I yell.  I hate it.  I have battled my yelling for nearly 8 years now.  On the 3rd day of my blogging I posted about my struggle with not yelling at my children.  That was 5 years ago.  I’m still struggling.

Nearly daily I yell.  I get frustrated.  It gets loud in here.  They don’t listen.  Somebody’s pouring something out on the floor for the umpteenth time today.  Somebody’s hitting somebody else.  Somebody needs me right now, Mama! Somebody’s climbing on the desk to jump down with the scissors.  And then Baby climbs up on something perched on the very edge of imminent disaster.  And I yell.

And because of who I am and the make up of this loud, young, crazy house I yell more often than not.  I’ve talked about taking medication to calm me down and I’ve talked about what it took to get off that medication.  But for now I feel good about being medication free.  I don’t like the shell of who I am when I’m on it.

But I don’t feel good about the yelling.  I keep praying and waiting and hoping.  I keep a continual fervent prayer in my heart (and often on my lips) to be the kind, gentle, soft-spoken Mama that I so desperately want to be.  But so far I see no change.  I get frustrated, I beg forgiveness, and I try again.  My children tell me they know that I love them.  My husband whispers what a good mother I am in the most needed moments.  But I don’t believe them.  I know the truth.  The ugly loud truth.

And sometimes I’m reminded all too well of what I look like.  Monday night after a particularly difficult day my 6 year old girl came to me with a folded up note and sly smile.  She offered it with the words “This is what you do, Mama.”  I smiled and unwrapped this.

I asked her to tell me about it.  “It’s you.  Yelling at us.”  I noted to her that it looked a bit like a monster.  “Yep.  It is.”  I asked her about the words.  “Yeah, you’re saying ‘I love you’.”  I was cut to the quick.  I knew it was right.  I knew it was me.  A monster.  Who yells.  And then says, “I love you.”  Could you be any more sickened by something?

And then we had a very difficult day at the doctor’s office and Wal-Mart.  I purposed that yesterday would be better.  It just had to be.  I prayed even before the little ones came running to my bed.  I begged for His help.  Because I knew the only path I’m capable of clambering down is the well-worn sin one and the equally well-worn begging forgiveness one.  My girl and BigMan played play dough in the morning and crafted more monsters.  “Take a picture of it, Mama!”

And I was reminded yet again of the evil that drips from my lips too often.  I prayed again.  Please bridle my tongue.  I know they hear the results of the overflow from my wicked black heart too much.  This burden is so very wearing.

I contained it yesterday.  The yelling.  Though I was still reminded of my struggles when I overheard the kids in the back of the van telling Matt that “I heard Mama say she wasn’t going to yell 5 times today, Daddy.”  And another chimed in “It was more like a million.”  To which I lightheartedly retorted “Yes, but I didn’t yell, did I?”  And my oldest said, “Yeah, but you did go crazy a couple times.”  We laughed outwardly.  I mourned inwardly.  I knew the heart of me was still showing.  I was sinking further.

I began writing this post in my head after that as Matt skipped the stations in the van searching for just the right song.  Thinking of the words I would use as Matt hit seek again and again for a suitable song.  Which pictures and what stories, all struggling tucked inside not sharing or halving my pain with Matt, just sitting in silence.  I wrote the title in my mind, “I’ll call it ‘I’m a Monster’ because it’s so fitting.  It’s who I am.  And it’s a catchy title, something people will click on and then read my words.  Confession will ease my trapped soul.  Telling it to others always does.  I, am, afterall, a monster.”  And Matt’s radio search landed on Casting Crowns “East to West”.  I wept.  Matt looked at me and I shook my head and whispered that the timing of such a song was more than coincidence for me.  I finally told him what I had been working on in my silence.  I told him how the song had floored me.  The tears stung a needed sting.  I tried to absorb them.  The tears and the lyrics.  I tried to take in the Whisperings from Him that were in the most needed moment.

But as I pondered it all in my heart last night and this morning, as I watched and listened to the song and tried to assimilate the promises in it I was reminded from my recent Old Testament readings that though He forgives and loves and wipes away there are still consequences of our sins.  Consequences felt on the little ones, pains that they will carry no matter how I urgently I pray for my sins to be covered in His (and my) love for them.  I pulled together the video, the photos, the details of a post written in an attempt to absolve me and then glanced over at the posts of friends tucked into my reader and there was one that caught my eye.  For the Mother who fears Failure by Ann at A Holy Experience. I clicked over hesitantly and there was more.  More whisperings from my Creator.  More gentle reminders to listen to His voice.  And I do hear it.  Because I am one of His sheep.  I am.  I belong to His flock.  Even when I wander away into the wilderness of condemning monster whispers that are not His.  He calls me back.  He soothes my soul.  He gives me another day to get up and begin again.

And so, as another Mother’s Day approaches that I don’t feel worthy of, I see that through the monster images there are bubbles of “I love you” and there is laughter in the midst of play dough and there is song singing.

He shows me mercy for another day.

A couple of months ago we bought some extra coffee cups from a second hand store.  We go through coffee cups in an unbelievable way, like they’re disposable or something.  My Oldest picked this cup.  He liked the picture and the cool handle.  I was a tad distracted in the glass aisle, I didn’t pay much attention until we got home, got it washed and Iwas making our morning line up.  Then I noticed it had a part of a Bible verse on it.  It’s Malachi 4:6 ⁶“He will restore the hearts of the fathers to their children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.”

I paused in my coffee and cocoa making and thought about it.  Somehow it struck me.  That’s what I want.  For my children’s hearts to be restored to me.  Turned to me.  And to their father.  And through us as a living example, to their Heavenly Father.

