Family Rules

There's a plaque on the wall in my kitchen; one of those cheery wordy ones with an inspiring message that are so popular at the moment. It's even made to look distressed, as if it's old, thus lending it more gravitas, I suppose.

It would be easy to fill my house with words on the walls but one can certainly overdo it. Even with just the odd one here and there it's so easy to become so familiar with them that I no longer read the words.

However, I find myself examining this one afresh, because I have changed the way I do things. For the sake of my back and the proximity of the radiator now that the nights are drawing in, I've moved my primary spot for writing to the kitchen table, rather than my perch on a stool at the island unit. Here, the chair may be hard, but it has a back on it, and the fridge is no longer at arms length. This can only be a good thing. Now, from this 'desk', I am straight opposite the plaque. 

FAMILY RULES, it says. 

Yes, one of those. Bought with the children in mind, because children need rules, don't they?  Children need reminders of what's right and what isn't. The problem is that as I sit here nursing my coffee I realise that I need reminding too; possibly more than they do. After all, they're only seven and nine, and I'm supposedly all grown up.

Family Rules. 

'Keep your promises'

Right. Problems here right away. I don't like promises, for a variety of reasons. First of all, it says in the Bible,

 'All you need to say is 'yes' or 'no'. Everything beyond this comes from the evil one.' NIV (Matthew 5:37)

I want my children to grow up trusting my word; that if I say I'll do something, I'll do it. I can see the sense in being very careful what you say you'll do. On a practical level, I learned very quickly that small children have highly selective memories that are totally incapable of retaining information about likes and dislikes ('Yesterday you liked bananas!') but perish the thought that you should blithely say 'yes' to some outrageous plan one evening only to find it impossible (or impractical) to follow through the next day.

Mum, you promised. Then you're left in the no man's land of 'well, I didn't technically promise...' and I hate that sort of wriggling. So I say annoying things like, 'We'll see.' or 'I'll think about it.'  A distinction without much difference, perhaps. But I don't promise, and I tell the children not to make promises, but to let their word be enough. If they say they'll do something, do it. Don't swear on anything, don't bargain, just say yes or no. I'm not sure they see it quite as simply as this.

Under 'Keep your promises' is:

Share

Oh my word, there's a can of worms. My daughters are sometimes remarkably generous with their things, and other times meaner than Scrooge.

'Can I borrow your green crayon?'
'No. Get your own.'
'Mine's broken.'
'Tough.'

That kind of thing. I find large portions of my life spent brokering peace deals about who has the gadget for how long before having to hand it over in order to avoid A having possession of it for a nanosecond longer than B. Also removing said gadget from both as a potentially expensive tug-of-war begins. So the 'Share' part is definitely for the kids, then.

Or not. I recall just the other day becoming rather animated (shall we say) when my favourite pen was missing from the pen pot on my desk for the millionth time when I wanted it. On numerous occasions have I retrieved it from wherever it turned up but this time it was Gone For Good. I made dire pronouncements about nobody ever begin allowed to touch my pen pot again, ever. The following day my mum handed me a package containing a replacement pen. Ahem.  The kids so far have been afraid to touch it.

Good sharing, then.

Think of others before yourself.

Haha.

This is written rather small, and is easy to miss. This is quite convenient as quite often I would rather pretend that I haven't seen it.

I have to say that having children is a painfully good way of finding out how selfish you are, should you want to know, and I can't say that I did.

Since my babies came along it's been a long, drawn out battle between their needs and my desire to please myself. They won't/can't give in, and I don't want to, so the battle continues to rage. I want the house the way I want it, I want to spend my time the way I want to spend it, I want to eat when I want to, sleep when I want to, and so on. I don't want to wipe bottoms, make endless meals and find an inordinate number of replacement batteries for things that beep.

I love my family more than I can possibly put into words, but it is not easy to think of others before yourself. It isn't. And when I get a good run at it, and keep everybody happy for a while, the little voice in my head might pipe up with things like, 'So what about you? Who's making you happy?' and spiky little things called Resentment and Self-pity and Irritation dig in.

St Paul knew it would be like this. He said:

'Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, rather, in humility, value others above yourself.' (NIV) Philippians 2:3

It's hard to put others first. It's dead easy some of the time, because I love my family and I want to make them happy, and I love it when they are happy, but consistency is key and that's downright difficult. I like peace, and giving in and choosing your battles and letting go of control-freakery and so on are ways of keeping the peace. But sometimes, just sometimes, I throw all this up in the air and inwardly shout, ME ME ME.

Moving on...

Say I love you. 

This part is easy. We say 'I love you' lots. Several times a day. I am blessed beyond measure to have a family that loves each other and I tell my husband and he tells me, and I tell my girls and they tell me, and he tells them and they tell him... and so we are pretty much loved up most of the time. So we nailed that one, didn't we?

Well, it occurs to me that there are times when those words are the furthest thing from my head, and sometimes that's when they're most needed. When I've locked horns with one of the girls over something vital to their wellbeing - like whether it's cold enough for a coat, perhaps - how much I love them is not foremost in my mind. When my daughter is in the  middle of a tantrum because the same shoes she's worn for three months suddenly 'feel weird' and can't be worn today, the last thing on my mind is to tell her how loved she is. Perhaps that's when she most needs to hear it.

Listen to your parents

Of course. This is 'a no-brainer' as they say. Most of what I say is definitely worth listening to. Children should always listen to their parents. Just like I did.

Hmm. I'm not sure whether the most senior member of my household might agree with that one. I remember a conversation from way back when that went something like this:

'Have you done your homework?'
'It'll get done, mother.'

Still, I grew up pretty well, didn't I?  Maybe they will, too.

Do your best

We do our best, in this house. Most of the time. One of my daughter's teachers at parents' evening a while ago said, 'She does her best, usually, except when she doesn't.'  I can understand that. Sometimes we cut corners. Sometimes it's too hard.

We do our best to do our best.

