I'm sitting in a cafe, tears streaming down my face.

I've just finished 'Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Someone Who's Been There' (Cheryl Strayed). It is a hauntingly beautiful and redemptive collection of advice 'columns' written in response to heartbreaking letters to 'Sugar', the author's pseudonym at The Rumpus.

My tears are for Brandon, the boy at the center of the response entitled 'Ten Angry Boys',... and for myself.

A mother with a chequered family history of her own writes asking for advice when she witnesses herself flying into uncontrollable rages at her two young children. Echoes of her past ring in her ears, despite her best efforts to craft a childhood experience worlds away from her own. She begins to despair that the change she hopes for will never eventuate and that she is doomed to become trapped in the generational cycle of pain.

In reply, Cheryl recalls her experience as a Teen Advocate, running Tuesday dinner nights for angry, 'at risk of expulsion' teen boys and their families. It is heart-rending and brilliant.

I am 'Helpless Mom' at times. So horrified by my failures to be the mother my children deserve. At risk of defining myself as the 'angry mum' or hey, even the 'Very Cranky Mummy'. Flying off the handle over something trivial and ludicrous. Except that at the time it seemed to hold crucial and exceptional importance.

And yet. If I allow myself to become defined by these failures, I become Brandon's mum instead. Believing that we are helpless to an irreversible fate simply pushes the story in that direction.

To another reader, Sugar writes: "The narratives we create in order to justify our actions and choices become in so many ways who we are. They are the things we say back to ourselves to explain our complicated lives".

"When it comes to our children, we do not have the luxury of despair. If we rise, they will rise with us every time, no matter how many times we’ve fallen before. I hope you will remember that the next time you fail. I hope I will too. Remembering that is the most important work as parents we can possibly do."

These words are now reverberating in my heart.

I really doubt that anyone feels qualified or prepared for this crazy, exhausting, beautiful, shattering, heart-melting, mind-bending role that is parenthood. I sure as hell do not. But we have to keep picking ourselves back up, dusting off the debris of failed decisions, and trying again... and again. The alternative is simply not an option.

"Parenting is serious business. It brings out the best and the worst in us. It demands that we confront our brightest and darkest selves." 

And when we do choose to participate in that confrontation, the beauty that is formed out of the shattering of the 'false' self is breathtaking... and so completely unexpected. 

You know that nightmare where you desperately need to use the bathroom but all the toilet doors are missing? Well, that kind of happened to me this week.

We were at the airport to welcome our dear friends Alex and Monica (and their three amazing boys) back to Australia. Last year we had tearfully fare-welled them, thinking it would be unlikely that we would even get to see them again for at least five years, but in a bittersweet twist (for them) the location of realistic job prospects took them too far away from family to justify the move half a world away. Ever since they informed us that they had booked tickets to come home I had imagined going in to meet them. Eli had particularly struggled with the loss of his best friend, Chase, and has had a difficult year with friends and connecting with people since that time. In anticipation of their return, he has been busily collecting toys and presents to give to Chase, even writing a handful of notes to each person in the family, stuffing them into an empty wine bottle and asking if we could throw it into the ocean to send it to them.

We kept our plan a surprise and woke the kids up early to join the Monash parking lot, picking up a special takeaway breakfast on the way. We made it to the airport by 9:00am and the kids were remarkably patient as we stood with Alex's parents, waiting to catch the first glimpse. When the screens flashed up the familiar faces we made our way over for the first tear-stained hugs and greetings in what felt like an age. Thirty hours of travelling is enough to break anyone, let alone trying to do it with two preschoolers and a five month old, but the troopers were still standing amidst an enormous pile of luggage, delirious with relief that they had made it.

After packing them into the Combi so that they could head back to their temporary home with family, I decided to head back into the airport to use the facilities. Eli decided at the last minute to join me, not realising it was a significant walk back inside the terminal. By the time we made it through the front doors, he was regretting his choice and told me he wanted to go back. I informed him that was not possible so we pushed on. When we finally found the bathrooms, the strong smell of cleaning products acted as a forcefield that repelled Eli, him running out the door every time I tried to enter. Frustrated, we headed into the disabled toilets at the suggestion of the friendly cleaner, but the allure of those door operating buttons compelled Eli to press the shiny green one just as I had settled down.

The door began to swing open, the aspect not only towards the ladies bathrooms, but also facing directly onto the busy corridor. I leaped up to push the door shut, but it was on a course of its own design and was unresponsive to my desperate attempts. Flushed and embarrassed, I gave up, going back to the original plan of the normal facilities, but the forcefield remained strong. The incredible cleaning lady came to my rescue yet again, ushering us into the family room where we finally met with success.

On our way back to the car, Eli decided he wanted chicken nuggets, but I was in no mood to indulge after the recent battles and chaos ensued. I ended up carrying his writhing, screaming body all the way across the road, up the stairs and into the carpark. It was not one of our finest moments and the heightened emotions continued from the back seat (including several unbuckling moments while we were in a moving vehicle) for another hour.

