I struggle with patience.  I always have and I’m guessing I probably always will.  Every single day I wake in the early morning hours to pray.  And mostly I pray and pray for patience…

Please God, help me be a patient mom.

But then the children wake and the day begins. I have ample opportunity to practice, and every single day it seems I continually come up short.

All too often I am impatient.

At a little girl who loves to climb and prefers to play with anything she can find in cupboards and drawers throughout the house leaving mess after mess after mess.

At a little boy who at five years old STILL has trouble pooping when he feels the urge and prefers to hide quietly in a corner somewhere.

At big boys who constantly wrestle and pillow fight and chase and tease.

I am impatient.

At a little girl who insists she do EVERYTHING by herself like buckling into her carseat or pulling on her pajama pants or brushing her teeth or climbing in and out of the car so that simple tasks take approximately five years.

At a little boy who runs around wild most days yelling and squirting water guns and jumping off the couch and building forts he never wants to clean up leaving mess after mess after mess.

At big boys who roll their eyes and talk back and give sassy replies to every request (especially the request to turn off video games).

I am impatient.

At cement workers who don’t show up on time (or at all) and contractors who don’t return phone calls.

At backyard projects that cost WAY MORE and take WAY LONGER than I expected.

At a torn-up backyard that keeps my rowdy children locked away in the house in the middle of the summer while I wait for the contractor.

I am impatient.

At this silly little writing dream that seems to be stagnant.

At my envy over the beautiful words and growing followings of seemingly ALL the other writers I admire.

At the constant voice inside my head that says, “You’re not good enough.  There’s no room for you.  No one cares.  Just give up.”

I am impatient.

At the little roll on my tummy that hangs over my pants or leaves me breathless in jeans.

At slow paces and side aches during my early morning runs.

At my complete lack of will power over chips and cheese and ANYTHING sweet.

I am impatient.

At “Mom.  MOM.  Mooooom.”

At “Hey, Mom.  Moooom!  Guess what?”

At “Mom.  Watch this.  Moooom!  Mom are you even watching?”

I am impatient.

At a continually growing pile of dirty dishes.

At never-ending loads of dirty laundry and clean piles that are NEVER folded.

At the persistent mess after mess after mess.

I am impatient.

At random socks in the middle of the living room and overflowing shoes by the back door and soggy towels on the bathroom floor.

At continual bickering and complaining and whining and screaming.  SO MUCH NOISE!

At the angry sounds erupting from my mouth all too often in reply.

I grow impatient.

At the little voice that whispers, “You must not be doing this right…because aren’t you supposed to enjoy every moment?”

At the fearful, nagging little thought that maybe He isn’t listening.  Doesn’t He see me??  Doesn’t He notice how hard I try?

At my daily failure to be a patient mom.

I grow impatient.

Yes, I struggle with patience.  I’m sure I always will.  But still every morning in the early hours I will wake to patiently pray…

Please God, help me be a patient mom.