Say please and thank you.

Last night, an exchange in our house:

'WILL YOU GET YOUR WELLIES OFF THE TABLE RIGHT NOW!' (Not actually a question)

'Mummy, you didn't say 'please'.'

The conversation didn't end there, but we'll draw a veil over the next bit.  My example might not be perfect, but I have been known to offer a plate of biscuits to random visitors to the house and automatically say, 'Thank you, Mummy' when they take one, before clamping a hand over my mouth. Parents of my daughters' friends tell me that they are polite and remember their please-and-thankyous when they're out and about and so I think we do okay. Always room for improvement, though.

'Please, if it's not too much trouble, would you mind removing your wellies from the table?' might have been better, I suppose.

Always tell the truth

Oh, another can of worms. Straightforward and black and white?  Yes, on one level, it certainly is.
Witholding the full horror of the truth from a small child is sometimes required, however, as it was on the day some years ago when my littlest girl asked me how much I loved Scruffy Barney (her favourite, special toy). I said that I loved him very much, because she loved him. She then went on to ask me if I had to save either Scruffy or her sister from a dinosaur, who would I save?  She was devastated by the answer and cried for about half an hour.

Always tell the truth?

Always tell the truth to your mum, that's what I say. I have always known when my daughters are telling lies, but as they get older it gets harder and harder, as does making them believe that Mummy always knows when they're not telling the truth.  There's a felt tip pen scribble on the bookcase and both of them deny having anything to do with it. Was it Daddy? Or Grandma? Or maybe I did it by myself without realising? All these were serious suggestions.

I still don't know who did it. I moved the lamp six inches to the right and now you can't see it any more. Sometimes moving on is the best thing you can do.

Laugh at yourself

For someone like me, among the most self-conscious souls in the world, this isn't an easy one. I'm better than I was, but still not that good. My daughters take after me - or maybe it's just because they're little - but we need to work on not taking things so seriously.

They have such a wonderful sense of humour (when it's not bottom jokes, or cackles over Uranus and its gassy atmosphere) and sometimes a very clever wit. Quite often, though, one of them will say something funny and we'll all laugh, and they'll be embarrassed and cross. Laughing is good, we say, it's a gift to make people laugh. We're laughing with you, not AT you; 'But I wasn't laughing,' they say.

Ah, well, that's where we come unstuck, then.

Hug often

This is a bit like 'Say I love you'. We hug all the time. We have different levels of hugginess, but we are a fairly tactile family. One daughter creeps onto my lap at any excuse and the other needs to be sneaked up on, but I love that we hug. There are moments when a hug is exactly what's needed, however, and it's the hardest thing. The mean times, the irritable times, the tantrum times. The refusing-to-admit-I'm-wrong times. Hug then, too. That's when a hug really does say more than words.

Use kind words

Sigh.  For someone who loves words, who enjoys playing with them and trying to get them to do what I want them to do, I sometimes get it spectacularly wrong. Words can build up or destroy, and I know how easy it is to disregard the dozen nice things someone says and remember only the bad thing.

Whoever said that 'Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me,' had no idea how words can penetrate the heaviest armour and wound on a profound level. I have been guilty of saying terrible things to the people I love and have carried that guilt for a long time. Controlling my temper and making sure that in the middle of the anger and the confusion and the excesses of emotion harsh and hurtful things don't slip out is very difficult indeed.

I need a lot of help here.

And finally:  Love each other

And this is what reassures me. Most of the prescriptions of the plaque look straightforward enough in theory, only to turn out to be complicated in practice. Most of them I fail at on a daily basis: we all do. It's hard to share, to do your best, to be unfailingly truthful, to use kind words. It's just hard.

So is loving each other, but we do.  And because we do, we try, and we keep on trying. It was very easy to buy this little plaque and choose where to hang it, and indeed, I showed it to the girls and got them to read it out loud. They weren't that keen, and I can see why. It's a lofty ideal to have words like that on the wall, and I need to remember that I don't live up to them any better than my little girls do. It's good to have them in front of me to remind and inspire me; to have them there on the wall to say, 'This is what I'm aiming for. This is what I want to be like - a person who does these things' . And then I can try, and keep trying.

I know I get it wrong, and often, but I am not crushed or discouraged by the distance by which I fall short.

The reason I'm not is that I know that I am loved anyway, just as I am, with all my failures. Just as I don't stop loving my girls when they are caught out in a lie, or when they don't do their homework, or when they fight over a crayon, I am loved. Even when I snap at my husband, or do what I want to do at someone else's expense, I am loved.

A long time ago Moses had a different plaque with ten Family Rules and they're downright impossible to live up to.  There's only ever been one man in the history of the world who managed it. Moses even hurled them on the floor until they smashed into small pieces because he was so frustrated at the people's disobedience, but God never stopped loving His people.

Even though I have the Rules before me and I forget them and choose to do something else over and over again, even so, I am forgiven. Even when I try to reinterpret them and wriggle out from underneath my failure to keep to the rules, I am forgiven, and I am loved.

There's so much to learn.

Keep Forgiving. That should be on the plaque as well.

Keep trying. 

There is always another chance.
It's never too late to try again.

Amen to that.

The tantrum queen

Morning, Lord.

Well, I absolutely haven't got anything helpful or uplifting to say this morning. I haven't got any insights or messages or ideas to communicate. I'm not here to encourage or inspire or any of that today. Just haven't got anything. 

Father, what am I supposed to do about my youngest daughter?  She is beautiful, clever, funny, charming, articulate, affectionate, helpful and loving, and she has the most breathtaking temper. She throws tantrums that would stun you. 

Well, I suppose nothing stuns you. Nothing surprises you, does it?  You know her inside out and you love her very, very much. Lord if I could just sneak a look inside her head for ten minutes sometime, surely it would help me cope with these tantrums, would it? I just don't know what to do. 

