scribblechic

There is a delicate balance to mothering children to love a family member who is abusive in their mental illness; to teach the innocent to love unconditionally what they recognize as wrong and experience as hurtful.

We accept injury often as inseparable from the individual’s identity. It is less a matter of forgiving and more a narrative of acceptance for the inescapable truth we cannot edit with a fallacy of make-believe.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

In motherhood I perpetually make excuses for familial unkindness, a trick of distraction to keep my children safely outside the line of harm while near enough to the madness that they might learn forgiveness and empathy; to claim their heritage honestly without shame. I am cautious to whisper my worries in privacy; to never speak ill, accuse or criticize in a manner that might offer judgment or blame to my children’s ears as we stand witness to the spiraling decent into cruelty.

In time the truth is not so easily hid. My children have heard hate in its native tongue, each small harm hardening the tender places of vulnerability against trust. There is no magic I can conjure to change what is and I am exhausted by the burden of untruths we bear in the name of love.

There are moments of clarity that clatter against my distraction, scattering wishes that whisper to my spirit the uncomplicated wants so often outspoken in the dull din of expectations. Each day begins with lists of responsibilities that beg priority, minutes lost before I count the hours.

Yesterday the whispers felt louder, my receptiveness more vulnerable to suggestion; the balance of what I might gain in loosing time, immeasurable. Instead of looking to the day for permission to follow my heart, I leapt into action.

I took my son to lunch and we wandered directionless through a frivolous conversation about nothing in particular. I interrupted my husband’s day, surprising him with a spontaneous visit that let him know I see how hard he is working outside my line of sight. I set aside my daughter’s homework and played for a moment in the unchecked enthusiasm of her creativity.

No exceptional gestures or expensive indulgences, just a couple stolen moments for the little riches too often miscounted in my day.

It’s been a week to remember. Scary for the uncertainty and exhausting for the roller coaster of emotions that swept through sleepless nights and interrupted our collective routines. We are tired, restless, overwhelmed. We are also patient, generous, thoughtful, and invested. After days of feeling ill or overlooked, it would have been easy to excuse short fuses, but we found a gentler way to work together and I couldn’t be more proud.

To my husband, You chased after spontaneous food cravings at every untimely want and shuttled our son between work day responsibilities without complaint. When I moved our daughter closer to my side, you slept uncomfortably in the disruptive company of our pup. Gone are the hallmarks of family meals, morning coffee, and evening time alone. Most of our time together has been in passing, as we trade places beside a child or share updates. I haven’t been able to tell you how much your circus of comedy in the hospital lightened my spirit or how grateful I am you held my fears gently as I fussed over each decision. You have been a sounding board and silent support system I couldn’t have done without.

To my son, This week you grew into added responsibility. Your father and I have drifted through the days tired and distracted without the reserve of energy that would have normally been yours to claim. You found your way through your school work and helped around the house, prepared a simple meal and tended to the needs of our pup. It would have been easy to disappear into more frivolous interests while our attention was occupied, but you matured into demonstrations of respectful consideration and I am so proud of your effort and selfless concern.

To my daughter, Even on the nights you were feverish and miserable there wasn’t an unkind demand or selfish exclamation. There was no entitlement or pity party between your please and thank you. We’ve hidden from the worries in the language of a new story, tumbling into the elegant imagination of H.G. Wells while we travel through time a little misplaced ourselves. I miss your smile and spunk, but I’m thankful for the minutes we have collected in conversation when light and sound were too intrusive to your overwhelmed senses.

To my family, Thank you for making a difficult week, easier; for nurturing one another with kindness and generosity; for sharing responsibilities, respectfully.

Love you.

There are unexceptional moments of clarity when little truths feel monumental. So often the noise of each day’s demands drown out the universal whispers and I scurry after goals, mindless of my direction in the frenzy of effort. This week was no less busy, but my movements were more specific and this greater consciousness created quiet enough to hear those whispers.

As soon as I realized my daughter’s sick day symptoms were a precursor to a longer inconvenience, I pared down our week from lofty to less; prioritizing everything by necessity. The days were itemized by need and need not, could and could not.

Once I knew what was possible, I aligned new goals with my husband’s available hours. It is a dance of parenthood I do not celebrate often enough. We maintain an equal and intentional balance between both children and home, but this week my husband assumed new errands at the end of long days; supplementing what I could not do with what he could.

At the moment we realized we could not possibly both attend an important meeting with one child sick, I did the thing I struggle with the most and asked for help. So often I privately praise my husband and myself for managing our home and children without extended family, but in this moment asking for help was a much needed reassurance of community and exercise in humility.

How do I so easily overlook the balance that comes from inviting and accepting the kindness of those who care? Before my daughter heals and we return to a noisier rhythm of routine,  I want to keep these whispers weighted in form to better remember that moments of vulnerability invite a strength we cannot fortify in solitude. It takes a village.