latin roots, like me. I ask if either of them can think of anything. They can't. Although we consider Youth-anasia. (I know, it's only funny if you're a nerd.)
By the time I get home I still don't have a word, but I've come up with a complex. I declare that I have a Medea complex, which still doesn't entirely apply because she just killed her sons and I have daughters involved.
I mention to my oldest that I've been trying to come up with a word and does she have any idea. (She's an English major so she's dealt with root words more recently than I have.) She starts working on it. Soon my other daughter and son are working on it as well. They are on the computer, looking up root words.
And I just start laughing. I have just told my children that I spent the day wanting to kill them and they are working to figure out what to call it. As if I've just asked them to define the word shoe.
They said they knew I didn't mean it. And that makes me happy.
The final word they came up with was pedmeregocide, a mix of Greek and Latin roots. Ped - child, mere - part, ego - self, cide - kill.
And that's what teamwork looks like in our family.