I'm following all the advice that I can get. We've tried star charts to earn rewards, we've tried deducting pocket money from £1 in 2p increments (10p for a tantrum; the week's not over and Katy's down to 8p) I've tried taking toys away (she still loses the ones she throws) and I've tried taking her to her room and leaving her there, which is only possible if we are a) at home and b) have lots of time. Nothing has made any difference, and you know how we've tried. Some tantrums I can head off, if I see them coming, but what about the ones that are because she's been told, 'No'? 

The other day she wanted a biscuit at bedtime just after she'd cleaned her teeth. No. I thought she might grumble, or whine, or even (happens occasionally) just shrug as if to say, 'Oh well, I tried'. Nope, this time: light blue touch-paper and retire to a safe distance. 

She screamed, she hit, she kicked, she pulled at me, she pulled the bedclothes off the bed, she threw her pyjamas, slippers and water bottle across the room and she swiped things off the bedside table. I left her on her own and went into the bathroom. She beat on the door, so I turned the lock. She hammered on the door and kicked it so hard that it flew open, hit me on the back of the head and bounced back, trapping her bare toe underneath it. 

Her furious screams changed instantly to howls of pain as her big toe nail had been torn and pulled back by the door. Her toe was sort of scuffed, but the blood was coming from the nail bed. 

Ahh. My anger dissolved, I scooped her up and held her on my lap as she wailed. The injury scared her, but still she was on about the biscuit. Still no. With poorly foot in one hand she thumped the bed and myself until she was worn out. 

What on earth do I do? It's so hard to control my own temper when this happens. I struggle to keep my voice from rising to banshee volume myself and I itch to manhandle her and give her a good smack. How can that possibly help? Katy, you're not allowed to hit, but Mummy is...? And yet I find myself thinking that this is exactly what would have happened to me if I behaved like that. What have I done to my daughter; how have I brought her up that she behaves like this?

And yet I know that it's something that some children do. I know from recent conversations that in this respect Katy's not unique.  From the moment we brought her home from the hospital she had something different about her; sometimes, when she cried, there was a fury in her crying that could frighten her big sister (then 20 months). Elizabeth would recoil in fear and start to cry herself when Katy was angry. Slowly we learned to distinguish Katy's hungry or tired or sad crying from her 'I Am Not Happy' cry. She would go red and scream so loudly that she coughed. Perhaps we should have known that she'd be the tantrum queen. 

So why? She's just made like that? A combo of genes that's so different from Elizabeth's? Both her daddy and I have tempers; and indeed when I'm in a rage I too have the urge to throw things and slam doors. I have been known... so maybe it's not so surprising. Most of the time these days I've got a grip on it. Grown up tantrums just look different, don't they? We might not stamp and sweep the things off the bedside table (though we might...) but we might throw around words that hurt or looks that bruise or hit back with petulant cancellation of nice plans or sweeping generalisations that can crush. I have been guilty of all those things. 

Lord Jesus, I once asked you for patience. You blessed me with two small children so that I could learn it. I don't know that I'm doing very well. I love them so, so much, and yet taking care of them is the hardest thing I have ever, will ever, could ever do. I am so often at a loss. So often so completely out of my depth, and they're only five and seven. How on earth will I cope with the teenage years? With two girls in a world so different from the one in which I grew up?

I feel defeated by it, today. Don't know why - I always blame it on being tired, but I slept well last night. Had a dream that an old man was showing me a book, and it was a commentary on the Bible book of Revelation. Was that a sign from you, Lord? Should I nip over to Amazon right now? 

But I'm off the point. Amazon is enough of a distraction. Talk to me about Revelation later, will you? 

Father, you are a parent. I don't suppose Jesus ever had tantrums, did he? Ever throw his cutlery at Mary? Ever sweep Joseph's tools off the work bench in a temper? No, thought not. What would you do?

Love her. Alright, that's a given. I don't stop loving her. I really don't. I look at her as she drags on my clothes and kicks my leg and beats her hands on my hip and I don't like her very much, but I don't ever, ever stop loving her. 

So if Jesus never threw a wobbly, where does your experience with tantrums come from? 

Ah. Ahh. 

I walked into that. 

You're giving me that look. That look that says, 'Ha. The penny drops.'

Get the log out of my own eye before I try to remove the splinter from Katy's? Is that it? Well it's not fair. Hers is a log too. It is!

Hmm. So here I am, I'm railing at you and accusing you of unfairness or favouritism (just as Katy does to me - see? Nothing changes).

Do you look at me with compassion and pity as I wail and clutch at my injuries when the door I hammered on bounces back to hurt me? Do you quietly help me pick up the pieces when I throw my pride-and-joy Lego model on the floor in a temper and then grieve over the loss of it? 

You don't shout back. You don't hit or scream or cause lightning to strike me dead because you're angry and fed up of me. No, you are peaceful because you are peace. You are calm because you invented the concept. 

You could calm the storm if you wanted, but sometimes you let it rage. You don't intervene, you let me wear myself out with the internal shouting and the static in my head and the inability to rein myself in or the refusal to come and tell you about it. And then, when my angry tears give way to tears of pain, or self-pity, or remorse, there you are with a hanky and a cuddle. 

Is that it? Is that my job? To ride out the tantrums I can't avoid? To be there, just the same, loving, loving, forgiving and loving some more? 

But there are so many practical considerations too. It's not an abstract concept, Lord. She damages things, including people, she makes messes, she hurts herself. It's not only about standing by calmly with a beatific expression of love and unruffledness until she's ready for a reassuring hug, but hey, maybe that's a start. When we need to leave for school, or when we're in a shop, or when big sister can't get far enough away and she's worried by Katy's outbursts, I need another strategy. 

I need that patience that you've had me work on. I'm not there yet. I need to keep my own temper well under control. I need some inner peace that can't be scuffed and crumpled up by small fists that seek to destroy it. I need to keep things in perspective; this thrashing creature yanking my scarf into a noose is the same loving little girl who wrote me a note telling me that I was the bestest Mummy in the world and who stroked my arm when she found me in tears over a sentimental clip on YouTube. I need to remember how much I love her. 

