Ah mother guilt. Sometimes it assaults me with a vengeance. Julia was sick last week during spring break. She had the same symptoms Patrick and I had when we had the flu, so I kept her quiet and mandated a lot of couch time. I sent her to school on Monday, no fever, a little crabby. I got a call from the nurse an hour later.

So I took her to the doc yesterday. Sure enough: it was NOT the flu, it was strep. Poor thing. And her lungs sounded bad, so she did a nebulizer treatment to boot. I felt horrible. I wished I would’ve taken her to the doc earlier. Last night the weight of that, as well as my impatience with my sweet little patient, nearly crushed me. I left the warmth of our bed and padded upstairs to hers and kissed her sweet forehead, asking forgiveness though she slept.

I don’t want to be a mommy without compassion.

This transition time has taken its toll on me. Once again I’m guilty of overestimating my ability to deal with overwhelming change. Just three months ago, we lived in France, for goodness sake. A whole different life in an entirely different place. The adjustment back to the US has made me irritable, lethargic, tired, and feeling like I should be doing a bunch of stuff (ah, welcome to America, land of do-d0-do).

I fall short. Every. Single. Day. I know well my capacity to sin, to be uncaring, to seek my own kingdom first. Jesus, help me! Help me to adjust, but as I do, help me not to disregard my dear children. And please heal little Julia.