I must get out. If I don't, I will implode. My children have put me on the run. I retreat to the porch with cheese and wine. I very seldom have more than a glass, but this day feels like it could justify a vat. It's time to cook dinner. Levi has been up since noon. He's crying in his bed, but I know once he's this worked up the odds of him falling asleep are very bad. Like me, once I get like this I can't go to God; when I'm already hoarse from yelling at the big but not as big as she thinks she is girl. I am desperate ....facebook, wine, food, maybe I'll buy something online. I am an empty hole, screaming for any kind of relief, and I can't look where deep relief lies. Maybe I am ashamed, or maybe anger can't stand before God.
They would be better off without me, I sometimes think when it's ugly; without all my sins that rear and buck again and again. I just can't get it right, and I can't even look where I know I'll find it. I push away, like the 6 year old, until my blood cools, and the only thing left fierce is guilt. I burn out. I stretch thin; my bible study girl cracks and bleeds.
My God receives me like the parent I wish I was. Why is this so hard? Why did you give me children to damage? I return, but I don't know how to do better tomorrow- when the inevitable happens and attitudes flair, shoes get tripped over, reminded to pick up and tripped over again, naptime comes without rest, oh I am manic during the screaming naps, girls fight, and tattle, and demand. I do not know how to grow up and become the parent who can parent herself, but as I know, the absent parent is worse.
I try again. Returning is all I have, and the miracle of littles is that they know something I have forgotten: every day is new.
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