She's looking to me to help her because she's lost control of herself. The last thing that will help is me losing my own control. That will just make things worse on so many levels. I need self-control. I need gentleness and self control. 

Ah. Do you spot a theme?  I do. Reluctantly.

'But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self control.'
Galations 5:22-23

So here's the thing. I need more of you. I am not up to this. Left to myself I will shout back, be rough and angry, irrational and, yes, even cruel. I will say things I don't mean, hit back, if not with blows, with words. I will threaten and crush and be generally the last thing you had in mind when you said, 

'Let your gentleness be evident to all.'
Philippians 4:5

Lord, I need you. I notice that the next words after this short quote from Philippians are:

'The Lord is near.'

Lord, be near next time Katy throws one. So near that you might nudge me. Hold up a warning finger when I go to shout back, when I reach to jostle her into her coat. When I look at her with coldness and rage in my eyes. Don't, please, don't let me respond in a way that makes things worse, that leaves scars on her little soul. Let me soothe when soothing is possible and necessary, let me heal when she'll let me heal, let me comfort when she needs comfort. I can do those things. And before that, when the storm is raging and I fear for my doors and my shins and my sanity, hold me close and let my gentleness be evident to all like yours is.

Is that possible? 

With me, no. I know it isn't. I'm not built that way. But you - you can do the impossible. 

Today I cried about Katy's tantrums. I'm crying about my own inadequacy as a mother too. My own lack of resources to change things, my own flawed responses and mixed messages, my hopes and fears and dreams for the women that my daughters will grow into and the crushing worry that I am not helping and guiding them and setting the example that I should.

I can't do it, but you can. Heal any wounds that I've inflicted, will you? Put right any damage that I've done. Guide them where I fail to. Equip me to be the mother you want me to be - the mother that you thought I could be when you entrusted these two little people into my care. You thought that I was the best mummy for my two girls. Help me hang onto that on the days when I think that the neighbour's cat could do a better job than I do. Help me to learn to live up to your faith in me.

Lord Jesus, help me with this thing that I'm sure is small in the eternal scheme of things but is looming large in our house at the moment, as Katy's pocket money pot looks emptier and emptier and we're all warier and wearier. 

Thank you for calming me down. 

Thank you for being there, always the same, always gentle. 

Draw me closer to you so that some of you rubs off on me, please, Father God.

Missing the butterflies

Morning, God.

It's a beautiful morning. One of those Autumn mornings that's alright by me, by the way. The sky is a cloudless blue, the sun is shining and lighting up the reds and oranges until they glow, and it's cold enough to see your breath. Crisp and clear and cold. That's a good Autumn day. Much better than the dank and dreary damp ones that make me feel depressed. Just saying.

This morning me and my two girls snuggled on my bed and watched the sun come up. It was golden and red and orange and yellow. On the way to school Elizabeth and I saw a snail on a leaf, we saw a spider's web with dew lit by the sun, and we saw small purple flowers growing from a crack in a brick wall. Katy, resplendent today in Batman Tshirt, bounced into her classroom and announced, 'Awesome! It's PE!' and did her happy dance, to her teacher's amusement. I am just filled with admiration that a daughter of mine could rejoice at the realisation that the first lesson of the day was exercise.

I'm learning how important it is to notice the little things. The light on the appletrees. The sound of birdsong in the early morning. A small girl's dimples of delight in a Batman Tshirt. I'm learning that you're teaching me to find you in the small things. How could I see you in the big things if I routinely walk past you when you're showing me the small? Even the seemingly insignificant has your signature. The last roses. Withered tomato plants bearing the last ripening fruit. 

Lord, I'm needing to see you. I'm looking out of the window on this glorious day and still feeling out of touch. I see you everywhere but I don't feel you. There's something inside of me missing today. It's very very beautiful and all is right in my world and yet I feel heavy and weighed down.

We haven't talked much lately, have we? It's only been a day or three with only a passing word between us but it doesn't take long for me to feel disconnected. I need to hang on tight, but how quickly I loosen my grip.  A dozen excuses; I'm tired, I'm short of time, I feel this, or I don't feel that... and I turn away. I need to stop and sit with you. I have so many things to do. Good things; worthy things, but I need to stop. Stop.

A moment ago I saw a beautiful orange and yellow and black butterfly land on the wall outside the window. In my haste to try and take a photograph, I frightened it away before I got a good look. That's sort of symbolic I think. I'm trying so hard to get somewhere that I don't notice where I am. I my rush to capture the moment forever; to use it for something... I lost it.

Forever asking where you're leading me and when we'll get there and are we nearly there yet? - and completely miss where we actually are.

I'm grabbing my camera and trying to peer through the lens and missing the butterflies.

Right now.

Where you are.

Father there's so much that I want to do, so much that I want to achieve. I want to do more, do better, be better. I want to grow and change and I want to get where I'm going - or at least feel as if I'm making progress. I'm frustrated about being. I don't find it easy to stop because I don't want to. I want to move on. I know that your Plan is perfect and your timing is spot on and yet I feel like stamping and shouting and folding my arms with a scowl like Elizabeth does because you're not doing things my way. I know what I think my life should look like and I don't really understand why you're not agreeing with me. Aren't my plans good plans? I want to do so much for you.

Honestly.

But I can't offer you a single thing. There's nothing I can do for you that you need; there's nothing that you want from me. I think you're telling me that for now, I should just be. Concentrate on me and you and stop the hamster wheel thing, the running, running, trying, trying.  I'm quite sure that what you want me to be is more important than what you want me to do. It seems to me that I know this, but I keep forgetting.

Is that it?

I'm tired, Lord. Tired because I didn't get enough sleep last night and tired of feeling battered and bruised. Tired of trying to do the right thing and tired of the knot in my stomach when I get it wrong. Tired of being confused and tired of trying to work things out.

