one poorly handled tantrum at a time

Today as I was losing my cool with the kids I started all that poisonous mental talk. You know the kind: Why am I always stuck here with all these responsibilities?  Why can’t they just do what I say? Why so many messes. Oh poor pitiful me.

I realized suddenly that I have been calling my blessings a curse and utterly shirking my responsibilities.  I fancy myself a warrior, built for battle, standing up for the side of right.  But honestly when it comes to the actual battles in life I cowardly run away, refuse to deal with the issue, or throw a tantrum in my mind that would rival the ones for which my children are sent to their rooms.

Instead of dealing with the dishes, I check Facebook. Instead of folding the laundry, I clean the relatively clean bathroom. All the while this bickering is running tickertape fashion through my mind.  It’s no wonder there is so much harshness escaping my mouth, so much yelling.  It’s no wonder I feel so angry.

I have been called to fill the most beautiful heads with Truth, with example, with love and in explicit selfishness I choose my coffee, my television shows, my time.  My time I deem better spent entertained and self served rather than an example of patience, honesty, diligence, sacrifice and forethought.  It is often discussed in circles of wizened empty nest mothers how they long for the youth of their children whose hands are no longer the size we inexplicably feel the need to replicate in every medium possible.  Here I am wishing my babies’ childhood away one poorly handled tantrum at a time.  And really many of their tantrums are my fault.  It’s their last resort after my attention and negative is better than none.

I am a fixer. Every scraped knee, lost job, or passing sorrow sparks an immediate flood of solutions on righting the tilted ship. I do not wallow in seeking out the how-did-this-happen except to remember what future pothole to avoid.  I want to know how to make it right.  In my most vulnerable of moments, after the screaming stops and everyone settles back into themselves, like birds suddenly startled ruffle each feather back in place on the safest branch they can find, I am shamed and I ask my husband to fix me.  Give me that one piece of advice that will change how I think, change who I am, because in my head I know I don’t want to be this furious and malcontent person.  I don’t want to be the tyrannical dictator ruthlessly exacting my demands on all my lowly subjects – or family, rather.

As ineffectual and perhaps insane as it may sound I need to learn to be my own contender.  I have to stand up to me.  For every negative viewpoint I must counter myself with the positive until good thoughts beat the poor ones out of my head enough times they just stop coming around.  For every self debasing lie I must remind myself who I am, who God says I am. I must meet the challenges He sets before me and fill the role for which I’ve been created with warrior-like stoicism.  

Everything takes practice and this mind renewal is no exception.  My kids deserve better. My husband deserves better. I deserve better but what’s more God deserves everything I have to give.  This race, like any other, must be run for the right reason and the finish line should be reached panting and spent with every selfish desire pushed aside and pain ignored until my goal has been achieved.  First though, my goal must change.  Instead of coffee or rest or computer time, instead of friendships or crafting or gardening, instead of ME, my goal must be HIM and showing them who He is and how to house Him because that’s what we were made to be: temples, brides, and friends – of God.