There'll Be Days Like This

I can hear her in the next room, whining.  She has been up twice already and I am mad.  It has been days of tears, frustration, anger.  I am worried.  And mad.

I am lying in the bed and I pray. Please give me patience.  Please give me patience.  Please give me patience.  I try to leave out the What is wrong with me?s and the I am a horrible mother!s.  Just, give me patience.


This is not fair.  I think.  I need my sleep.  I need my rest.  I need a break.  But then I realize (again), it's not about me.  It's not about what I think I need or what I want.  My needs come second.

So I try to let go.  Please give me patience.


But my eyes are tight, my body tense, so I look.  I see my empty and drained body, filling up.  The blue liquid starts at my toes and reaches my head, but I am not drowning.  It is patience, being poured into my emptiness, and when it fills me up it turns a golden hue of hope.

In the morning, I wake up with a different feeling.  I am not refreshed, but I am not mad either.  I take a few deep breaths and jump into the day, giving the girls extra hugs, kisses, and smiles.  Trying to be the patient mother I know I can be.

This is what I want every day.  A full tank.  To give the girls.

To be remembered for the hugs, the kisses, the love (whether it is tough or not).  The good days.  And not the bad.

I close my eyes that night knowing the patience was not of my own doing.  Thank you.