So here it is.

Lord, once again I'm dumping all this in front of you. You know all about my fears and my worries, and you know about my hopes and dreams because you planted them in my heart. I think that in your time you'll water them and make them grow, but I don't know for sure because I'm just me and you're God.

I'll trust you anyway.

Here are all the stress and anxiety and lurking unease that's weighing me down this morning. Things that I'm carrying round when I don't need to.  All the stuff that's making me feel down on a spectacular Autumn morning. You said you'd carry it for me and I'd like to take you up on that, please.

Thankyou for the sunrise and for my daughters who shared it with me for a brief few moments amid their squabble about who had used the last precious heart shaped sticker.

Thankyou for the snail and the flowers and the spider's web and the dew.

Thankyou for Katy's energy and her enthusiasm and her Batman superpowers.

Thankyou for her wonderful gentle young teacher who hardly seems old enough to be teaching my daughter but who has given her a delight in coming to school that makes my heart swell.

Thankyou for the reds and golds and oranges of the Autumn leaves and the blue sky and the sunshine and the apples on the trees.

And thankyou for the butterfly. I'm sorry I didn't take the time to stop and look.

Strength will rise

Evening, God.

Very tired tonight, so forgive me if I stop making sense after a few minutes. You must be used to it by now.

Today has been a strange day. One of those days when I've felt as if I've been outside my body watching myself. It started way too early with a small girl with an upset stomach wailing that she'd had an accident. One which turned out to involve carpet cleaner and a variety of detergents. Poor little Katy couldn't go to school; and indeed couldn't go to the appointment with the consultant that we'd been gearing up for. We've had to postpone finding out the plan for her neck and her lumps (still there) for a few weeks until the next available appointment. 

Poor poorly girl. 

I felt sort of deflated - we'd planned the journey, we were all ready to find out the scan and blood test results and (please please) we've been hoping that we might not have to go back again. Tomorrow was the day we'd find out, and now it's not for another two weeks. Sigh. 

Poor Mum also ill today - the girls made Get Well Grandma cards and I hovered anxiously with offers of cups of tea, bread rolls and Poorly Person Biscuits. 

Not much got done today. I sat with Katy and watched 'Joseph and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat' twice, 'Barney at the Seaside' twice and 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' just the once, mercifully. We curled up on the sofa and many times my arm went numb, but that's what you do when your little girl is poorly, isn't it? Cuddle until you can't feel your arm.

I managed five minutes dusting while I brushed my teeth (not until 11.40am) which consisted of wiping down the chest of drawers and bookshelf with an old sock from the washing basket on my hand. I managed a quick nip to the shop to buy fresh bread to try and tempt people to eat (not very successful, but now the bread bin is overflowing). I managed a quick surf of Facebook but no writing as I only had my left hand (right trapped under Katy). 

Yesterday I flapped about how much I have to do and ask for your help in prioritising, today I am forced to slow down to a full stop. 

Co-incidence? 

I don't know. What I do know is I spent the day with my arms wrapped around my littlest baby girl and able to kiss her whenever I wanted and inhale the wonderful fragrance of her hair all day. It took me a little while to stop lamenting the demise of the plans I'd had for today, but I came to terms with things eventually. About half way through the second Joseph, I think. I was still chafing all the way through Barney, but hey - whose teeth are not on edge during Barney?

My beautiful Katy. She missed her big sister today. She was worried that she should be doing her reading at school and she was concerned that everyone would forget about her. She couldn't even eat a fish finger at teatime so to be honest I'm not holding out much hope for tomorrow. We'll see.

The house was warm as everyone was feeling shivery. There was a bit of a poorly-person odour in our part of the house after Katy's early morning accident. I'd spent most of the day on the sofa and I was feeling so sleepy that I could barely keep my eyes open. Bleary and stuffy and a bit sorry for myself. 

I had a little break when I walked round to school at 3pm to collect Elizabeth and I put on my headphones as I walked. There's just enough time for one song, and I put it on shuffle to surprise me. 

'Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord

We will wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord.'

(Brown/Riley 2006 Survivor records)

Strength. Oh yes. 

This is something that other people have. 

I need more strength, and I haven't got any in reserve at the moment. The past few days I've been planning all that I need to do and I even commented to a friend last week that it's all very well having my week planned out, but when something goes wrong I may as well rip up the schedule. My little girl is poorly and I spend the day on the sofa with arms wide and eyes half open watching the TV. Brain pretty much switched off - you don't need a brain for Barney. Indeed it's a positive disadvantage.

The world doesn't stop when I get off for a day. I guess I have an inflated idea of my own importance if I think that my input in various things is so necessary to the wellbeing of those around me. Today I was stressed out that a poorly child meant my plans went by the board, and yet yesterday I'd asked you to help me with prioritisation.

There you have it. 

I need to wait upon you. I need to do that because unwittingly I've started worrying about time, again. I've been much better at it recently but it's so easy to slip back into old habits. I need to wait upon you because that is the number one important thing in my life. Without time with you, nothing else means anything. Nothing else will ever come to anything. 

And strength will rise when I wait upon you. And after a disturbed night, a very early morning and an un relenting child-full day I could do with topping up tonight, Lord God. 

'But those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.'

Isaiah 40:31

I think this is an everyday strength as well as a strength that you give us for the uncommon events and challenges that life throws at us. A daily, or hourly, or minute-by-minute renewing of the strength just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I don't know about soaring on wings like eagles; I'd love to do that, but at the moment, if it's not selling you short, I'll settle for a Good Night's Sleep and a reasonable start to tomorrow, if that's alright with you? 