After my 'spiritual awakening' (to borrow a Brene Brown term for breakdown) of last week, I have actually felt a lot more free. It is uncanny how simply naming the internal turmoil and expressing it can release one from its' fierce grip. Not that anything has been magically fixed or changed, but at the very least I no longer have the battle raging in my mind. It has also been a massive case of the shedding of my persona/stage mask to reveal the 'shadow self' underneath.

I've accepted help from all avenues, from extra outings for Eli with our friends Dwain and Jane, going out for wine with Allie, to crashing at Mum's all day Tuesday, even getting to go out for coffee with my two sisters during crazy hour while Mum and Dad wrangled the kids. Pat came over on Friday night so that Dave and I could have a date night to see 'Mockingjay: Part 2', and I had a moment during the movie when I realised that Dave knew every single one of my 'deep, dark secrets' and still loved me and wanted to be around me. It was a pretty incredible feeling.

There are still many conversations to be had, passions to be discovered and pursued, structures to be put in place to avoid reaching empty again, counselling to be participated in and unrealistic aims to be surrendered. This week I had the realisation that I pin my identity to being the person who shows up no matter what, whether sick, exhausted or frustrated. When others don't hold to that mentality, I (unfairly) take it as an attack on my identity when it is actually just a reflection of the state that they are in at the time. Hopefully, my responses to people not showing up can be more grace-filled and understanding moving forward.

Also, I think I'm realising that meltdowns (from the kids and myself) are pretty much a given in parenting. I'm deluding myself if I think I can control the parameters to such an extent that true, raw emotion never bursts through. It was also reassuring last night, chatting to Alex and Monica about parenting and realising our stories really are so similar with the particular struggles and challenges we face. It also helped that the kids played for hours without (major) incident- creating worlds in the Combi, mud pits in the outdoor kitchen and funny games in the bath - just like old times. I'm so overjoyed to have our friends back, to have a family so perfectly matched in terms of structure, ideals and values about life... and to know that our kids will share a magical childhood together... gives me so much hope.

I never imagined that motherhood would be this hard. The day in, day out relentlessness of taking care of little people who need and demand so much from you. Fighting and avoiding battles, uttering phrases you never expected to hear come out of your mouth, attempting to reason with preschoolers over the method and use of the toilet... not to mention the mundane realities of just keeping them fed, clothed and alive!

This week I was so overcome with frustration and emotion that I pounded my fist so hard into my yoga mat that I thought I might have broken a bone. The shame that washed over me when I thought that I would have to live with that reality was immense. 'What kind of mother does that!?' was stuck on repeat in my mind, coupled with 'You think this is bad? It's only going to get worse as they get older'. 'You are crazy, out of control'. 'I just can't do this anymore!'

Nap time didn't go well. For about two months now, we have been on this dream collision of schedules where each of the kids go to sleep or have an extended rest/play time in their rooms and I get to have 1.5 hours of yoga, blogging and catching up on my Feedly posts. I was almost afraid to mention it out loud, for fear that just speaking of the situation would cause it to vanish. The recharge time that it created for me was incredible and I found the days so much easier to handle.

Ivy and Hudson had fallen asleep in the car and were not enthusiastic about being resettled. Eli was in a button pushing mood and I was too tired to respond with grace or anything resembling patience. I was sticky and uncomfortable with the unusual humidity and my hair felt as if it had been smothered in grease. I had already pushed 'pause' on the yoga video five times to deal with excessive noise or crying and it was less than a few minutes in. The last straw was Eli flinging the metal part of a dog leash into the wall just at the point where Ivy and Hudson had finally been quiet. I stormed in and snatched the leash out of his hands, shut the door and lost it, pounding my fists into the yoga mat in a vain attempt at unleashing some of the white hot rage that I felt. There was audible swearing too....lots of it.

For someone who loves control so much, I freaking HATE losing it. It is like the ultimate betrayal of myself. 'I should be handling this!' 'How the hell do you think you are going to manage four kids if you can't even handle three?!' 'Dave would be so patient right now.'

When Dave got home, he found me in the shower, sobbing. I didn't even care what happened with the failed nap time anymore, I just wanted a f*%^ing break. He sent me out to do some Open House work at a cafe with strict instructions not to come home until dinner ('though make sure you bring back a pizza!'). Venturing out into the wider world without the kids did make me feel somewhat human again, and being able to churn through planning work and pick up supplies for the Kids program did make me feel as if I had accomplished something positive despite the sense of destruction and chaos that lingered at home.

I hate writing posts like this. I don't even want to admit that this darkness can burst out of me. I wish I could just cope all the time, gliding through life with patience and resilience. I fear that my kids will see me as this enraged monster, even though Dave keeps reminding me that I really don't lose it as much as I think. It is easy to magnify the failures and moments that you want to hide, I guess.

