Slipping Through My Fingers

The months leading up to the wedding were some of the toughest our relationship has ever known.

She was stubborn; I was pushy.

I found her independence irritating when I, the experienced parent, knew what was best for her and she refused to see that.

I decided eventually to let her make all the decisions, and to keep my mouth shut, even though I knew she would regret certain things about the day.

(Spoiler alert: she did. Also spoiler alert: I regretted every push I made).

But the night before she was to officially take on someone else’s name, she asked me sheepishly if I would mind blow drying her hair. We chatted over the din of the hair dryer about her adorable fiancee. I asked her to tell me all the things she loves most about him.

Her smile grew huge as she rattled off a long list.

I was caught off guard and found myself holding back tears as she talked of her love for this man. Running my fingers through her hair, watching in the mirror, I was awestruck at her beauty and poise. It took me back to when I’d style her every day in the little girl years.

The banter was familiar. Her chattering, me listening. Some days I’d barely pay attention; others, I made sure to soak it all in. The freckled nose, bright green eyes, and teeth in varying stages of size and growth. She’d talk of her hopes and dreams for her life. Dreams of what her husband would be like, dreams of her wedding, dreams of her future.

That future was now here, and the lyrics from “Slipping Through My Fingers” ran through my head over and over.

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while

The feeling that I'm losing her forever
And without really entering her world
I'm glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl

Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind?
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time

That funny little girl is now a grown woman, and she was sleeping in her bed as solely my child for the last time. My heart ached with the notion that I would probably never get to do this again with her.

It’s a funny thing, motherhood. At times, you find yourself bogged down in the mundaneness of it all. The endless tasks to be done, their complete and utter dependence on you, the exhaustion. Sandwiched in that chaos are moments you swear you will remember forever, but don’t.

Instead, you are left with flashes and shadows of what it felt like to have your little girl curled up in your lap, her fingers twisting your hair absentmindedly. The vivid images you have in your mind of her running off the bus towards you with open arms are actually photos you have in a dusty album. You strain, but can’t quite remember what her voice sounded like back then. You regret not letting her sleep in your bed every night your husband was out of town and think of how silly you were to worry she’d never learn to sleep alone.

Well, she’s learned to do life alone. She has navigated college, relationships, jobs and friends. Sure, she’s called for advice and now then, but she’s become this incredible human being in spite of your pushy interference. She’s grown up. She’s about to become somebody’s wife.

I’m proud as can be of who she is and feel the weight of the privilege it was to raise her, even if the time slipped right through my fingers.

A journal entry from August 2017

Wednesday, August 30, 2017

 Today I was working out in the back yard, cleaning it up, putting it back together.  I cleared the cobwebs from around the chairs, dusted the pillows, and watered the flowers.  The sun was shining and blue skies provided a cheery roof over my head.  Beads of sweat trickled down my back as I worked, my dogs cheerfully sniffed the corners of the yard.  As I watered the flowers in their pots, I was struck by the similarities to my own life. 

 These flowers that I planted in the spring, enjoyed the look of, and mildly tended to, blossomed and spread their new roots.  Infrequently, I cared for them, but enjoyed their beauty whenever I glanced at them.  I watered when I thought about it, the dry soil soaking up the moisture with gratitude.  Soon, the hot summer sun beat down upon the flowers.  And with summer’s arrival, we departed for our house in Utah - gone for five weeks without once looking back.  I had hired a college-aged boy to water the flowers, but didn’t think they needed water much more than once or twice a week.  He tended to them as best he could; though, frankly, I think he got them once a week at best.

 They withered under the pressure of the constant sun, never complaining, silently letting the life slip out of them.  Resigned to their fate.

 Then we came home from Utah.  Burdened with a heavy heart, I had little energy to care for the flowers.  Seeing their yellow, shrunken bodies felt like a mirror to my own soul.  I was drowning in a sea of heartache, and had little energy to care for anything else.

