Parenting will do an astounding thing for you, if you let it: open up your eyes to what it means to have God as our Father, and to be his child.
I have been realizing this in waves over the last (almost) two years with my girls. I've written much more eloquent posts than this one about it in my head on several occasions. But it's worth mentioning, if only in a paltry few sentences.
God is a much better Father than I am a mother. And, boy, am I thankful for that. Watching a toddler scream and fight and cry for her own comforts and pleasures (milk, tv, cookies, juice, Angry Birds) as well as at her own inabilities (dressing, undressing, climbing up, opening doors, fixing toys) really shines the spotlight on how similar my fits to God are.
I come to him daily, asking for more comfort, more rest, more peace, more time to myself, more energy, more of something that will make this all easier and more pleasant to me. I'm usually pretty pissy when I ask God for these things. And I am endlessly battling my own frustration at my limitations. Some days I could punch a hole in the wall just for spilling something on the floor. Mostly I'm just consumed with my lack of time and what feels like too much to do on top of that.
I throw temper tantrums. They feel more grown up when I'm doing it, because they're about things like adult responsibility and mental health and personal well-being, but they are really no different at their core than the ones Bea throws. I've got 30 years of perspective on her trials; they seem silly to me. Imagine God's perspective on my own complaints. And yet he doesn't treat me like I'm ridiculous.
That's one of the ways you know he is good.
I told Thom tonight that if I catch myself whining at God like this (as I am sure to), I will try replacing what I have to say with something Bea says to me, like, "WATCH BACKYARDIGANS?!" I'm hoping that will snap me out of it.