"What's going on inside of me? I despise my own behaviour. This only serves to confirm my suspicions, that I'm still a (wo)man in need of a Saviour." 

I don't even have any profound reflections on the event, other than the powerful pull of Shame's voice as he browbeats you into thinking you are the worst exhibit of motherhood and the only one failing right now. Making it impossible for me to even reflect on a positive narrative of myself as a mother. Reaching out to Monica and Naomi over message, tears streaming down my face as I relived the emotions of the day, truly lifted most of the dark shadow still lingering over me. Their encouraging words putting into perspective the reality of how hard this gig really is, and how much of ourselves we have to offer up every day.

This is meant to be hard. And I do keep reminding myself of the incredible gift it is to even have children, let alone three healthy, cheeky, spirited ones. Particularly in light of the horrific events of the past few weeks around the world. We are so freaking lucky to live in Australia, to have more than enough to live comfortably, and to have at least the illusion of peace through our systems and structures. Sometimes it is far too easy to get tunnel visioned and completely miss the wider picture.

I don't expect that it will magically get easier, and I'm sure I will lose it again over something seemingly trivial in the future. But for now, admitting my darkness and confessing it so that it doesn't continue to grip my soul works for me.

There are times in life when it seems like an extra 'sense' has been switched on and you feel keenly in touch with the fabric of the world around you. When stories peek behind cultivated facades and make you weep, when a concept almost makes you cry out as it hits your heart with such resonance. When you feel as if something magical is leading your steps, connecting the dots and gradually unveiling a larger fragment of life's masterpiece. 

Stories are such a heart stirrer for me. Unlike my husband, Dave, my eyes glaze over as soon as the essay/sermon begins, but talk about your life and the events and reactions that make you who you are today, and I'm hooked. Stories get beyond the cognitive, practiced response that we present, and curl their way into our being, becoming eternally part of our outlook. 

Though there are some exceptions. Last week was the final night of the marriage course and Adi Marsh, Family Relationships Counsellor, came to bestow her hard-fought wisdom of how to fix your relationship before it is too late. She exploded my mind with her insistence that when we are in the midst of conflict -heart racing, fists clenched- the reaction that ensues is not, in fact, revealing the depraved true self that is finally clawing its way out. Actually, in this moment your brain has become the master over the usually rational mind, reverting to fight/fight/freeze survival tendencies that we would barely own in a more calm situation. I hadn't even realised that I subscribed to the former view until the concept struck me to the soul, and became my freedom. 

I've begun reading 'The Happiness Project' by Gretchen Rubin and already I have gleaned so many nuggets from surveying her experience. The gist of the story is that upon realising one day that she technically 'had it all' but wasn't proportionately ecstatic, she commenced a year long experiment to increase her levels of happiness and to figure out what elements of life were bringing her down. So far I've followed her example in decluttering 'noisy spaces' and have the best intentions of going to bed earlier, though that one might be more of a struggle as there is always far too many fun things to do once the kids go to bed! I've also tried her 'act like you have energy' trick and found it does, indeed, work. 

For the past few years I have been returning Rob Bell's coffee table book 'Drops Like Stars' to the cube shelf, after Hudson has decided to rearrange things, but I had never actually cracked it open. Until today. I went to return it again today, but stopped short, a recent recommendation from Dave echoing in my head, and flipped to the front page for the first time. It was a magical journey of story and poetry, insight and revelation, and it coincided happily with all three kids absorbed in their current activities. One of the lines that will never leave me came from Bell's therapist, when he started lamenting his mistakes, failures or screw ups, his therapist cut him short, opened his top drawer and pulled out a plaque inscribed 'The God Who Wastes Nothing'.

That line almost made me cry. What an incredible concept. That the mistakes, the failures, the blemishes aren't deviations from the 'perfect' path, but experiences that God uses deftly to weave beauty and redemption in our own lives and in those around us. If we let him, of course. We do have the choice to live shadowed in shame and bitterness.

Another haunting tale from Bell's book was that Native Americans, when weaving, have a tradition of leaving a blemish in the corner of the rug, because that is where they believe the spirits enter. The astounding beauty of that concept shattered me. I grew up reciting the scripture 'His strength is made perfect in our weakness' but it took a disfigured rug to drive home the hidden truth. The Spirit is hampered and obstructed when we insist on modelling the perfect weave, sitting firmly on the blemished corner. It isn't until we expose the loose ends to ourselves and those around us that we can truly realise the power of His help.

My battle with perfectionism is alive and well, but as I open myself up, reading with urgency and opening my eyes to the watershed moments of the everyday, that I notice the little victories adding up. And it is in these moments- not the fleeting thrill of op shop finds, nor the momentary buzz of a glass of Pinot Noir- that I feel the most alive.