I walked to school and the sky was blue, the sun shining and a crispness in the air more like March than May, but it didn't matter, as the house was hot and stuffy. I looked at the greenness after all the rain we've been having and the signs of Spring slowly turning summery and I looked at the clouds and the older children pouring down the road from the senior school and the faces of the little ones looking for Mummies and Daddies as they came out of the infant school - and I saw you. You are all around me. There in the evening song of the blackbirds in our garden right now as I sit up in bed with my window open onto a beautiful evening. There in the weight of my gorgeous poorly girl on my tingling right arm. There in the sun and the sky and the forget-me-nots taking over the flowerbed that I haven't weeded. 

And there with me as I scrub smelly stains in the carpet and there as I frown, trying to work out when I can fit in things I want to do for you. 

You've got this one, haven't you? You know what you're doing. 

Priorities. 

I hope in you and you will renew my strength. 

Father God, whose ways are so far above mine that I can't keep up, thank you for the gentle reminder today that I should get things in order.

Thankyou for the chance to cuddle my little girl. Thanks for the chance to sing the words to Joseph with her (again). Thankyou for the chance to fast forward to the best bits in 'Charlie'. And thanks for the chance to watch Barney. No, scrub the last one. I'm not that thankful for that bit. Sorry.

Lord, I need to start from the beginning again. Here it is: my time. I only have so much of it, and since you designed it that way, I can assume that I have the right amount. Help me to use it wisely. 

'You are the everlasting God

The everlasting God'.

Everlasting. That's you. I never get to the end of you, like I get to the end of me, sometimes. I'm pretty much there at the moment. But you? You go on forever.

You do not faint, you won't grow weary'.

But I do. Never enough sleep. Never enough energy. Never enough patience, or unselfishness, or generosity. I grow weary alright. 

You're the defender of the weak;

You comfort those in need

You lift us up on wings like eagles.'

That's me, my God. I feel weak and in need. I could do with lifting up right now. Show me how to spread my wings. 

Amen. 

It's not fair

Morning, Father.

I am having a bad week. This morning when I went to wake up my youngest daughter her first words were 'It's not fair.'  Her first action was to straighten her leg rapidly under the bedclothes so that she kicked me as I leaned over to give her a kiss. 

After the rough ride of last week sometimes it's hard to keep smiling warmly at my older daughter, who is in an 'I want Daddy, not you' frame of mind. Between them they have bruised me physically and emotionally and I've started wishing that I could just leave home for a while. My husband has done nothing wrong except be a great Daddy but when he gets home on Friday night I quite fancy meeting him at the door with my coat on and telling him they're all his for a few weeks   sorry, days. 

I won't do that. Sadly. 

I won't. My job is to carry on being Mummy. To keep on being the same and trying my best and to keep on loving them no matter what they say or what they do. 

We have this thing, where I say:

'Does your Mummy love you?'

'Yes.'

How much does she love you?'

'Round the world and back again.'

'More than that!' (discuss ever-increasing amounts of love involving galaxies and universes)

Why does she love you?'

'Because I'm Elizabeth/Katy'

'When will Mummy stop loving you?'

'Never, never, never, not ever, not anyhow.'

We haven't done it for a while. I suppose that's significant. I used to say that to Katy every time I dropped her off at nursery as we walked from the car and to Elizabeth as we walked to school, but now we all walk together we don't seem to do it. I must get back into the habit, because it seems now that they frequently doubt whether I do love them (or they say they do) and they feel that my love has its limits. 

In my darkest moments, I worry about that too. I do have limits. I have had the sort of week that leaves me exhausted and hurt and sorry for myself.  I find myself nearly in tears before 8am when Katy starts the day like she did this morning. I want to give up. I want to tell them to get their own breakfast because Mummy's had enough and whatever cereal I've got they'll say they want something else anyway. 

They are only little. They're six (nearly seven) and five. I am the grown up. Get a grip.

I love my children more than I can say but it's been a hard week. I'm a bit fragile. That love sometimes gets buried in a mountain of negativity. Selfishness crowds in and a little voice keeps saying, 'What about me?' If I'm honest, that little voice isn't so little. It's a deafening roar, sometimes. 

I go to look at them at night and I marvel at their beauty. How delicate they are. How small. How innocent. I kiss them and inhale the wonderful fragrance of them. I would stay like that forever if I could. I hold us all before you each night, Father, and I whisper 'I love you' and 'God bless you' and just occasionally one of them might stir and mutter 'I love you, Mummy' back, but that hasn't happened for a while. 

I know that I need to be a Mummy to my daughters and not their friend. I know that this is relatively easy when they're little because I am automatically everything to them, so if I'm finding it hard now, how on earth am I going to manage when they are teenagers? The idea fills me with dread. Already we have the eye-rolling and the exaggerated sighs. I love their cuddles and their kisses and their stories and their little notes and messages. What will I do when they no longer want me to lie down in bed with them, when they no longer come to be picked up when they're hurt?  They're part of me. It hurts so much when they pull away.

I know that it's not about me. My job is not to focus on what I get from them, but what they need from me. They need me to keep on going. To keep on loving whether or not I get love back. A bit like you, Father God. You keep on loving me whether or not I love you back. You don't snap at me sarcastically when I do finally remember you and toss you the odd five minutes of my time; you are simply delighted that I came at all. You don't withhold your love because I hurt you. You don't look at me with narrowed eyes and make yourself hard in case I hurt you again. 

Your love is perfect and mine is a pathetic shadow of it, but I have a job to do that requires every ounce that I've got. You gave me two beautiful, interesting, intensely frustrating, challenging and complex little creatures to nurture to adulthood and I so, so want to do a decent job. I don't want Elizabeth to grow up and remember these years as ones where Mummy was impatient and unloving. I don't want Katy to look back and only remember the times when I dump her mid-tantrum onto her bed and walk away from her. Every day I say I'll do better and then sometimes it feels as if I've blown it before breakfast. 

Sigh.  In another context the other day I was remembering Max Lucado's words that those you call, you equip. I believe that to bring up children is a pretty important job and so I don't doubt that you will give me what I need to do it. I think I need some pretty heavy duty equipment. And I need some maintenance myself because I'm not running like a well-oiled machine. Bits of me are seizing up, and it's starting to show. 

