Too Much Too Many

Today we made it out. We ventured out to Three Lakes Park with a packed lunch, scooters, water bottles and a rested baby brother in tow. Previously, we had made no bake energy balls, cleaned up our rooms, switched the laundry three times and even made chili for dinner. Today was not some magical out of the ordinary productive day. It was, in fact, quite a normal tuesday, where the twins do not have preschool, Luke takes a morning nap, and then we head out to a park or museum until Luke's afternoon nap and the big boys return from school. Today was full, took effort, and did not allow for much breathing room if everything that needed to happen was going to happen. That feels hard to me. I feel under water with the tasks at hand. Caring for my home - and i don't mean making it amazingly clean or organized or decorated - i mean very basic tasks like taking out the trash, throwing away the very rotten cantaloupe that somehow stayed on the counter for two too many days, cleaning up after Luke knocks everything off his high chair tray, are becoming less and less attainable. One thing leads to the next and before you know it, my house is a full on wreck. More than messy, its dirty, dishes are everywhere and knowing where to start seems like climbing Mt. Everest. And, then there is the task of actually parenting, and parenting well, my children. Speaking life into their little hearts, teaching them how to have self control, and personal responsibility takes emotional effort that I sometimes don't have when I have been trying to remember if the uniforms for tonight's games are washed, if I wrapped that birthday present, if I even have anything prepped for dinner. Whew. That was yesterday's reality. The reality of so much responsibility, so much work, so much to do and so little energy to get it done. My children do help around the house and would certainly tell you that they have more chores than any of their friends but they are also little. Their help is appropriate and I'm grateful for it. But, right now, I'm swamped. I'm in over my head. And, there I was swamped, in over my head, sitting on our back yard bench as my kids played in what could only be called a mud bath after they had just eaten ice cream - yes ice cream - for lunch after informing me that they had, in fact, not even eaten breakfast. Really? I said. No breakfast. Huh? How'd that happen? There we were, 11am eating ice cream for lunch and my ability to care at a big fat zero. But, I did care. I do care. I care so much that I broke down in tears knowing how helpless I was in that moment to do any of the things that I deemed necessary to care for those things entrusted to me. The task felt too big. The house felt too big. The yard felt too big. The kids seemed too many. I can't tell you that I had some amazing moment this morning where I realized that God is in control and He is going to see me through it. Although I know that to be true, I don't necessarily feel it. But, as I cried on the phone to my cousin, she reminded me that our home and our children were made in love and love is what would see us through. It is a lot. It is too much. But, my circumstances are not changing so I must figure out how to love where I am, be grateful for what I have, and leave everything else in the dust - or mud pool, if the twins will let me. I must dig deep, trust that God knows my family better than me and when I feel like the least capable person to care for them well, He see what I cannot see. He knows their needs, He knows my heart, and will knit us all tightly together in love. That is my prayer. That, and maybe for another au pair! 

Watching the Storm Come In

Last Thursday night, a big storm was headed our way. You could tell by the darkening of the sky even though it was only 4pm. The trees swayed harder and the smell of rain approaching filled the air. A storm was coming in. “Hurry up kids,” I yelled through the house. “Come to the front porch. Let’s watch the storm come in.” 

My father in law was in town visiting. He looked at my like I had lost my mind. “You are going outside, now?” He said, “But, Taylor, there is a storm coming in.”

Exactly. 

As a child, I learned to see the signs of a storm coming. My dad could feel it. He could see it and he taught me to see it coming too. The power and mystery of a storm entriged him and he brought me into that world on our front porch swing. Covered by our porch, we would rock and stare into the sky. The clouds would begin to move faster, the sky turn to a darker shade of grey, and faint thunder could be heard along with rain beginning to fall. There we would stay counting the seconds between the thunder and lightning gaging how far away the storm actually was. 4 miles. Lighting flash. Thunder boom. 3 miles. It’s closer and closer now. 2 miles. The rain would get heavier, the sky darker, the wind faster. And we would stay. 1 mile. Still swinging on our front porch. And here it is. The storm is finally here and here we remain in awe of the power, in awe of the harsh, scary beauty of a storm. Finally the lightning would get too close and the rain too hard and we would retreat inside to watch the rest by the window in the den. 

I pulled my children out into the storm last Thursday night and it was beautiful. We sat under our large covered porch to see a familiar sight. Rain pelting down, trees swaying, lighting and thunder displaying their power. The children were enamered. We counted down the storm’s distance and remained together on our porch until it was right above us. And, there we stayed. Through the powerful rain, the rocking trees and even the thunder and lighting we stayed. We remained together for entirety of the storm until the peace of the sky was restored and the dark clouds parted. Light returned and at 5pm, we felt like we had ventured through to another world and returned home. 