So I prayed it over them.  Right then, as I measured out chocolate  milk mix and creamer.  I prayed that their hearts would be softened; turned to me and Matt.  I prayed that our hearts would be turned to them and not get so caught up in go, go, go, do, do, do, that I lose their hearts in the process.

This cut particularly close because my girl has been a daddy’s girl from the get-go.  Which I love.  But I’ve spent years hoping she would like me.  Because really, for most of the time she has just tolerated me.  I mean, I know she loves me, but she doesn’t cuddle me, she doesn’t run to me, she doesn’t like what I have to say.  When I read about other little girls wanting to be like their mommies, I mourn a little.  Because she doesn’t.

So I pray.

Also close because our oldest has some trust issues.  It keeps him at an arm’s length from us some of the time.  I know it’s trust issues now.  But when he was little I didn’t, I just thought it was disobedience/fit issues.  But I searched and cried and prayed for wisdom and cried some more.  And eventually I worked through it and boiled it down to – if he can’t trust my heart that what I’m doing is the best for him then he can’t obey freely what I’m asking him to do.  For instance, “Son, I need you to come to me as soon as I call you.”  Followed by disobedience, because he appears to know more than we do.  But then when we read in Little House on the Prairie about how Ma and Pa had emergencies and their girls listened and reacted instantly without question and how it saved lives, he seemed to have a breakthrough.  We stopped and talked about how we won’t always know why we’re supposed to do what Mama and Daddy are asking of us (and thereby eventually what and why God wants certain things for us) but that we must obey.  Trusting that Mom and Dad know more about the situation than the child.  And that in knowing more we also have his best interest, through love, in mind.  That what we are asking for through obedience is not to his harm and detriment but to his good.  I sometimes even sing “Trust and Obey” to him with a smile when I ask something of him.

To remind him.

To turn his heart to mine.

And I pray.

And then, just the other day while I was working on the computer my girl came and asked to sit in my lap.  And she whispered in my ear, “Mama, I want to do everything you do.”

I felt the chills.  I fought the tears.

I said, “Yes, ma’am, absolutely.”

And I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.

For their hearts, I will pray.  I will fight.  And when my words fail me, I will pray His words back to Him.

Father, I pray that you would turn their hearts to me and Matt.  That Father,in turn, they would learn obedience and trust.  And that through us they would learn love, obedience, and trust in You.  And I thank you that while these prayers are still on my lips that you are already putting whispers in their mouths of desires to be like, and with, me and Matt.  Thank you, Father.

It’s been a tough few days.

My sweet elderly neighbors travel to Texas each February and bring us back a ridiculous amount of oranges and grapefruits.  And onions.  As in, 20 pounds of onions.  And somewhere between 40-45 pounds of each of the fruits.  Last year I chopped and froze the onions she brought and they last us around 10 months worth of cooking.  Amazing.  I’m at a little more of a loss on the fruit.  I asked on Facebook and the best suggestion so far is marmalade.  But I haven’t canned yet.  I still want to, but I’m scared.  Will my flat top stove hold it?  Will I be able to do all the steps?  Will it “take”?  Should I just freeze the marmalade?  Will it be just as good?  Thoughts on this?

Halfway through the chopping, kids watching Gumby (I always forget how weird it is), and oh, look the harbinger of death mattress is back there in the bedroom propped up waiting for another night of BigMan’s sickness.

The food processor made my life so much better this year.  It went much quicker.  Though there were still tears.  I opened both doors and turned on the fans.  Though the cold and burny eyes eventually ran the kids outdoors while I finished.  Baby got sick of being in the saucer by the back door by the time I was through.  And I was so distracted by a sick 3 year old and a fussing 16 month old that I forgot to leave some of the onions to slice and not chop.  I like to have the variety in cooking, but oh distraction.  It’s my constant companion.

Speaking of tears and distractions.  Our 3 year old (he has a birthday next week!!), who weighs only 28 pounds (I know..) has been sick since Saturday.  We hoped that the sickness that had our girl and Baby before that was going to miss everyone else.  It had been 4 days after all.  Alas, no.  And BigMan, once he starts throwing up doesn’t stop.  I mean, 16 hours every 10 minutes at first.  After a couple of doses of Phenergan stretched to 20 minutes and then eventually out to every 45 minutes.  For 16 hours.  It is hard to watch your already underweight baby be sick.  But constantly for that long?  Wears on you in a way that is hard to describe.  Weary comes close.  At dinner that first night of it I started crying and the kids asked why.  I explained that I was worried about him and that it’s very hard to watch your children suffer.  I noticed MyMiddlest dropped his head immediately and closed his eyes.  He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to, I knew he was praying.. for me and his brother.  His little brother who is so very little.  That night was hard on him (and me).  I had to hold him up there for a while.  His eyes were bloodshot the next morning from the toll it took on his tiny body.  Unreal.  I can’t imagine families that have to deal with serious illness.  He eventually stopped, he continued to drink all the way through and I watched for signs of dehydration.  I prayed my way through.  And I know so many of you sweet online friends prayed us through as well.  He felt better today – got up to play even and made some of his funny faces, but by evening he was still, quiet, and having the second half of the stomach virus sickness (you know the kind).

As I was tucking loud rowdy kids into bed I tried to not be irritated by the everydayness of a house full.  There were toys underfoot, a mattress that stinks, lots of “where’s my pillow?” and “I want the light on tonight” and “but the boys have each other and I don’t have anyone!”  And I want to growl and snap and yell.  But I try to bite my tongue.

Because I’m thankful for full freezers.

For bitter plants that make our dinners so much sweeter.

For the laughter that comes with the messes.

For jobs completed, even if it’s just chopping onions.

And for the unscripted, unposed moments that greet me when I’m at my tiredest.