One of the assets of my job is that it provides me invaluable information about parenting. Mostly, how not to do it. When I have a kid in the chair who attempts to bite, spit at, or disarm me (I speak softly but carry a big drill), all I can think is, If I had ever behaved this way as a kid, and the phantom pain in my butt reminds me of the reward for defiance in our house.

I am thankful for parents who didn’t give me everything I asked for. Sure, at the time, I bemoaned (silently) their refusal to buy the latest toy at the store. They have the money! I’d think (having checked their wallets), outraged that any extra dollars weren’t earmarked for my whims. At no time in my childhood did I operate under the delusion that the world revolved around me. My parents were my parents, not my friends. Which is why, since we’re all adults, we can be friends now. Mostly.

So as I hover over tiny faces that howl when I demand compliance with what is not their preferred activity, I think about the kind of parent I’ll be: loving but firm, kind but not coddling, with a self-esteem that is not dependent on my children liking me and can withstand the slings (I hate you!) and arrows (I wish I’d never been born!) of misplaced anger. Oh yeah, I’m a smartypants who knows all about how to deal with spoiled children.

Which brings us to the irony of my relationship with the Almighty.

Thought he didn’t need my input at the creation of the world or any point in the narrative thereafter, I have assigned myself the role of Consultant to God almost every moment of my life. I do it when I get angry over things not going my way, when I try to alter the unchangeable, when I worry, when I fear. In every second that I am not experiencing pure gratitude (so…almost all of them), I am bellowing my displeasure into God’s ear and not so subtly implying that I could do better.

I need to learn how to drink champagne in the presence of God.

Recently we had some family converge upon our house, and the best way The Sis and I know how to deal with such chaos is to sip on something dehydrating and delicious. I had just rediscovered St. Germain liquer, a lovely springtime add-in, and I mixed us a couple of champagne cocktails with it. As we ignored basketball and enjoyed our beverages, I thought about how I used to consider champagne a solely celebratory drink–how I’d feel silly holding a glass of it in public at anything other than a birthday party or wedding for fear of someone asking me what the occasion was and I’d have to answer, “Tuesday?”

Now I reach for the bubbly because it tastes good and, let’s face it, holding one of those glasses and watching the suds rise lifts me right up with them, whether I’m in a dress and heels or barefoot in jeans, sitting in the freshly- mown backyard (thank you, lawn service), reading Ann and watching The Husband play basketball.

It’s time to drink more champagne, and not just because the weather is warmer and the days are longer. No, it’s time to start celebrating all of life, because he is in it all and even though a situation looks dire does not mean hope has run out. When I reach the end of my reasoning, the end of the answers I can find, I haven’t reached The End. I’ve reached the moment to stop, take a breath, and drink in the possibility that there are simply more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy, even when I secretly consider myself the smartest person in the room. Or the one with the biggest drill.

Last week I accompanied the Bro-in-Law and Niece to her doctor’s appointment. As she was placed on the table, her usually sunny disposition took a nosedive and the tears began to flow. I had worried about this moment, that all my big talk about being firm with kids would crumble in the face of her limited understanding, her lack of comprehension. Her desperate cries.

I found that while my love ran more deeply and surer than ever, I was still helping to hold her down. It was my love, my understanding that surpassed hers, that kept my hands in–yet on–hers. I couldn’t let go, even when, to her, holding on felt inhumane, forceful. I considered all the metaphorical tables I’ve been on in my life and the cries (and anger) I’ve emitted over the years. All the pushing and struggling against where I was headed. Where is that again?

Yesterday I examined a two-year-old, holding him still as he clamored for his mom. I cringed on the inside at the range of reactions that Mom might display, chief among them being, “Are you hurting him?” But she just laughed lightly and held her son’s hand (down) and said, “Sweetie! I’m as close to you as I can be!” And I realized that all my grasping has been a product of disbelief in what I most deeply hope for, even more deeply than My Own Way: the One who holds all power is with me–and for me. And today, as I walked onto our front stoop and saw the cherry blossom trees I didn’t plant, that mirror the one outside my New York City window–multiplied by two–I realized that quiet trust is the only response that fully answers his unfailing love. Gratitude is an opening of the champagne no matter the day, because I know what ultimately waits for me.