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.

Blessed are the peacemakers

Evening, Lord.

I seem to spend much of my life trying to avert war. 

I do. Conflict, at least. Alright, anything from bickering and squabbling to major civil unrest. It's tiring. 

Is that what you think when you look down on this earth and count the places where we're at each others' throats?  Do you sigh and shake your head? Do you wonder at our ferocity as I sometimes wonder at the fury of my two small girls?

They are seven and five years old. They are beautiful children with smiles that light up a room. They are sweet, thoughtful, loving and gentle. 

Mostly. 

Then there are the times when the explosions come out of nowhere and ignite everything around that's flammable. I am speaking mainly about my littlest daughter, Katy. The Tantrum Queen. 

I would love to see inside her head, just for a minute or two. Half an hour, tops. Surely it would explain so much to me if I could just get a look at the world from her point of view. What is it about getting up time or teeth-brushing time, or getting dressed time, or leaving for school time, or mealtimes, or going to bed time that is so incendiary? If only I knew. Her temper can go from 0-60 in a matter of milliseconds. There will be hardly any warning before the balloon goes up. And when it does, we need to run for cover. She can scream, she can shout, she can kick, hit, throw things and turn over small coffee tables. There is no earthly point in reasoning; the order of the day is to prevent serious injury. Most at risk are the shins and eardrums. 

Lord, keeping the peace is not easy when it is necessary to get out of bed, clean teeth, get dressed and eat meals, then do it all in reverse on a daily basis. I can't let her live on Haribo sweets in her pyjamas until her teeth go furry; I don't think that's anywhere in the job description for being someone's Mummy. So carrots need to be eaten. Toothbrushes have to do their thing. Socks need to be put on and rules have to be stuck to. 

I guess every mum feels like a referee. I'm just having a moan, that's all. If the children are quiet, playing nicely together, laughing - I rush to smile and point out how proud I am of the lovely way they're playing. Within seconds, someone's been assaulted. They can be best friends in all the world one minute - Katy wailing how will she possibly manage at infant school without her Elizabeth, who starts Juniors in September - and then moments later she'll be hurling a marker pen at Lizzie's head and telling her she's a stupid girl and she hates her. Elizabeth can be charm itself at a teddies' tea party with her little sister and half a minute later kicking Kate under the table because she was 'looking at her with a funny expression'. 

I am stern, I am understanding, I am patient, I investigate. 

I am calm, I am fair, I am judicious, I blow my stack. 

Blessed are the peacemakers. How blessed are they if they avert a crisis a few times a day, run away and hide a couple of times and then once or twice make it a whole lot worse?  What about those times when it's completely unclear who is the aggressor, who's in the wrong, who did it or threw it or tore it or spoilt it? What does the peacemaker do when two angry children with mutinous faces are expecting justice for the Nth time in an evening and the would-be peacemaker just wants a coffee and five minutes peace? 

I would love to know how you train a child in the way that she should go with gentleness and compassion when you have to tell that child that she can't have a biscuit because tea is nearly ready, knowing full well that you might as well light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance. When do those susceptible grow out of tantrums, Father? Does it ever happen? Do I want to know the answer?

I'm not really going anywhere with this, Lord God. I love my girls and I wouldn't have them any other way. Actually, I would. I'd have them a bit less volatile. A bit more understanding of my point of view. A bit less heavy sighing and eye rolling from my older daughter and a bit less shrieking and flailing from my younger one. But I don't seriously think that my experiences differ from the norm very much. 

It's just a stage they're going through, isn't it? Isn't it?

Thankyou for my girls, God. I love them to the ends of the earth. Oh, Lord, I bet it's quieter at the ends of the earth, is it? Not so much arguing and bickering? Who has the bigger biscuit, who is hogging the red pen, whose sunflower is the largest?  I love them. I would do anything for them. I so want them to grow up as thoughtful, compassionate women. I want them to do things to help people, to make people happy, not putting themselves first whatever the cost. I want them to be fair, generous and warm. 

