I lost my temper with Emma a couple weeks ago and I saw her flinch as if I’d hit her, and I realized that in a way, I had. I’d hit her with my words. I’d hit her with my tone of voice. And above all I’d hit home that when she made bad choices Mommy became angry and all love fled out of Mommy’s face, voice, and body language.

So I burst into tears, because that’s what psychotic pregnant women do when they clue in to the fact that they’re being crazy. And hesitantly, Emma approached me and patted me comfortingly on the shoulder. And I ended up crying into HER shoulder, as if she were the mother and I were the child. And we hugged and we cuddled and we talked. We agreed that we both have tempers, and that maybe this is something we can work on together. I told her the best cure I’d found for a bad temper is kindness, and thinking of others more than we think of ourselves. I promised her to try to do that. She promised to do the same.

And we have been.

I still get frustrated, and she does too. And sometimes the not-so-nice voice creeps back in and we have to stop ourselves, say no, this isn’t who we want to be to each other. And yesterday during church she laid her head on my lap and I stroked her hair. And she put her hand on my tummy and felt the baby kick for the first time. And we were content, and peaceful, and happy.

And I pulled Becca in with my other arm and she snuggled in against my chest, and I thought to myself that I don’t care if my floor is littered with orange crayons. I don’t care if it’s sticky. I don’t care if the dishes aren’t done and if the playroom looks like a toy tornado struck it while I wasn’t looking. Okay, so maybe I do care a little, but not in comparison to the sweetness of holding my girls in my arms and loving them better than I have been.

I realized this morning that my anger was a gift. That in the moments when I conquer it and refuse to let it rule my thoughts, words, and actions, that I experience a sweetness I never could have without it. I’m grateful for my weaknesses. I’m grateful for an understanding of my Heavenly Father and of my Saviour, Jesus Christ, and for knowing why it has to be so hard sometimes.

I hope I teach my children that. That the hard things can be gifts if we accept them as such.

Rebecca Lynn, Six-Years-Old

Most of all, I hope I teach them about all the things they matter more than. This weekend was Becca’s sixth birthday and oh, how I wanted to pour my energy into cleaning my house! The handprints on the windows, the sticky spots on the floor . . . but I didn’t, because Becca mattered more and I CLUNG to that, reminding myself over and over again as I prepared. As I frosted rainbow cupcakes with multi-coloured frosting. As I blew up fifty balloons, hung streamers, and prepared goodie bags. I did all the things that I knew would light Becca up from the inside out with that huge grin she gets when life is being delightful, and I let everything else go. And it was a hard, hard thing, until suddenly it wasn’t anymore. Because I got to see how loved she felt, and suddenly it was easy. Loving loveable people usually is, isn’t it?

Two birds? Meet one stone.

Readers? If you mock me, I will pout.

Merry Christmas!