My Facebook status from Monday night, after a particularly bad bout of rain and frustration, and more rain, was this:
“Nothing terrible happened today, and yes, I know I’m blessed in many ways, but it was still the type of day that found me huddled on the kitchen floor taking a spoon to a pint of Sea Salt Caramel gelati. Before dinner. The kids found me. Wordlessly, Scarlet grabbed her own spoon and dug in. She took a bite and then fed one to Des. And we sat in companionable silence and spoiled our dinner appetites together.”
Today a friend said to me, “Everything hurts this week. Do you ever have that?” Oh yes. I don’t think she’s a regular reader of my blog, mainly because she’s semi-regularly subject to the contents of my head being spilled to her over drinks, dinner, dessert, playdates & more, but I just couldn’t agree fast enough in echoing her sentiment. I couldn’t nod my head “yes” vigorously enough. You all know I have those weeks in which everything touches me painfully, like needles to skin, and then I have weeks in which I might as well say, “Ho hum.” Thicker skin weeks, I call them. On the thin-skinned weeks, what otherwise wouldn’t hurt at all, hurts. What normally would hurt anyway, burns. Same old story for me. It’s enough to make you feel like this:
He’s saying, “Stop the insanity!”
Scarlet had a minor scuffle at school the other day – involving jealousy, hurt feelings and a bit too much imagination. Mature imagination. Scarlet, in this case, got hurt. I’ll never forget the sight of her walking to me with her head hanging down. After a pep talk from a teacher and a few jelly beans from me, she was over it. It just reminded me how grossly underprepared I am for her un-minor scuffles and problems. Oh, how they’re coming, but maybe she’ll have more grace and peace than I ever had.
I hear the voices – it would be impossible to miss them. I read the blog post by Newtown victim Emilie Parker’s mom. I watched the movie trailer about why killer whales should not be held captive (duh). I read the updates about contaminated chicken from the FDA half-assing their jobs. (shocking, not.) And I saw the photos of freezing cattle in Wyoming. I can hear all of the voices.
I can feel all of the voices.
And I hear the ones that tell me how lucky I am. To not despair. They’re only young once and I should embrace them every day.
(I do squish my kids quite a bit. I say “I love you” approximately 253 times a day.)
I do hug them closer, and tighter, and squishier. Des often makes the telltale little grunts of a toddler who is being squished by his mom and would like his cheeks un-pinched, thank you very much, so he can go climb the laundry basket. My skin is thick some days, and thin other days. Never can I properly shut off my mind, nor my heart, and there’s always a little light that can shine in when I’ve nearly shut it all down. My doors are left ajar. There are lights left on, always. I have a heart filter. Everything my kids do (or is done to them) that breaks my heart, whether it’s major or minor, gets through. All of the meaty pulp and the golden liquid. Total immersion. I’m drenched in it. Drowning even, sometimes. That’s when I shut the lights off on the rest of it.
And we spoil our dinners with gelati.
There’s something so right in this totally chaotic world.