Sometimes it's hard to stay one step ahead; to know how to play it. I find myself making so many decisions on a daily basis and trying to second guess the outcome of each one. Always analysing the implications, looking for negative precedents that I inadvertently set that might come back to bite me one day. I know the danger that lies in the three words, 'Just this once...' 

I know the onerous weight of having to be oh-so-fair every step of the way. Nobody's slice of cake must be larger than anyone else's.  The felt-tip pens must be equidistant from both colouring books. Perish the thought that one should get to wear their favourite T-shirt when the other's is in the wash. Often I feel ill-equipped for the task of being a mum; I don't feel very grown up myself. 

Endlessly entertaining, endlessly confounding. Frequently surprising, frequently infuriating. Challenging, amazing, hilarious and awe-inspiring, my daughters leave me shouting with frustration and speechless. 

'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.'

Matthew 5:9

Lord, does this include those of us that simply want to make a happy home for our families? For those of us that resolve every night to be more patient with our children, and for those of us who look forward to seeing their little faces as they emerge into the playground after a school day only to be cross and irritable before they even get back home?  

I do my best to avoid flare-ups and disagreements and sometimes I unthinkingly cause them. I try to choose my battles. I try to intercept missiles and intervene in a timely manner, and sometimes I put my head in the sand and hope that nobody gets seriously hurt. I think this is family life. Am I wrong? Somewhere, is there a mother who presides over a brood of children who never have a cross word? Nobody ever feels hard done to? 

I don't think so. 

Lord, I know that you don't have any grandchildren. My two girls are your children and so am I. I have my fair share of sulks and strops and tantrums. I dig my heels in and refuse to be placated just as Katy does. I roll my eyes and do my own thing like Lizzie. Lord, is it as frustrating to be our Heavenly Father as it is sometimes for me to be their earthly mother? 

Give me what I need to do this job well, Lord. Give me wisdom and an insight into their world. Give me a sense of humour. A bigger one. A better one. A sense of humour that's more easily accessed than mine sometimes seems to be. The ability to throw caution to the wind and let them make a mess without fretting that everything isn't perfect. 

More love. More generosity. More gentleness. More fun.

This job is far too big for just me, Lord. You chose me to be mummy to these wonderful children so full of potential and you don't make mistakes - you think that between us, me and you, we can do it.  Help me hold up my end of the bargain. Lord, I need your help. I need you to teach me to be all the things that we want them to be; no good trying to get them to do as I say and not as I do. Change my heart to be more like yours, Father. I'd rather have them take after you than me. Teach me to guide and to forgive as you do, over and over again; and the many times that I get it wrong, Lord, give me the humility to own up and be grown up. 

Thankyou for the immeasurable blessing of my two girls. For their smiles, their wit, their energy and their inspiration. I would do anything for them - I pray that they know that. Please Lord, help me to help them grow up to know right from wrong. To choose kindness over selfishness and forgiveness over conflict. To understand their worth and know that they are loved so, so much. By us and by you. 

I once asked you for patience. You gave me two children so that I could practice and get good at it. Hmm. I won't make that mistake again. Maybe when I'm as old as Methuselah I'll have patience in buckets. Alternatively, by then I might just be so hard of hearing that I can't hear the shouting. 

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 the shadow of your wings

Evening, God.

Just listen to that wind. There's a gale blowing and rain is being hurled at the window as I write this. Sometimes I feel cosy being inside when it's like this but today it feels different. It's what my English teacher used to refer to as 'sympathetic background'. I feel as if I'm right out there in the rain because the rain is right here in my head.

There's a gale blowing in my mind blasting rational thoughts along until they stick to the walls, soggy and disintegrating. I'm swaying each and every way and it's keeping me off balance. On the wrong foot. The rain - well, apart from the obvious analogy with tears - I am soaked through. Weighed down. Cold and miserable. 

We need the rain. The reservoirs are empty, I'm told, and there will likely be a hosepipe ban this summer so I'll be trudging back and forth from the water butt to water my plants. I remember 1976 when we bucketed bathwater down the garden to the vegetable path across a brown and frazzled lawn; right now this must be the wettest drought on record. Still, my grass likes the rain. It's luxuriant at the moment. Pity it won't stop for long enough so that the kids can play on it.

