The Crazy Catholic

We need to talk about what happened—and why it keeps happening.

All was well with the world this morning. I’d prayed. I’d listened to Father Mike Schmitz’s calming voice reading The Bible in a Year. I’d done my Lenten devotional The Little Black Book given to me by my parish. Spiritually speaking, I was practically glowing.

Then I had to make breakfast and wake up the kids. Next thing I know, I’m yelling.

THEY. ARE. NOT. LISTENING.

I want to stop. I really do. But at this point I’m on a roll, following the rules of inertia: a mommy in motion must stay in motion. They are still not listening. Now I’m handing out timeouts and spankings, and they’re still not getting dressed.

Three rounds into this circus, I realize I’ve turned into my stepfather—sunshine and giggles one minute, a Category 5 hurricane the next. I’m also no better than my maternal grandmother who, bless her soul, most likely had undiagnosed bipolar disorder and frequently resorted to laying the smack down.

Half an hour later we’ve made absolutely no progress and I’m spiraling further out of control. It’s all I can do to get the kids seated for breakfast before I excuse myself. I think I’m having a mental breakdown.

My brain jumps straight to catastrophe mode. I convince myself my husband is going to have to quit his job just so I can keep it together. I sob in the shower. Why does this keep happening?

Then the voices creep in.

It’s you.
You’re the problem.
It’s all your fault.
You’re ruining your kids.
You’re ruining your life.
These children are going to need so much therapy.
YOU are going to need so much therapy.

And somewhere in the middle of that spiral, a quieter realization slips in. The problem isn’t that the kids aren’t listening to me. The problem is that I’m not listening to God.

Now before you say, “But you did pray,” yes—I did. But when was the last time I prayed a full rosary? Like, a real rosary. Slowly. Actually meditating on the mysteries instead of rushing through the decades like I’m trying to beat a stopwatch.

Yes, I listened to the Bible. But was I really paying attention? Or was I scrolling social media while half-listening to Father Mike explain the wisdom of King Solomon?

And yes, I checked the Lenten devotional box for the day. But did I actually absorb it? Did I reflect on the meaning of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving? Speaking of which… when was the last time I gave alms?

So yes, in a way, the problem is me. And an earlier version of myself would have found that encouraging—because if I’m the problem, that means I’m also the solution. But that’s not actually true.

I may be the problem. But God is the solution. He always was, always is, and always will be. All I can do is confess, say I’m sorry, make amends, and do penance. That starts with apologizing to my kids. Asking their forgiveness. Trying to do better next time.

But the cycle will keep repeating unless there’s real repentance. And repentance begins with a simple, humbling truth: I’m messed up. I’m human. I make mistakes. I fall. I fail—sometimes a hundred times, sometimes a hundred more.

The beauty of all of this is that God is good. He is merciful. He is endlessly patient with stubborn, overwhelmed mothers who lose their tempers before 7:00 a.m. And He is always willing to forgive. But only if we ask.

---