This morning got off to a rough start. It began with a contingent of kids who were up at the crack of dawn.

Based on the level of clamor, I was surprised and unhappy when I came downstairs to find it was barely seven. An all-out fight was in progress, the kitchen had been trashed, and a batch of pancakes was steaming on the stovetop.

When I talked to the kids about the volume and the early hour, one of them told me she’d been in her room biding her time, and hungry, since a little after five. She had done me a favor by waiting so long to come downstairs.

Soon, the baby was awake, a full two hours earlier than either of us are accustomed to him getting up.

Things calmed down for a bit, and the kids disappeared to play. I had time to get a few things done, and I kept an eye on the clock, giving the kids updates so they would know how much time they had until we had to leave for church.

Ten minutes before we had to leave, I made sure everyone was on the same page, and loading up the car began on time.

Except One. He had remained in bed through all the commotion and was slow to get up. He came out of his room with his hair looking like it was in the midst of a civil war. He wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out with his friends with his hair looking like that, but he thinks it’s ok to go to church looking that way. (I guess ultimately, if we believe in God’s unconditional love, he probably has that about right.)

He was the last one out of the house, and by the time I was backing the car out of the driveway, we had no spare time and would only just make it to church before the service started. Halfway there, the low fuel light dinged on.

Six ran ahead as we walked in the door of the church and I lost him for the first of several times. Seven, who is usually content and quiet, cried on and off throughout the service. Three other kids engaged in constant teasing and giggling. Another one sported a huge attitude after I accidentally ripped her children’s program near the beginning of the service. I didn’t hear any of the scripture readings. I missed the homily. I didn’t have a music program and wasn’t familiar enough with the hymns to sing along.

I left mass feeling overstimulated. It felt like my spirit had gotten the opposite of what it needed.

After a brief conference with the Chaplain, I took his car home and he drove the kids. As I drove, I was praying.

I told God what He already knew – that it felt like I hadn’t gotten anything out of church today. I asked Him to find a way to minister to my heart today. Then I pulled into the driveway and forgot about my prayer.

I walked into a quiet house. I put on some gospel music and did a little kitchen clean up. I pulled out the food processor and chopped some CSA produce to freeze. Gradually, I calmed down. And slowly, I became aware that I’d calmed down.

Moments after I had said a silent prayer of thanks, the truck pulled in, and the kids started trickling into the house. The Chaplain had taken them to fill the gas tank before coming home.

Right now, we’re supposed to be having quiet time, but instead, there is a steady stream of kids coming downstairs to ask me non-emergent questions. There is intermittent, blood-curdling screams from Six, which means Seven, who needs a nap the most, isn’t sleeping yet.

In fact, it feels like my 25 minutes of quiet and the good it did me has been undone. I know all the reading and listening I’ve been doing says otherwise. The work I’ve been doing on myself has done a lot to improve my marriage and myself personally, but the constant onslaught of stimulation from the kids has made my parenting progress a little slower. And by parenting, I mean existing in the same space as seven human children.

I know God is not done with me. I really hope He isn’t done with me today – that somehow I can dig deep and find some patience or insight that will help me be a better mom for the afternoon slog.