I spent the better part of my first forty years desperate for others to understand how far I’ve come from where I started.
Surely, they’d respect and understand me more?
But now I know, we all have stories, untold.
And it’s best to approach all with the grace we’ve always wished upon ourselves.
Hold my hand.
Lean in.
We’ve come so far.
“Just pick up fast food!”
My husband was out of town.
Gosh, if only it were that easy.
I feel like I’ve spent adulthood explaining this notion of “privilege” without realizing I’ve even done so.
Fast food?
That’s privilege, at least for my family.
We have a child with severe food allergies so “fast food” is not an option.
Instead, we have to plan painstakingly ahead.
“You were meant to be her mother.”
Was I, really?
What did I do in my past life to deserve this honor?
That’s what I would like to know.
It’s not her fault and it’s not mine either, or maybe it is- I don’t even know anymore.
What I DO know is that giving grace to any and everyone is the very best thing we can ever do.
Because, how otherwise, could we ever truly know their story?
We cannot.
So, we give grace.
Always, we give grace.
She called it what it is:
Grief.
I had never associated that word with what I had been feeling but it all clicked into place.
Grief can be due to a loss of any kind: a loved one, job, marriage, friendship or a major life change.
What I had been feeling was grief!
I described how desperate I had been to make sense of it all and store it neatly in its box.
I’m a writer: I like a good ending.
And this . . . this just carried on.
I described it as spilled slime.
Here I was, frantically trying to return the contents to its original container and no matter how hard I tried, it lingered.
Grief has no blueprint, no timeline.
It’s messy and ugly and nonsensical.
It does not wield to your plans or box.
It takes its time and you are merely a companion to it.
Many try to escape its grasp- be it denial, alcohol or busyness.
Others drown in it.
And then there’s me- failing to recognize it for what it is.
Well, hello grief.
I relinquish my need to control.
I let you take your time.
I identify you.
I respect your process.
And I walk with you
Until you move along.
It is what it is.
Grief.
Camille Vaughan Photography
Wrap me up.
Wrap me with your love.
Have you noticed?
I do not consider myself a “current’ person but if you are on any kind of social media these days you have witnessed Ryan Reynlod’s reaction to his wife Blake Lively’s dress transformation.
It’s straight out of one of his movies.
Moving. What dreams are made of.
The moment was magnificent. They are both extraordinarily beautiful, stunning people.
But what about the rest of us?
I vacuumed out my disgusting van while also prepping lunches, dinner and teacher gifts.
He mowed the lawn, took out the trash and fixed Harper’s fan.
And yet I did not stop dead in my tracks to ogle him.
Welcome to reality.
It’s not extraordinary or sexy.
It’s so completely normal that I am literally closing the stinky trash-can lid as I type.
But the fantasy has us.
And what’s wrong with that?
Because without fantasy, what have you?
Reality.
It’s easier to dream than live.
Have you noticed?
Life in our home has been extremely stressful, lately.
And that’s saying a lot, considering the last four years with our youngest’s health issues.
When our Big Three returned to public school in January, we knew there would be a transition.
But I don’t think anyone could have fully prepared us for:
The sickness: after living in a bubble for two years, this was inevitable but Lord, it has been relentless.
The overwhelm: “7 hours?!” They lament. They are tired by day’s end and dreading the next.
The pressure: to perform, to make friends, to survive.
And yet, here we are. Just beyond the Ides of March. We are halfway there and I know we are going to make it after-all.
These have been trying months.
As much as I thought I would have “free time”, I have spent the last 2 months playing catch-up to all that I neglected while they were home the last two years.
My husband and I look at each other and realize,
There’s so much more to come.
So, we hold hands.
And jump in,
Feet first.
I can see her now.
Sitting on a landing, just outside her window; her legs folded closely to her chest, her arms wrapped securely around them. Her forehead pressed against her knees.
She is so very lonely.
*********************
I can see them now.
Four little girls, each creative, unique and beautiful soul looking to me, their mama, for guidance.
When the pandemic hit, I cradled those babies in my arms, protecting them from the dangers that lie outside our loving nest.
But life, ever-changing, continues.
And lately, I’ve come to the stark realization that in my desire to protect my children, I am, instead, preventing their growth.
How will they learn to adjust, when they are always accommodated?
I thought quitting homeschooling mid-year was the equivalent of failure.
Now, I know that doing the same thing over and over, when it isn’t working, is the definition of insanity.
In this case, quitting isn’t failing.
It’s adapting.
The course we are on is no longer what is best for my children and while making that pivotal turn towards something new is scary, it is also necessary for their continued growth.
*********************
I approach that little girl on the landing, placing the palm of my hand on top of her head, whispering,
“One day, you’re going to be a mommy to four little girls and as much as you are going to want to shelter them, you don’t have to worry. They will never be lonely. Because they will have you.”
New Leaf Parenting.
Every Day is a Fresh Start.
Turn the page.
Start a new chapter.
Let them fly.
Y’all.
I am in deep.
These past two months, I have felt like I am trudging through thick, relentless mud.
I haven’t had a lot to write about lately, simply because I haven’t had a nanosecond of extra time, nor an ounce of inspiration.
It’s been really hard and really ugly.
But I am here, writing to celebrate a little crack, a sliver of light that crept through today.
This past March, my youngest, Elizabeth, and I returned to mommy-and-me classes at The Little Gym. They allowed me to stay alongside with her, even though she was beyond the age three limit. They understood the impact the pandemic has had on children everywhere and that separating was more difficult than ever. This Fall, however, it was time for Elizabeth to join the independent three year-old’s class.
Lord knows, I knew this would be an uphill battle. With so many health issues, Elizabeth is more dependent on me than most mother-daughter relationships.
To her, I represent survival.
For her, I want her to experience the joy of independence.
We began in September with us sitting outside of class, watching the others play. Gradually, we made our way into the gym, with her sitting on my lap against the wall. Later, she would do a forward roll a foot away from me and then with bribery, she would run to an obstacle, complete it and run back to me. I attempted to leave the room a few times that first month to no avail; instead, biding my time, sitting inside the room, encouraging her to spend more time off my lap.
Today, for the first time in seven weeks, she completed class with me sitting outside, cheering her on through the picture window. Fifteen minutes in, I announced to the lobby of parents, “Can we just all take a minute here to celebrate this milestone?!” And they clapped and cheered right alongside me.
I have four children and every single one of them has needs, specific to them.
There were so many days that I wanted to throw in the towel but I am a mother.
And mothers walk alongside their children.
Nudging, encouraging, lifting.
Until their children discover the confidence to fly on their own.
It was an innocent assignment; written in the curriculum years before the pandemic even began.
Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote a letter to children in 1947 and now it was my child’s turn:
“Write a letter to children in the future describing what life is like today for your family.”
She began with the simple facts: her age, family and hometown.
But by the second paragraph, my nine-year-old froze.
Covid-19. Living during a pandemic.
And just like that- it was all too much to bear.
It’s one thing to survive on a daily basis.
It’s another to face it in words.
The fear, the masks, the social distancing.
“Mommy, I don’t want to do this.” She cried.
I held her, told her to take a break and later said,
“We’ll do it together.”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we cannot do it alone.
We do it together.
Moving Beyond The Page, Epiphany Curriculum
We want to freeze time.
Even go back and relive with new eyes.
But there’s a guarantee;
And that is,
Nothing ever stays the same.
We evolve
Or fester.
So, what’s it going to be?
New Leaf Parenting 