 Once, while on the phone in the backyard, crying and pouring out my pain to a friend, I absentmindedly emptied the watering can into the flower pots. 

 A few days went by, and I found myself outside on the phone again.  The backyard seemed to be a safe place to have conversations outside of the ears of my children, and I began to take and place all my private calls there.  I noticed a little life coming out in the flowers, so I watered every time I was out there.

 Then, a week or so later, Josh noticed the herbs in their pot reaching and stretching for the light, so he moved them.  Traded their partial shade for a glorious spot in the sun.

 They rebounded almost miraculously.

 And so did the others.  Slowly, painfully, my beautiful flowers have begun to come back to life.  Cradled in sunshine, watered, and cared for, they are blossoming and breathing new life into a spot that once looked barren and lonely.

 Just like our marriage.

Little by little, we have behaved in ways that are both natural and new for us.  We have conversations where we both feel seen and valued.  We share our vulnerabilities, our dreams, our heartaches.  We tenderly touch – a hug before walking out the door.  A kiss when we are reunited.  It’s simple acts of love, yet ones that feel more genuine than any others in our 23 years together.  I yearn for his touch in the same way his herbs reached for the sunshine.  I need his body to join with mine.  I crave him and feel as though I can’t get enough of him.

 We are putting the care into this marriage that we should have.  We are loving each other purely, gracefully, and it is paying off.  Our withered hearts are blossoming under this new care.  Just like the water for my flowers, love is the balm that heals our broken garden.  And we, the careful gardeners, will never let it go unwatered again.

A lifetime and a million lessons

The last time I wrote on here was May of 2019.

Truthfully, the last time I really wrote was May of 2018.

So much has happened.

For me. For my family. For Josh and I.

We have seen miracles, struggled, cried, healed, celebrated and loved as we walked through the fiery depths of hell together as a family. Someday, I will write about it all. I will tell our story and bravely put it all out there.

Today is not yet that day.

Instead, today is a day for me to dip my fingers into the writing pool again, test the waters, and find my swimming legs again.

I’ve got a head and heart full of words and I long to get them out.

He's mine. Forever.

Truths

My feelings these days are tender ones.  

I am in a place I have been before, one that is unfamiliar, yet strangely recognizable.  A place full of busyness and long to-do lists.  A place of shopping for suits, white shirts, luggage, and vitamins.  A place that will end with a tearful goodbye and a large, empty hole in my heart.

I am about to send my second-born son out into the world.  And not in the traditional sense like other boys his age.  He's not moving a few hours away to reside in a dorm or frat house.  He won't be attending freshmen orientation or meeting cute girls in class.  He won't be accessible to me via cell phone, text, or FaceTime. 

Once a week, I will get an email from him, which will be the only window I have into his world.  Twice a year, I will get to Skype with him for an hour.  That's it.

I am sending him on a mission trip to Finland.

He will spend the first nine weeks in Utah, in class for about 15 hours a day as he tries desperately to learn Finnish.  He will then get on a plane, travel halfway across the world and meet other missionaries his age to try to learn the ropes.  He will be in a country he's never navigated before.  Speaking a language he doesn't really know.  He will be lonely, scared, and without the support system he is used to relying on.

Back at home, I will get teary every day for a few months when I think or talk about him to others.  I will wait anxiously for that email every week, and spend considerable time carefully drafting one of my own for him to read.  I will not be able to go into his bedroom for at least a few weeks.  My house will be quieter, my dishes fewer.  My pantry a lot fuller.  I will pine for his everyday presence, for his laughter, for his company.  I won't really be okay until he is.  

It seems quite awful when you think about it, and were I not almost on the other end of sending out his brother, I'm not sure I'd make it.  But these truths are what will allow me to let him go, and what will sustain me for the months to come:

I know he will grow.  He will learn to adult in the hardest, biggest way possible.  He is getting thrown into the deep end of the life pool with ankle weights on, and will swim hard, the current pulling him under at times, until he finds the side.  He will care for himself, manage his finances, navigate a foreign culture, and learn to love others in a way I could not provide within the walls of my safe and comfortable home.  He will do it all by himself.  He won't have our daily guidance, and we won't be able to help him through it much at all.  He will make mistakes, learn, and grow all on his own.

