I was trying to pour tea while refereeing a Go-Bot Transformer toy battle between my two young sons. It was December 1997. My sister-in-law had just presented me with a copy of Sarah Ban Breathnach’s Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy.

“You must read this” she said, a “get a life” message hidden behind the surface of her encouraging smile.

A few months later I remembered the book. It was cowering in my kids’ bookshelf somewhere between Where the Wild Things Are and Jungle Book.

I managed to skim a few chapters. The book talks about finding “the Sacred in the ordinary, the Mystical in the mundane” and explains how to “encounter everyday epiphanies.”

Ms. Breathnach was right. I should be “taking stock in (my) life” and trying to concentrate on “new beginnings and cherished memories”. I sure needed to rediscover some “comfort and joy” in my mysteriously chaotic Stay-at-Home Mother world. I vowed to keep a one-week, daily journal of my “simple abundances”.

Monday morning 8 am

A new day dawns. No matter how tiring the past 24 hours, here’s a chance for a fresh start.

I am awakened at 5:47 am by the five- year-old screaming “I’m going to kill you” to his two-year-old brother. The latter flings himself on my bed, accidentally digging his elbow into my pre-menstrual boob. Morning? Or is it mourning? Only kidding, God.

At least I don’t have to set alarm clocks.

I make a cup of herbal tea but forget to drink it after spending 20 minutes hunting for the two-year-old’s favorite stuffed animal. “Giraffe” turns up in the kitchen trash, his mouth covered in toothpaste. The five-year-old is nowhere to be seen.

Monday afternoon 4 pm

Decide to concentrate on the simple satisfaction we get from our senses, focusing on “smell”. I savor the scrumptious aroma of an oatmeal loaf baking in the bread machine. There’s a quick whiff of “Romance” by Ralph Lauren, still faintly lingering on my wrist despite the day’s hectic activities.

I hug a floral-scented cuddle blanket as it’s pulled from the drier, fondly pat the five-year-old’s “No More Tears” hair, catch a sniff of the two-year-old’s grubby, little hand clutching a soggy vanilla wafer, smell a…

Yuck! Time for a diaper change.

Wednesday Evening

Mealtimes serve an intricate role in uniting the family. I have prepared a healthy batch of spaghetti sauce chock full of nature’s bounty-- carrots, zucchini and lots of fragrant garlic.

The five-year-old freaks out because of the green bits in the sauce and begs for cereal. The two-year-old, at least, eats greedily with all 10 fingers; he’d use his toes if he could. He flings spaghetti sauce on the wall, floor, refrigerator and my new $55 Liz Claiborne blouse.

Bedtime Thursday night

A warm bath – finally! I can’t think of a more “simply abundant” treat at the end of a long day. A sea of soap bubbles, a warm wash cloth draped on the back like a nautical heating pad, a favorite book, the joy of reclining and submerging the torso.

The kids tell me it’s great and I should try it sometime.

Saturday Night

Wanted to write yesterday but was too busy trying to appreciate the SIMPLE ABUNDANCE of nobody being maimed for life when the bathroom ceiling caved in (the new roof should have been finished before the thunderstorm but the crew didn’t anticipate termites). There was the untimely demise of Brownie the Guinea Pig, a broken lawn motor blade (unrelated incidents), as well as a torn refrigerator door seal.

Tried unsuccessfully today to find one lousy minute to reflect on anything simple or abundant or whatever while attempting to thwart my five-year-old in his quest to dig up Speedy the Goldfish to “see what he looked like dead.”

Wasted precious time searching for car keys which vanished after a trip to the supermarket. Argued on the phone with a repair guy over a four-hour air conditioner maintenance charge following last month’s actual 15 minute visit. Lamented over the ruined Claiborne blouse. Never use chlorine bleach on a poly/cotton blend.

I am truly, truly grateful for so much. Like being alive, having my health and discovering our missing January phone bill inside the deceased Guinea Pig’s bag of pellets. I try to find comfort and joy in the fact that the kids went to bed after only three books, two songs and a drink (sprinkled on the bedroom carpet while I struggled to re-affix Buzz Lightyear’s shield).

I think I’ll make myself a cup of hot milk. It’s simple. It’s abundant. I’m sure my car keys will turn up before mourning, err, morning.

© (September 2003) Faith Foyil All rights reserved.