Choosing to Look Up

Em came to me this morning and asked me when she’d be big enough to do something.  6?  7?  8?  Surely 9, right?  She was doing what we all did, looking up.  Looking out.  Looking forward to something. 

I did this in high school.  I looked forward to college and moving out of the house and keeping my own schedule and driving my car when I wanted.  I had plans for how and where I’d make all my future best friends.  Then I got to college and I looked up and out, forward to the end of the exams and the seemingly insignificant and very mundane papers. I made plans to get a job that would put into practice all these theories I was learning.  I looked towards a job and a classroom of my own.  Making my own lesson plans.  Choosing my own rules.  Setting my own pace.  I looked forward to all the new people I’d meet and all the new friends I’d have.  When Todd and I were dating, and I knew in my bones that he was my partner, in every way, I started to make plans.  Not really for the wedding, cause I really only wanted good food and pretty flowers (which we had, but not much else) but for the home we’d make, the pictures I’d hang, the walls I’d paint.  I planned the family I’d have and all the things we’d do together. 

Then I got that job, and I relished the accomplishment.  I got that apartment flat and I enjoyed every part of decorating it and making it my own (except the no-money part, that, I thought, I could have done without).  I got that husband and I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.  I got that kid and the world, I promise you, stopped rotating. 

Funny thing is, it didn’t seem to return to rotating.  With everything else, I could relish, enjoy and bask in the accomplishment while enjoying the actual activity or person.  With my daughter, though, I suddenly couldn’t look up.  I couldn’t think 5 days from now, let alone five years (unless it was to be gripped by fear that we weren’t saving enough for college).  I couldn’t remember what it felt like to plan, have a to-do list, or even get a shower every day.  It was as if the world had literally shifted on its axis and I couldn’t sort out how to walk on the new angle. 

My life was suddenly looking down.  Down at the floor as I bounced a baby, waiting for a burp.  Down at the cereal crunching beneath my feet.  Down at my little bundle rolling over, crawling, walking.  Down at the endless piles of laundry.  Down at the floor littered with bits of choking hazards.  Down at the wet diaper, the soiled clothing, the dirty bib.  Down at the toys that threatened to end my life.  Down at the strewn pile of pots, pans and Tupperware. 

Down.  Always, it felt like, down.  I couldn’t sort out more than a few days ahead of right now.  Just making it through until Daddy got home became my mantra.  Just.  Keep.  Going. 

It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t glorious.  It was nothing like the magazine catalog pictures of a pristine mom playing on a pristine floor with pristine kids and neatly organized toys in a stunning playroom.  This was messy.  This was dirty.  This was smelly, and worst of all, this was MY LIFE. 

I thought I’d made it to mothering purgatory.  And people with all the best intentions would say things like, “Enjoy EVERY MINUTE of this because it goes so quickly!”  I honestly wanted to kick them in the shins.  My days felt endless.  ENDLESS.  And enjoy?  Seriously?  What is there to enjoy in a collicy baby who has reflux, always wanting to be fed, and is constantly hurling milk measurable distances and thinks sleep is for people who live in ANY OTHER house but ours?  What was there to enjoy about scrubbing baby clothes too small to get your hand into or try and juggle a toddler and an infant car seat in a grocery store leaving room enough for a loaf of bread and nothing else? I kept wanting to scream that this isn't living, this was existing and I didn't want to just survive my children, I wanted to THRIVE.  For them, but mostly for me.  

And so, we made some changes.  We got a list of family priorities and I felt okay with knowing that if it wasn't on that list, I didn't need to stress about it.  I still had bad days, but I was able to start scheduling playdates, I was able to look forward to that holiday or this season.  I was able to, once again, look up from the half meter in front of my own two feet.  

Now, I'm finding myself in a season where I again feel the tendency to look down.  To look down at the growing lists, to look down at the unruly piles of everything because some things are in boxes, some need to be put in boxes, and some need to be put into piles to sell or give away.  I feel that all-too familiar tightness of claustrophobia setting in, like the walls are coming down around me.  In truth, it really does seem like all the walls are crumbling, but I learned my lesson before.  I learned that looking down only makes it worse.  I'm not making plans for what to do with Em and school on that side of the globe.  I'm not making plans for what city we'll live in, which jobs we should take, or what church to settle into.  I'm simply looking up.  I'm looking at all that's around me, the amazing friends who were there the first time around helping me gain perspective are still there.  We're still making playdates.  We're still giving hugs and chatting about life, even if that topic does seem a bit heavier.  I refuse to survive this transition.  I refuse to just exist in this massive life-move.  I don't want to look back and see that I was only spinning my wheels, with the mantra of 'just keep swimming'.  When the final goodbyes come, I want to be present for them.  I want to savor every hug, every kiss, every scene.  This isn't like a wedding that I can have a videographer there so I can look back on it.  It's just me and my ability to BE in the moment.

I get the feeling that I'm not alone out there.  That there are others who are frustrated by always waiting... for the right house, the right job, the next friend or project or kid.  I  think because this season in our lives is so all-consuming, so all-or-nothing, our path is much more clearly marked, black or white.  There's this amazing song that Jason Mraz sings, entitled "I Won't Give Up."  I'm sure many will say it's a love song, or maybe a song between a parent and child.  But for me, right now, this is a song to be sung in front of the mirror, me singing to my own heart.  So I'll leave you with some of the lyrics that are reminding me that I too, shall bend.  This won't break me, this won't burn me, it will just become part of me, if I expereince it, if I allow myself to really feel.

We got a lot at stake, 

And in the end you're still my friend, at least we did intend

For us to work

We didn't break, we didn't burn

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in

I had to learn what I got, and what I'm not

And who I am!

I won't give up on us, God knows I'm tough enough

We've got a lot to learn and God knows we're worth it.