Lord, equip me all over again to be Mummy to my two gorgeous girls who have brought me endless blessings in the seven and a half years I've known them. Help me to dig deep for reserves of patience that only you can help me find. Show me the bright, beautiful light shining from my girls instead of the sulkiness and uncooperative side that is just as prevalent in me. Help me to smile when I feel like scowling and to rejoice in their lovely relationship with Daddy instead of being jealous of it. 

Sigh.

Lord, as I am loved by you, help me to give love and keep on giving it. I don't feel like giving it, sometimes. I don't feel like they deserve it, but then neither do I deserve it, and yet your hands are always open. I want to be more like you, perfect Father God. Abba, my Daddy. 

Oh, Daddy, hold me in your arms a little while and let me have a cry and tell you how unjust it is. Hold me while I kick and whimper, 'It's not fair.' After the sobs have subsided, gently stand me up and load me up with supplies of forgiveness and generosity and warmth and grace and love so that I can start all over again. I'll be back for more pretty soon.

Please, Lord, take away any hurts that my girls carry round with them. Don't let any seeds of damage grow in their little hearts or minds. Don't allow me to cause them pain that will linger. Please, Father, help me do this job as you would have me do it. 

I want to show you to my girls, not turn them away from you. I'm asking you to be right in the middle of our family, Father. Be with us - at the school gates, as we walk past the sweet shop, at teatime, bath time, and at my own particular favourite - teeth-brushing time, at bedtime, in the night and when we wake up. And into a new day.

There isn't anything more important. 

I can't do this on my own. 

In at the deep end

Hello, God of school holidays.

God of small children who hope for excitement and trips out and treats and all manner of wonders.

God of weary and uninspired Mums who try to provide excitement and trips out and treats with enthusiasm and tolerance all the while longing for a coffee and a sit down, perhaps a nap.

God of endlessly kind and patient Grandmas who look after and indulge grand-daughters and daughters alike, finding awe-inspiring reserves of energy to allow children to be children and Mums to find precious moments of peace.

What a trio we made this morning. I took my daughters swimming at the local leisure centre and they were very excited. They love swimming. The trouble is that now that Lizzie is so much more proficient at it she no longer wants to go in the learner pool (smaller, shallower, warmer) and wants to go in the big pool (much bigger, deeper, colder). Katy is still most definitely at a stage where she needs to feel the bottom of the pool under her feet and so I can't cater for them both at the same time. We came to an arrangement where we would all go in the big pool together, in the shallow end, and then after a while, Katy would be delivered to Grandma in the changing rooms and proceed to the viewing gallery when dressed, and Elizabeth and I would investigate the deep end. 

Katy was nervous about being in the big pool.

Lizzie was nervous about going to the deep end.

I was nervous about appearing in public in my new swimming costume. 

We did pretty well.  The water was none too warm and so there was much jumping about and playing in the shallow end and Katy overcame her fear to do some wonderful jumps from the side and didn't hesitate about going under the water. Lizzie swam 100m without stopping and did a couple of jumps from the springboard into the deepest part of the pool. She was so nervous that her knees were wobbling and she got down from the board twice but she did it. And when they made to close the diving boards she hurried to do it again.  I was very proud. 

So much to learn from my children. The way that Elizabeth wouldn't be defeated; she had set herself the challenge of jumping in off the board and she was going to do it. We found out that the criteria for being allowed to use the diving boards was the ability to swim two lengths and so she swam three. She knew she'd be out of her depth but she jumped in anyway. 

Katy too. She couldn't go in the little, warm pool and so she came in the big pool and shivered but smiled and danced and jumped. She put her arms round my neck and let me spin her round and she threw back her head and laughed. She was determined to enjoy herself. She tried out some goggles but they weren't on right and they filled up with water but she didn't complain. She held my hand and jumped in from the side even though the water is much further down from the side than it is in the baby pool. 

I know there's a parable to be had about being out of one's depth but trusting nonetheless but I'm a bit too bleary-eyed to see it right now.  Likewise thoughts to be had about making a splash, or not being able to feel the bottom, or going in headfirst, or waving and drowning, or sinking and swimming....I will ponder all this and get back to you. Is that OK?

My two little girls. Growing up, but still little. Quickly out of their depth in a big, grown up swimming pool but loving the excitement of it. 

Me? I did my best to stay up to my neck in water so nobody would see me.

I reckon there's probably a lesson there too. Hmm.

I like taking my girls swimming. I like the hugs that I get when they hang onto me and I like that they enjoy it so much. The coffee afterwards is good too. 

I like school holidays because the mornings are so much more relaxed. There's no desperate rush to be up, teeth-cleaned, dressed, breakfasted and ready to go before a certain time. On the other hand there's no peaceful solitary walk home from the school gates and no quiet in the house when I get home. I find that my patience runs out by mid afternoon. I love my girls very very much but they have so much energy. They're so loud. They never stop moving. I feel as if I have very little energy, love peace and quiet and long to be still. 

But today was a good day. We had fun. Tomorrow I have another outing planned and craft activities for later in the day. I am in bed nice and early so get a run at the day and with your help I might make it through without running out of all the things I need. Energy, patience, self control, sense of humour, love, love love.

Lord, I'm not sure why I'm telling you all this; you know it anyway. You were with us when I was anxiously treading water and waiting for Lizzie to surface at the pool and you were there when I mopped up Katy's spilled drink. You were there when I snapped at them at bedtime and you were there when I went in to their bedrooms a few moments ago and stroked the hair out of their eyes and kissed them with a promise that I would do better tomorrow. 

Help me do better tomorrow.

Thankyou for all that you gave us today. For laughter and swimming pools and bodies that work, even if, in my case, there is a disconcertingly large number on the swimsuit label where the size should be. Thankyou for keeping my girls safe when they both tried something new. Thankyou for challenges and courage and achievement and joy. 

