I’m not a yes mom.
I don’t calmly correct my children.
I’m not sure if timeout is needed for them or for me.
I do love deeply. Unfortunately, for me, the flip-side of that can be anger. Not even anger so much as emotion. But, if I’m being real, a lot of times it’s anger.
I don’t like the mother that I am sometimes. I want to be the mother that uses every experience as a teachable moment. I want to speak sweetly and smile gently and be less me.
But God didn’t pick the mom I wish I was. He picked me. In all of my imperfection here and now, He picked me.
He chose me to be the mom, even though I want to sleep longer than they do.
He chose me to be the mom, even though I yelled about the football flying through the living room.
He chose me to be the mom, even when I screamed in frustration because they were yelling.
Sometimes I wonder why he picked me. The only thing I can think of is this:
When I’m at my worst and I’m at the end of me I have one thing I do. I call the name of Jesus. I’ve yelled it, cried it, whispered it, said it over and over until no words would come.
My kids may think I’m crazy. They’re probably right. But one thing I’ve done in my anger is show them what to do. Call on the name of Jesus. It’s usually all I can think to do. And if that’s how I teach them to handle anger, in imperfection and surrender, than I’ve done something right in all that is wrong.
So, I’ll stand in the middle of the kitchen with my hands over my face saying it over and over again until His name becomes an exhale on my lips.
And I breathe.
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