My grass. Liking the rain.

Relentless beating of the rain on the windows. Drumming on the roof. Gusting in the eves. I might make a coffee. It's distracting me.

I am having a really bad week. The children are being awful and I, no doubt, am being awful back. I'm trying so hard but Elizabeth keeps telling me how much better Daddy is than me, and Katy has taken up the mantle of Tantrum Queen once again. I thought we'd hung it up at the back of the wardrobe but no, it's dusted off and donned and she's come over all stampy and shouty again. We've had the mummy and daddy of screaming fits today because she didn't want a jacket potato, and then I cut it up wrongly, and then there wasn't enough butter on it. Today at bath time she wouldn't get in the bath, then she wouldn't get out. If I ask Lizzie to do anything she just sighs heavily and asks when will Daddy be home? 

I am out of favour. I am the least-liked-parent. I can't deny that it hurts. I want my daughters to like me. There's a temptation to try and win favour but I know that it's a dangerous game. I know that Daddy is here at weekends when he has the energy and enthusiasm to be Fun-time-Daddy whereas I'm here all the time and I have to get them up, dressed, teeth brushed, breakfasted and to school every morning with book bags, maths games, money for school trips on the right days and plastic bottles so they can make whatever it is they're making out of plastic bottles in the craft lesson. I have to take them places and try to think up meals that they'll eat and scrape the plates when they won't and then bath them and brush tangles out of their hair and try to limit their time on computer games and TV and so on. 

Dull-time-Mummy. Nagging Mummy. Tired Mummy. 

Tearful Mummy. Hurt Mummy. 

It surprised me what a punch it packed when Lizzie told me that she was sorry if it upset me, but she loves Daddy more than me. She later qualified this by saying that it wasn't really about love, but Daddy was her special friend and she liked being with him more than being with me.  

Ouch.

She's six years old. Nearly seven. Honest? Manipulative? I don't know. A few weeks ago Lizzie and I had a run in where I definitely came off the worst.  This time I tried not to react. She shrugged and said that she was sorry, that was how it was. Now could she have a chocolate biscuit or should she go and ask Grandma?

I have moments where I think I can do this Mummy-thing and most of the time I blunder through it all trying not to be too shouty. Trying to pick my battles and let the niggles go. Trying to catch them being adorable and lay it on thick rather than only looking up when war breaks out. Trying to find the energy to play or allow mess to develop and clear up without heavy sighing. I don't think I'm very good at it. 

It's raining. Who wrote that song, 'Raining in my heart'? Cliche, yes. Feeling a little rained on? Yes. 

I'm doing my best. I'm not perfect (and neither are my two girls). I love them to the end of the world and back and I would lay down my life for them. I get so cross with them. I get cross with myself for getting cross. I'm doing my best but just as I crack one developmental stage another comes hurtling at me like a juggernaut and I haven't got any instructions to consult. What do you do when your six year old tells you she thinks that Daddy is the better parent?

Jealous Mummy. 

Yes, I am jealous. And if the truth be known more needy than I'd like to admit. My daughters need a mother but I need them as well. I need to be loved. I want to be liked, but I can't do everything they'd like me to do or allow everything that they'd like to get away with, can I? Katy told me today that everyone always bosses her about and it makes her sad (for sad, read stampy). She's five years old and arguably the bottom of the pecking order. We do all boss her about. No wonder she says NO NO NO NO NO sometimes, and says it loudly.  If the only thing she can control is whether she gets out of the bath then from time to time she'll bloody well stay in there, won't she? 

Poor little love.

Hard to be five. Hard to be six. Hard to be forty-one. After yesterday evening I bet my long-suffering mum would say it's hard to be eighty as well. I'm quite sure I'm more trouble to her now than I ever was when I was young. 

So what then?

Lord, I'm tired. I'm hurt. I'm soaked to the skin and cold and shivering. I'm out here in a gale and it's getting dark.