Thankyou for Grandma and moral support and cups of tea and invaluable reassurance and babysitting. 

I am blessed indeed. 

Snakes and ladders

Bear with me here, Lord.  I know it might seem as if I'm overdoing the CS Lewis thing at the moment, but things keep jumping out at me. 


I'm sitting here waiting for three eggs to hard boil as Elizabeth has to take a hard boiled egg into school tomorrow for her Easter Egg Rolling competition, and I forgot to boil one till now.  I'm wanting to be in bed but as I watch the pan I thought I'd check in with you. Not that I'm just filling time; you know what I mean. 


I'm mulling over the fact that I just snapped at Lizzie as she tiptoed into the kitchen earlier when I was on the phone to remind me of the need for hard boiled eggs and I scolded her for being out of bed and assured her it was in hand when actually it's a good job she came down as otherwise I'd have been hard-boiling eggs at the crack of dawn tomorrow and she'd be rolling a hot one. Poor Lizzie. I'm feeling bad for not admitting that I'd forgotten. I've been reading recently about the need for absolute honesty and the ease with which I assured her that I was onto the hard boiled egg thing is somewhat startling... still, that conversation is for another day. Today it's CS Lewis again.


I'm perilously close to a full bar of Galaxy chocolate, too, so I need to keep my hands occupied.  Bryan brought it into the house at the weekend and then was inconsiderate enough to leave it there when he went back to London.  What can you do? I can't even get up to make a coffee because if I open the fridge for the milk, there it is, looking at me. 


Anyway, CS Lewis. 


He said:


"Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done."
 (Letters to Malcolm: Chiefly on Prayer)


Ain't that the truth.  I feel I'm getting somewhere and then I do the two steps forward, one step back thing.  So much is happening at the moment that I am excited and full of anticipation, then along comes a juggernaut and knocks me flying.  I'm shaking sixes and climbing ladders only to land on whopping snakes that take me back to the beginning.  I look at the children at my bedtime and I sit on the edge of the bed (or on their foot, as I did inadvertently last night with Lizzie which sort of ruined the moment) and I put my hand on them and I pray and I kiss them and I wonder at their beauty and innocence and smallness.  I invariably think to myself, 'How could I possibly have been so cross with you earlier on today?' and I promise, I promise that I'll do better tomorrow.  Tomorrow comes and I've usually mucked it up by breakfast time. 


I'm hard boiling three eggs in case they crack.  I've just looked at them and two of them have cracked.  Lord, look after the third one.  I do want to get to bed this side of midnight.


So I try and I fail.  Or I don't try very hard, and I fail. Each morning I need to start again.  No matter what insights I have on one day, no matter how uplifting the worship on a Sunday, no matter how powerful the sermon, how loving the friendship, how outstandingly patient I am at the children's bathtime (ha!); I need to begin again every morning.  A new page. 


How wonderful is it that you allow that.  That you don't say, 'Well, you've really blown it this time. You were impatient/crabby/hurtful/distant/mendacious enough to ruin it completely.  It'll be a while before I'm helping you again.'


Thankyou that you don't pick up your ball and go home with it every time I don't play nicely.  Thankyou that you give me a clean page each day even though you just know I'm going to make a mess of it. Thankyou that your shoulder is there for me to lean on, your hand to hold and your footsteps to follow each new day. 


Today's coming to an end and tomorrow will start all too soon. I'm going to give it to you; I'm going to lay tomorrow before you and rely on you all over again. No matter what has happened today, I shall be here tomorrow night agonising about the same things, no doubt. Help me to change that, bit by bit, over time, will you, God.  Help me stop thinking I can do it, and teach me to let you do it instead. 


Let there be more ladders than snakes. 

Christmas trees and crossness

Well, as you know Lord that's not some clever play on words, I mean crossness as in crabbiness, narkiness, bad temperedness.  That was me this afternoon when I started to dismantle the Christmas decorations with 'help' from the children. I'm not particularly proud of my performance.  At one point I was thinking to myself, 'The fruit of the spirit is love, PATIENCE, thingy, whatsit, SELF CONTROL and lots of other things...' and then straight away I'd be snapping at the girls for dropping precious decorations or pulling at the fairy lights. (Sorry for not remembering all the fruits of the spirit.  Will look it up, promise).

It was chaos.  Tinsel everywhere, strings of beads all tangled up, the floor covered in tissue paper. Why do I get so bad tempered whenever there's a mess?  Why am I so ill equipped to cope with chaos in my house?  You'd think that with two small children I'd be used to it, but all that happens is I run round with armfuls of stuff, trying to put things away and letting one job lead to another before the first one is finished in a vain effort to stem the tide of untidiness while glowering at everyone who gets in my way and letting cups of tea go cold as I can't seem to stop for five minutes.

Here's the thing, Lord. I've got a book on my bedside table waiting to be read and it's about Mary and Martha. I'm pretty sure that I am a Martha. At least, the busyness bit. Though quite often I'm busy doing nothing - busy surfing the internet, busy looking through seed catalogues, busy sleeping. But I'm Martha-ing my life as a Mum as well, and I can see myself doing it but seem powerless to stop. I know I need to let the mess accumulate long enough to let the kids have fun, and I know I need to stop so that I can have fun with them.  They won't always want to play with playdough (ugh. Hate the smell of it, the feel of it...) and they won't always want me to play with them will they?

So here's the thing. Please, Lord, show me how to stop dashing and tidying and being obsessive about things and how to enjoy my little girls while they're young. Help me to take more time to notice and not get so wound up. Help me to let them help and not bother if things aren't done as neatly or efficiently as I would do them.

There's a New Year Resolution for you. I've spent 40 years being perfectionist and wanting to have everything under control so I know I have no chance of doing it on my own.  But with your help next time I take down the Christmas decorations maybe I won't be so cross.  I'll let you know.

Amen.