Lord, help me.
Summer vacation is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. The freedom to stay in our pajamas as long as we want without the pressure to look presentable at the bus stop is liberating. The fluidity of our schedule: pool one day, play date the next, is a welcome change from the rigidity of the school year. And yet, the sudden lack of structure lends itself to boredom, and the intense "togetherness" has us all out of sorts as we adjust.
This summer is also much different than last because now we have a baby in the family. Caleb is almost 7 months old, and throws a delightful monkey wrench into the summer schedule. Last year, when Abby and Josh were ready to kill each other I just packed them up and headed off to the pool or Chick-Fil-A or anywhere except home. Now, we have nap times and diapers and breastfeeding and summer heat to worry about, and zipping off somewhere seems a lot more complicated than it did last year.
Adjusting to having a third child has been more challenging than I anticipated. Perhaps because I feel pressure to meet the needs of three tiny, screaming humans simultaneously on a daily basis. Perhaps because Abby and Josh are so much older than the baby and have an entirely different set of wants and needs. Perhaps because I'm still running on a deficit of sleep that no amount of coffee can offset. I would be lying if I didn't admit that it is a stressful season of life. I can often be found yelling, stomping my feet like a toddler, or locked in a bathroom for a few minutes of deep breathing.
And yet, in the midst of the chaos and my often less than stellar mom moments, there is an underlying gratitude that permeates throughout my life and gives this difficult season of life a particular sense of sweetness.
Not a day goes by that I don't remember how exceedingly blessed I am.
Chatting with a friend this week, she reminded me of what was happening in my life at this same time a year ago. I had just gotten my first trimester screening done. I was thirteen weeks pregnant and the doctors had found some abnormal fluid levels on our baby's neck and advised us to do further DNA testing. Today, right now, one year ago, I was in the middle of the worst, most stressful two week wait of my life. Having just been through the grief of a miscarriage, to hear that something might be wrong with our rainbow baby was a crushing weight. I cried every single day of those two weeks, afraid that we would hear the worst. I will never forget when the results came back and I finally heard the words, "everything looks good."
Can I just tell you how deeply thankful I am for my baby boy? Oh, the chaos adding another child to our family has brought. It has been such an adjustment. And yet, when I look at him, now even seven months later, I can't tell you how many times my eyes fill with tears at the utter gratitude I feel that I was entrusted with this little soul.
Tonight, I had the rare chance to put him to bed without anyone else at home. Ben had taken the older two to Abby's softball game. I took the opportunity to finally hang Caleb's newborn pictures up in his nursery. In the chaos of my daily life I have little opportunity, let alone two free hands to hang pictures on the wall.
I had chosen two of my favorite pictures for his nursery, and for the last seven months those two places have remained patiently blank on his walls, just waiting to make his room complete. So tonight we headed up to his room and I laid him down on his back to wiggle around while I hung the pictures. He promptly flipped over to his belly, and pushing up on his hands, proceeded to do some kind of caterpillar wriggle to grab a toy in front of him. Crawling is just around the corner.
As I looked at the pictures I couldn't help but feel a little sad that he is no longer so tiny, and that the last seven months have passed by so quickly. All those wishes made in the middle of the night for him to hurry up and grow are being granted. Can I take them back?
I stepped back after I hung the final picture, and looked around at his nursery, finally complete. Each picture, shelf, decoration chosen especially for him. And the gratitude washed over me. One year ago I feared the worst. Eighteen months ago I lost the baby before him. But tonight, I finished the nursery for my sweet, happy, perfectly healthy little boy.
Today was rough. Abby and Josh fought all. day. long. Caleb has some weird cradle cap thing going on and his head is itchy and he's really cranky and entirely opposed to napping. Sensing my weakness today, the dog decided to steal dirt out of my houseplants and trail it all over the floor in a muddy, half chewed mess. I burned most of dinner on the grill when something caught fire and flames shot up over my head. Not my best performance.
And yet, gratitude. It keeps everything in perspective. There's something about the milestones of loss and of close calls that reminds me to take a deep breath and practice gratitude. I thought back over all I've been through in the last eighteen months, and suddenly, the half burned dinner I was standing over paled in comparison.
If we let it, loss can make us better people. Not perfect, but better.
Loss. It's painful and awful and terrible, and yet, as I continue to heal and step forward out of the darkness of grief, I find that the world looks different than it used to. I'm more present, more reflective. Colors are brighter, emotions run deeper, and I hang onto the moments of joy with clenched fists, willing them to stay a little longer. I'm grateful for all of the messiness and chaos and laughter.
Gratitude. It changes everything.
Tonight, as I put Caleb to bed in his now finished nursery, I didn't rush to leave. I lingered over his crib, watching him sleep peacefully, his chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. And I marveled at what a miracle he is. He is the fulfillment of a promise of restoration that God made to me shortly after I lost my angel baby. Caleb brings a joy, and laughter, and sweetness to my life that I have never known in such intensity.
This season of mothering isn't easy, or simple, or perfect. But I couldn't be more thankful for every single second. And the gratitude makes days like these bearable, and even poignant, because I know they are fleeting. When we remember times of loss, of pain, and fear, and grief, we are more thankful for days when the worst that has happened are scorched dinners and cranky children.
Tomorrow is a new day, and I welcome it in all it's imperfection, and couldn't be more thankful for it.