'I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust."' 

Psalm 91: 2

My Lord, you are my refuge. I am looking for shelter from the storm. Let me in?

'O Lord, my strength and my fortress, my refuge in the day of affliction.'

Jeremiah 16:19

I am afflicted. Not like Job, afflicted, I suppose (though I must say I reckon I've had more than my fair share of health problems lately. Dentist tomorrow, follow up hospital appointment next week...but you know all that). Problems are coming thick and fast. Anxieties, disappointments, unpleasant surprises. I feel like all my raw places are being poked with a sharp stick at the moment. 

I haven't much strength left. I need yours, please. And a fortress - that's where you go when there's a battle on, I think. Sounds good to me. Somewhere safe. Somewhere I can hide. 

'The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous run into it and are safe.'

Proverbs 18:10

I don't know about righteous. I don't feel very righteous. A bit of a failure, really. Today I have tried my best but the children have tested my patience and I had to leave the room earlier rather than stay to be kicked by my youngest daughter. I might have kicked back. 

Righteous? If righteousness is knowing that I have reached the end of me and I need you to drive for a while then I am running into your tower and I'm looking for safety right now. 

And then this. Leaped off the page. Actually, off the screen, in this day of Biblegateway.com. A word from you, to me. 

'How priceless is your unfailing love, O God! People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.'

Psalm 36:7

Under the shadow of your wings.

Oh my God. My Daddy. Unfailing love. I love my girls so, so much, but it's so hard and then that love falters and wobbles and I need topping up so often. I empty myself out for them and they hurl it back at me and my instinct is to withdraw and not offer anything more. Even to hurt back, and yet it makes no sense because they're only little. Your love never fails. It never grows dim no matter how frequent my tantrums and how often I tell you that I love something else more than you. And then, like Lizzie, I qualify it, saying that maybe it's not about love, but I just enjoy spending time with something else more than with you. Does that make it any better? 

Nope.

Do I hurt you like Lizzie hurt me? 

This morning I came and sat with you for a little while. I didn't feel you there; I didn't get a word, or a feeling, or a sense of you - I just know you were there because you said you'd be there. I came because I wanted peace. I don't come very often, do I? And when I do it's because I want something. I am more like my small daughters than I'll ever know. 

I know that you love it when I do drop by. Why don't I come to be with you more often? Because I have other things that I choose to do. Is that hurtful? 

I'm sorry. I'm just the same as my daughters. We are all your children, aren't we? Five, six, forty-one. All flawed and selfish and full of complaints. And yet... how priceless is your unfailing love, O God. 

You offer me a safe place. 

Under the shadow of your wings. Like a baby duck snuggled up to mummy duck. Or daddy duck, if he's more fun. 

Ahem. Sorry about that. 

Lord I am crawling under your wing. I can feel the warmth of your body and the strength of the muscle in your powerful wing. You cover me with your feathers and the predators can't see me. I'm feeling bruised (physically - after all that kicking) and emotionally. I'm feeling inadequate and overwhelmed and its still pelting down with rain and I never feel very cheerful when the days are dark and cold and wet. 

In here I feel warm and safe. Loved. Protected.

How priceless is your unfailing love. People take refuge in the shadow of your wings.

I don't want to come out again until the rain stops, please. 

When I need you

Hello God.

I want to ask you something.

The other day a friend of mine was telling me about a tantrum that her little boy recently had. He shouted and stamped and cried and cried until he was completely out of energy and tears and he finally let her hold him in her arms. She cuddled him and rocked him and prayed for him and he hugged her back until he slept. 

My friend told me with wonder that those minutes in each other's arms as she held him and prayed and rocked him to sleep were special moments indeed. She said she felt privileged to be his Mummy and it was almost worth the shouting and the anger and the tears in order to be able to be part of the healing. 

