On this day, you are

A

On this day, you are fast; so fast I can't keep up with you, and neither can your chubby legs and the wide feet tripping over slightly too big crocs as you stomp off toward the nearest escalator. You are loud, banging the sides of your crib and along the walls with whatever will suffice as a drum stick. You are too big to be caged in, but not yet big enough to be trusted in a real bed for a whole night. You are smiling and laughing and crying and talking, all at once or never at all. You are affectionate with a mild, infrequent streak of meanness, which you regret as soon as it appears and cover with kisses and snot, all over my face and yours. 

You are going to be three in 23 days, and I cry; grieving the baby you were, savoring the boy you are.

E

On this day you are rebelling, squealing, screaming when you don't get your way, which is several times a day including this very moment. You are fists clenched tightly at your side, brown eyes wide with rage, quivering lips of remorse. You are wild, flailing movements of exuberant joy your lithe body cannot contain. You are a ninja warrior in a world filled with princesses. You are a fighter, a builder, a wrestler, a runner, sprinting and winning and finding your way along a very narrow pink road. You are going to school soon - Kindergarten in America - against your will because you'd rather be in Ireland, rather be a Senior Infant girl, rather match the boys in a navy blue jumper.

You are seeking me out, every night, close enough to touch but never needing to, because you are all your your own; a mysterious, beautiful creature I am still trying to know.



J

On this day you are so good; the absoluteness of this goodness sometimes leads to dissidence. You are so sure of what is right, that the logic behind quiet times or naughty steps or the inconsistency of your mother just doesn't add up. You are starting most sentences with, "according to my calculations," learning and maturing faster than we can keep up. You are running out of space for imagining, you say, and I know you are aching for room and for freedom. You are entirely reasonable, listening and hearing everyone, ready to engage us all, if only we'd just be patient enough.

You are anxious and I am so sorry; you got this from me, the fears and the worry, and we pray together to trust enough so the anxiety doesn't become who we are.


On this day, who are you? What are you waiting for, living for?

A change of scenery

Sometimes a change of scenery is less about the roadtrip, less about the milkshakes, less about the sprinklers and the playgrounds and the beaches.

Sometimes a change of scenery is about just that: a change of scenery.

A chance to see how things look from up here. A few days to gather one's breath and view things from a different perspective.

From up here, I'm not sitting in front of my computer waiting for good news. I'm not looking at our books or photo albums or Matt's toolchest, wondering what goes and what stays. I'm not clicking refresh on our support account three, four, five times a day.

And I'm not hiding behind curtains, afraid of the sun, or standing in the kitchen wondering exactly how many cookies I ate that day [answer: eight].

Instead, I'm listening to "the grannies" talk about retirement, realizing we all have something that weighs on our minds and our pocketbooks, hard questions for the future.

I'm watching my children play with aunts and uncles and puppies, under the shelter of towering oaks, grateful for families that drop everything for a chance to play catch or build forts at dusk.

Instead, I'm awake in the night not from crying babes, but for a sweet glimpse of sleeping boys, head to head, legs and arms filling every inch of their shared bed.

Instead, I'm digging toes in sand, closing my eyes and praying peace... the kind of prayer one can pray from a safe distance, out of the fray. I'm convalescing this worried heart, rehabbing my tired mind, praying peace and still saying yes and listening for His voice in the quiet of a Wisconsin pine tree.

While I rest these sandy toes, my man stays behind and works. He's still saying yes, too. And in these five short days, a slight shift. 

A change of scenery... even if only a step or two.

*** 

I wrote this earlier in the day, before seeing Sarah Bessey's invitation to share what it is that's saving our lives right now. But I knew this was it. I wrote it knowing that these five days, this gift from Matt, this time away, is saving my life right now. Because tonight I watched the wee lad dance in the rain. And I shared an oh-so-rare bottle of wine with my sister-in-law. And I heard thunder and felt wind and closed my eyes on the shores of Lake Michigan. 

This, this moment - here today, gone tomorrow - is saving my life right now. What is saving yours?

Loved and led, in the night

In the night, we all get jumbled.

She comes in first. "A bad dream," she (always) says. I scooch, give her a pillow, and hug the side of the bed. Then the wee lad calls, "Mommy, I done!" It's 3 am and he's decided he's had enough sleep. Husband sighs, stumbles on feet and over legos, and tries to talk him down for just a few more hours. 

He's barely back in our (crowded) bed when the eldest comes in, holding his nose and covered in blood, "My nose is bleeding," I hear under muffled tissues. I'm up quick and with him at the sink, washing his face and changing his shirt. 

Then I hear the baby again. "Daddy.... I want in Ella's bed!" Husband tells me he kinda lied to him, promising him milk and cuddles in the girl's bed, hoping he'd fall asleep and forget. But he didn't, and in a second Daddy is up and the cries are quieted. It's just me and the girl again, in my bed, for what seems like the thousandth time in her five short years.

A few months ago, I went to the doctor, told her I was feeling run down and asked her to medicate what she could do for me. She quickly recounted the ways I could perk myself up: eight glasses of water a day, endorphin release, make sure I'm in community... oh, and get enough sleep. 

Water, check. Endorphins, mostly check. Community, check check check. Sleep?! She almost had me there! 

Silly woman, she delivered my babies. Doesn't she know? It's the "get enough sleep" part that shuts the whole thing down!

Nearly ten years in, I keep thinking we'll grow out of this phase. I envision a crisp and sunlit morning of lazy lie-ins, just the two of us alone in our own bed, well-rested and ready to conquer the children the world. Give me another five years and maybe we'll have this whole sleep thing sorted, everyone waking up in the bed they fell asleep in, everyone happy, everyone fixed.

But I'm starting to realize this is what parenting is, how it should be. We open our arms when they come to us, we jump to our feet when they cry out, we clean them up when they bleed. They don't need to be fixed, just loved and led as we go.

"It's a good thing Mom was awake at 4am," I hear the eldest say as I finally emerge from our girl-cocoon at 8am. I walk down the hall and see - not for the first time in this long week - my sweet husband curled up in hot pink zebra sheets. 

It is a good thing, I think. Being here with them is the best thing.

I would really kill for some sleep, though.