Lord, grant me the patience to not count the number of spoonfuls of vegies on the floor, but to rejoice instead in the amount that actually stayed in my daughter’s mouth.
Grant me the self-control to bite my tongue instead of lashing out with it in hurtful words when my cooking skills are criticised by a two-year-old.
Grant me the ability to find the correct page in Spotless to deal with obscure food stains on beige wool carpet, and the strength in my knees to deal with the pain of kneeling for ages while wielding a butter knife at the dried-up spud in the pile.
Help me to keep a straight face when my daughter does something funny while she’s actually in trouble, but stop me from being as po-faced as Supernanny.
Grant me the grace to survive the terrible twos, the strength to survive the coming year, and the humour to deal with the terrible threes.
In the name of the rejected carrot, the squashed spud and the flying broccoli,