Today there was a monster.
I saw it rear it's ugly head many times today, but none so much as when we were
"CRACKERSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS . . . CRACKERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR . . . BREADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD . . . POPCORNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN . . . NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I had sliced apples ready and in a little baggy for her, waiting for when she was too hungry. At the last errand, she happily ate the apple. But not a Trader Joes.
Nothing would do it.
The apples I offered were flippantly tossed with a wave of her tiny hand. The shrieks progressed in loudness, obnoxiousness, and ridiculousness until it was an all-out ear-piercing shriek accompanied by crocodile tears.
I couldn't pass by anyone without seeing looks.
I didn't care what their looks were. Some, I'm sure, were of compassion. Some were of disdain. I have no doubt that a good handful of people thought to themselves, "when I have kids, there is NO WAY I'm ever letting them throw a fit that big."
I didn't care anymore what they thought.
If I talked to Little miss, I would lose it and say something I might regret. If I put her in time-out, I might be a little too rough. If I spanked her, OH, right, I can't spank her. Just as well.
The only way I knew how to cope was to just ignore it. I had done everything I thought I could within reason. I even took her out of the store once to address the screaming. But it wouldn't stop. And I needed groceries.
I couldn't smile at the knowing looks of mamas who've been there and mercifully escaped into an empty nest. I couldn't even smile at the woman who tentatively suggested that one day I might miss these days.
Because I was staring at a monster.
And it wasn't my daughter.
It was me.
It was me screaming. A silent scream that no one can hear, masked behind my well-put-together outfit and flat-ironed hair.
I am raging against God. And it's not about apples. It's so, so much worse.
It is me screaming that His plan is not good enough for me. His provision is not enough. His big picture is the wrong picture, and He's not paying attention to what I NEED.
I scream and rage and cry because I want a healthy pregnancy, I DESERVE a healthy pregnancy, and I want it now. I scream because I don't want to have to have the strength anymore to be polite when others tell me they are pregnant. I don't want to hold back the sarcasm, the bitterness that threatens to eat me whole. I want to give in. I want to throw a fit about it all.
I not-so-gently remind Him that I am supposed to be giving birth in 2 days. But my stomach is flat. And has been for too long. At least too long according to me.
It doesn't matter that he chose to provide for our family through adoption -- and to provide for little miss the same way. It doesn't matter that there may be other babies who haven't yet been born who need us, who need me to be their mama.
It doesn't matter to me.
Because like my little girl, I want something I can't have.
I hate the monster I see reflected back from my screaming child's face. A horrid reminder that, like an immature child, I'm refusing to accept from God's hand, no matter what is in it.
I hate my monster inside.