I can't remember if I have always felt on this much of an up and down carnival ride at the holidays, or if this is a particularly special year. Not remembering bit is pretty darn indicative of another phase I know I've been in for a while but can't, um, remember how long. I'm guessing it corresponds with the pregnancy or arrival of number three - and that a lot of the up and down is tied into that as well.
He's beautiful, my third. So squeezably full of joy and good cheer and sweetness that my heart and jaw ache with it. Giving away the crib after #2 was done with it showed some foresight into how difficult a third might be, but giving in to having #3 was even easier than giving away the baby things. What was surprising to me is that opening the door (so to speak) for having that third and now knowing that he's my last makes me breathtakingly sad. The reasons for not going beyond three children have mostly to do with barely keeping up with three and how quickly, at forty, my age now seems to be catching up with (or overtaking) me. Like my minivan with 215,000 miles on it, things are starting to break, fall off, and make strange noises, and the gas mileage is nowhere near what it used to be. And there are dents. Lots and lots of dents.
Being a parent challenges me everyday. Challenges my sense of control, of reason, of purpose. What is most staggering to me is the infinite beauty juxtaposed, near instantaneously, with the infinite difficulty and helplessness in raising these three beings. Going to sleep last night, Sawyer roused himself from near sleep to remind me to remind him to add to his Christmas wish list "that we not die." And a few moments later, "that we not get sick." I'm doing my darndest with the latter, but the former is inevitably going to come and kick all our butts. And there's nothing I can do about it, no way I can protect these three perfect beings from that un-fairytale ending. No matter the marvelousness of your partner (if you are so lucky as to have one), they are equally useless in this regard.
There is this grave futility in so many things we do, and in how we do them. Or so it can seem. When my daughter woke up this morning it was clearly on the very, very wrong side of the bed. I wake up and am, for five minutes, Mary Poppins, singing the children out of their beds, inspiring them with talk about how lovely the day will be, cooking their uber-fresh free range organic happy chicken eggs, packing their preservative-free lunches. And when we are going on five, then six minutes late out the door forty-five minutes later I am all fangs and venom and screech. Although I am trying with greater consciousness while my patience is being tried. When my daughter had her all-out breakdown this morning after my sixth attempt to get her to dress, I tried to be the mama I would want her to remember, the mama I would want to spend the rest of the day being. Which was supportive and patient and still - nearly - on time.
I am trying to be more patient with myself. I am trying to be in each moment of the chaotic morning rather than just trying to be one step ahead of the chaos. And to enjoy the moment. I am trying to let go of the to do list and still feel productive for the sheer fact of raising loved and appreciated children. I am trying to accept this body, this job, this path without going by the societal accolades of success or the media yardstick of parental worthiness. I am trying to succumb to the spiritual awareness of what richness my life has evolved into rather than panic at the drumbeat sound of time that is an inevitable soundtrack to the ongoing movie of watching your children grow. Thankfully, it is merely the metronome for the real music that if you pause long enough to really listen, is what was most important all along.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