I wonder if all Mums have this experience from time to time. I know that with my girls, Katy in particular, I have done it too. Katy is the tantrum queen in our house. She's getting better as she gets older (she's five tomorrow, you know) but over the past couple of years here the windows have vibrated with the sound of Katy's screaming. She would stamp, throw things, kick, hit out with little fists and shout until she was hoarse. She would expend every last bit of energy.  Over time I came to know when I should approach her and when to leave her alone, because trying to pick her up before she was ready would only result in a renewed fury and the possibility of bruises. 

There'd be a sort of tipping point. There was (and still is, though the tantrums are less violent now) a point at which Katy would lose control and had fought herself into a place where she realised that she needed help. If I watch her these days, she might look at me through her tears and sort of raise her arms a little; not  going so far as to reach out or signal for a hug, but we know, my little girl and me, what she means. She wants me to come and hold her. When I do, she might still be stiff and unyielding, and almost certainly she'll carry on wailing for a while, but we know that we're at the beginning of the end. 

What happens is that she clings onto me and I gather her up and wrap my arms around her. I hold her to me and she pushes her face into my neck. She sobs and heaves and her little body shakes as the tension slowly subsides. I whisper to her and rock her and I stroke her hair and I inhale the wonderful fragrance of her and I push her fringe away from her hot, teary little face. After a while her body melts into mine and she usually snuggles into me and holds tight. It's all gone. She doesn't have anything left. 

Just like my friend's little boy needed her to be there, my Katy needs me sometimes just to be there when she's run out of herself. Run out of fury, fear, energy and tears. And although the tantrum is frustrating and uncomfortable, those moments when I get to help her come back are precious indeed. I know she'll grow out of tantrums, but I hope that I can still hold her and rock her now and again for a while longer, because I love it. I love that she turns to me when she's at the end of herself and I love that I can help. I love that we fit together and feed from each other and the result, after the tumult and rage, is peace and renewal. 

If I try to intervene too soon, Katy hasn't yet come round to needing me. She's still too full of whatever disturbing emotions are driving her for me to get close. I have to wait until the arms go up. Wait until she sobs 'Mummy'. Then, that's my cue. I can pull her to me and we can let our love even out our feelings. I would never, ever, turn her away at that point. I couldn't do it. I love her far, far too much. 

My friend is very wise. She told me about her little boy and the blessing of holding and praying for him as he found his equilibrium again and softened into sleep and then she said, 'Is God like that with me?'

Wow.

Oh, Lord, is that it? Are you like that with me (and her)?  Do you wait, patiently, watching the tantrum progress in all it's impotent fury until I reach the end of my tether, and then do you open your arms for me? I know that you don't intervene too early - you don't stop me from raging or from wallowing in my self pity, but when I do, finally, eventually, run out of options and run out of energy and strength - there you are. 

When I have nothing left, you hold me. 

Only then, when I've exhausted all alternatives, that's when I lift my arms to you. That's when I lie in bed and let my tears dampen the pillow and I cry out to you. It's usually the point when I have no more words than my four year old daughter who can only say, 'Mummy'. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

Does it give you the same pleasure that it gives me as a Mummy?  The same feeling of intensity and something even approaching joy that I get when I hold Katy so close that she melts into me? I don't mean a joy that she has been so distressed, or that she's cried until she's spent, but a joy that she has at last let me help her. A joy that I had something to give that helped?

Do you feel like that? Do you ache to hold me but I won't let you near? Do you love me so much that your arms long to fold around me and bring healing?

It's an amazing thought. I don't quite know what to do with it. 

I wonder why I have to be so far away before I turn around to come back. I wonder why I can't run into your arms sooner and spare myself the trying and failing to run things under my own strength. You think I'd learn. I'm just like Kate in that I can only accept your embrace when I've tried everything else. Got it all out of my system. 

I'm just a child. And a little one at that. 

Thankyou, Father God. For all the times that you wait for me with your arms open. For all the times that you hold me when I cry even though it's a hurt of my own making. All the times that you love me enough to bring me back into you even though I've stamped and thrown things and shouted at you and held you away until I have nothing left. 

Thankyou for a glimpse of your love, Lord God. 

Abba. My Daddy. 

I'm needing a hug.