I know he will thrive.  It will take some time, but it will happen.  The language will be so overwhelming at times that he will want to quit.  The companion may or may not be someone he can remotely tolerate, and he will spend 24 hours a day, 7 days a week with this person.  He will learn to love him in whatever way it takes.  The climate will be cold, dark, and harsh (except for the brief, beautiful summer months when daylight never ends) and he will learn to be responsible for remembering gloves, hats, scarves, and thermals.  He will cook for himself, buy his own groceries, and shop for any necessities.  He will take himself to the doctor and treat colds on his own.  He will learn to listen to God, and to be directed on a daily basis.  He will practice listening to the spirit and will become adept at it.  He will study the scriptures in a way he never has before.

I know he will return.  The clock will keep ticking forward, no matter how slow it seems to move, and two years will pass.  He will not be the same boy he was when he left.  I cry now for the loss of that sweet boy, for I am never to see him again.  This departure signals another fundamental change to the family I have made my life's work, and I mourn losing this dynamic.  I mourn the change it brings to my mothering.  He will come home to me as the beginnings of the man he's going to become. He will be recognizable, yes, but my life will never return to the way it is right now.  I hate that.  I love my life right now.  But I know he will be stronger, hold his head up taller, be more humble, and have learned to love and serve god. 

I know these truths, I have seen them with his brother.  I take comfort in the good that is to come, but my mama heart feels panic at saying goodbye to this sweet boy.  I'm not ready.  It's come much too soon.

This mama is powerless to stop time.  Growth, pain, joy, heartache, loneliness, pride, independence and happiness are ready to crash down on us all like a tidal wave. 

Ready or not, it's time.

Life Weary

The other night, the Husband and I were catching up after a long day for both of us.  Work has been particularly hard lately for him and his firm is facing some challenges that make his work life tough.  It will ultimately be a good thing in the end, but the process is painful and exhausting.  He comes home at the end of the week just tired.  His travel schedule still keeps him from home most weeks, and the added stress of these challenges weigh heavily on his mind.  

The kids have had a particularly rough few months, as well.  They've been bombarded with grown up problems that are both complex and unfair.  Life lessons thrown at them, one after the other, without reprieve -- friends, coaches, injuries, loneliness, rejection, disappointment, pain. They've battled their challenges as best they can, but we've all succumbed to tears more frequently than we'd have liked.  

I've had my own share of hard.  Struggles in my marriage.  Problems in the group I serve with at church.  Worry over my children.  Depression and anxiety have slowly crept up on me over the last few years, but became so crippling this summer that I was finally forced to seek medical intervention.  I've carried the weight of our family's struggles, and strived hard to juggle more balls than I could manage at one time.  The unhappiness of my people hurts me to my core, and I've laid awake at night with worry and fear.  

The world on our shoulders has been a strain to hold up, and we've been brought to our knees, trembling, with the weight of it.

Life has just taken its toll.  I'm tired of hard.  I'm tired of struggle.  Things have been taxing for a while, and I'm just over it.  

I am life weary.

I know from the outside looking in, it might seem like we have it all.  Financial security.  A vacation house in the mountains.  Money to travel and buy nice things.  Three healthy children all involved in various activities and sports.  A handsome husband.  A stay-at-home wife.  We do have a lot going for us, blessings I will be eternally grateful for.  But that does not mean our life has been free of heartache, pain, and sorrow.  

There are just things that the smiles on instagram don't tell you.

I know we will get through this current state of hard.  I know we will grow and learn from these trials.  We have chosen to draw closer to each other and our faith, and we will get through them together.  We will not be broken by what's currently weighing us down.

A brilliant young woman I know recently said, "In order to love who you are, you cannot hate the experiences that shape you."

She's right.

But I still kind of hate the hard.