Throwing a Grown-Up Tantrum

I’m assuming "allergies" own the tight grip around my lungs at the moment. Every morning, I hack and pound my chest like a 40-year smoker. I'm tired from the beleaguered breathing and broken sleep at night. But I do like my new sexy voice, all raspy and coquettish.

On account of my lingering affair with these allergies, at 10 am this morning (well after my normal "wake-up time")I found myself lying in the downy blankets of our Memphis hotel bed (an endless thank you to Ron and Nancy for such a luxurious treat). I curled into the fetal position, tight fists pressed against my chest, willing the phlegm to give up and go home, while Shawn sat at the little desk beside the bed studiously working through a writing project.

Out in the living room, the kids flitted between playing matchbox cars, eating strawberries from a white porcelain bowl setting on the coffee table, and watching the premiere of “Dora and the Easter Bunny”. From my cocoon on the bed I could occasionally hear their screams, and I knew our neighbors in rooms 310 and 314 were cursing us.

I laid there, laboriously coughing, feeling tired and pouty. I wanted my breath back; I wanted our bank account to magically reproduce money well into the thousands; I wanted a governess named Clementine for my children; I wanted all our belongings to be unpacked and organized into a new home in the perfect location for our family’s future. To sum it up, I wanted any day but this one.

And you know, sometimes feeling sorry for yourself works. You act like a 2 year-old for 20 minutes or so and bemoan all the things about your life that aren’t really that bad (i.e. a bad complexion, a non-existent retirement portfolio, eczema on your feet, poor mothering skills-I could go on but I'd just embarrass myself), and God, like the consummate parent that He is, stands there with His arms crossed over His chest taking deep, grace-filled yoga breaths with the faintest hint of amusement sketched on His face.

And when the feet pounding, fist clenching, and stuttering sobs subside, He smiles and says:

“Okay, are you done now?”

"Yeah," I sheepishly reply, rather embarrassed by myself.

“Great. Now let’s get on with life.”

“Sounds good.”

And I get up from the bed, brush my hair, and make lunch.