What a gift that storm was to me. In that moment, I felt like God granted me a gift to connect my children to my dad and his love of nature. The storm of losing my dad has been the hardest storm to sit through. I don't want to remain in the sadness, remain in the memory of his loss, remain in the pain of the space left by his absence. But, memories of sitting on that porch swing remind me to be still, to watch the power of the storm do its work and to not run away. I know from every storm I've watched that no matter how powerful, how dark, how terrifying a storm is, it will end and the light will return. The clouds will part. The rain will stop. The sun will return. And, how appreciative I am when all that is calm and warm and peaceful surround me and my family on our front porch. 

Reality

Life in 10 Format

My dear friend’s husband got a vasectomy today. She had been asking for it for 6 years. Six years she thought it was the right decision for their family. As he finally agreed, set up the appointment, and started to fill out the paperwork, she hesitated. Doubt, fear, confusion, and sadness set in. Why was she sad? Did she really want more children? After the procedure, she wept – really wept, like ugly cry – in the car. Her reality is what led her to the decision in the first place – finances, needs of other children, age, the capacity of the home, health concerns. But now the reality of her future was certain. There would be no more biological children to be carried in her body, birthed through her, fed by her, held late at night. No tiny hands to hold as they learn to walk, no faint “ma-ma” sounds from a baby’s mouth, no first day of Kindergartens. That reality was slapping her in the face. I can relate. My husband had the same surgery when I was pregnant with our 5^th child. I know that seems strange and we had so many people encourage us to wait until he was born and healthy. But, my reality is such that I knew I could not under any circumstances be pregnant again no matter what happen with Luke. My reality is that it is a desperate fight to make it through the hormone roller coaster of pregnancy and postpartum without dipping into darkness. My reality is that my 5 children have tons of needs that I am at capacity to meet. My reality is that my family as I know it is complete. But as I listened to my friend’s heartache for the absence of children in the future, I too grieved. The relief of moving on to a new and different stage with my children is exciting – freeing even – but there is a deep sadness that is pierced when the finality of children is decided. The huge part of us as women to create, grown, birth, sustain, teach, and love our children is partitioned off and redirected to children transitioning to adults. We must wrap up that disheveled, sleep-deprived, terribly beautiful stage of building our family and move towards shepherding and loving those already here with us. 

Recently

My son Henry was up to bat yesterday at his Richmond little league baseball game. He’s not the best player on the team but sure does work hard. He hasn’t gotten a hit all season. As I was talking with another mom on the team, whose son is also named Henry, I told her that I really hoped my Henry would get a hit tonight. She said she couldn’t watch her Henry strike out anymore so she didn’t even watch as he went up to bat. “I know, it’s hard,” I said “but, I keep filming in case that one up to bat is it.” And, I explained, today would be my dad’s birthday. “He recently passed away,” I explained “and he loved the game of baseball.” I’m really thinking tonight is going to be the night henry gets a hit. I go up to the fence, Iphone through the chain link fence and film each swing. Crack! He connects. Henry runs to first. The first basemen misses the ball and Henry runs to second. The next player up to bat gets out but it allows Henry to steal third base. The next player gets a hit and Henry runs home. He scores for his team! Heart is racing – his and mine – and we are all smiles, well, he is all smiles. I am, of course, tearing up through my sunglasses that I put back on even though it was 7:30pm. The sweet mom gives me a high five and says “the stars aren’t out yet but they saw everything. I know your dad is smiling.” It was a great gift. Later, though, I thought about what I had said to that mom. “My dad recently passed away.” I’m not sure that is entirely true and was grateful she didn’t ask how long it had been. We are coming up on three years this summer. Three years. Is that recently? Some times it feels so very recent. Some days and some nights my heart races and tears stream down remembering the exact moment I learned he had died. How I collapsed on the floor of a cabinet store and had to be carried outside. But, then, other days it seems that he has been gone through so much. A move, a baby, my kids growing up, vacations, hikes, nights sky views, birthdays, anniversaries…. A lot has happened in almost three years. So, was I wrong? Is recent not accurate? Maybe it’s not recent in the conventional sense but recent in the way it impacted me. The “before my dad died” and “after my dad died” line had been drawn in the sand recently and there was no way to think of life differently. Grief is recent and far away. It is every present and sneaky. It the crack of a baseball bat, the song on the radio, the taste of a certain ice cream but it is also a great void that no matter how much actual time has passed may not affect the pain left in doing life without someone we love.