Dear God

Whilst I appreciate that you are all-seeing, all-knowing and generally omnipotent, it has crossed my inferior and imperfect mind that perhaps you have been concentrating so much in finding beds for all the innocent souls shot to pieces in Iraq and Sudan, that maybe you have not had so much time to concentrate on the affairs of random working mothers far away from the action and nice weather. Of course, being generally omnipotent, it does occur to me that you must be able to deal with all these problems at once. But anyway. Allow me, in my imperfection, to address you.

The thing is, I am not Job. I understand that Job was a patient man whom you tested to measure how deep his commitment to you. I am not he. I am not a patient man. I am not a man, and never have been. Patience also generally escapes me. I have been a patient, but I don't think that's quite what you mean. If this is a test, then I have failed. That's ok by me, I can accept my imperfection. On this matter at least.

I think what pushed me over the brink of tolerance was the false hope. Er pupo was better; he was off to dagmamma. Hubby was still moaning about being sick; I was still sick, but just getting on with things, because that is What Mothers Do. But then, for me to have him all ready to go back to daycare and then give the evil vomiting bug to the dagmamma. That really was rough. I wept. But you know that, because you know everything.

To give me my laptop back, at small financial cost, no less, and promise me full working order. And then yesterday, to come back from class to find that it had died again in exactly the same way, whilst on standby. A little hard to swallow.

I know that no single thing that has happened this year has been awful. Rather it is the accumulation that is pushing me to the brink of the cliff with Nervous Breakdown written on the other side. I also know that, all grace and glory be to you, my worst terrors were averted when er pupo and I fell down the steps on New Year's Day.

I will celebrate the Chinese New Year on 18th February. I know that this is a heathen festival, but it's timing is based on stars and things, and since you made them, then maybe the Chinese know something I don't. Forgive me if this is but a pagan ritual. But please stop all the bad things. And get my mother out of hospital and healthy.

Allow me to fail this test. Please.

With all high respect and regard.
Expatmamma.