a wall

I am in big feelings about all of this. To be sure. Daily caregiving for a little kid, one who wants so very much to do with me most of every day, brings into hi-def the contrast, and the trajectory.

I hit a wall last month when we were in Maine. I had thought that I had potentially dodged it when I made it through the end of winter and all of spring and my engine (and immune system) just kept on chugging despite the many obstacles (cancer, loss of employment, financing college, cough, cough, ahem) that seemed to come in steady succession. And yet, once we arrived at the house on Islesford, after all of the efforts it always takes to get there- ya gotta want it- I sat down, and then laid down, and then stayed there for most of the week.

I mean, not really. We did all of the things and it was one of the all-time most magical weeks in my favorite place sharing so much of what I love about the island with Freddy, and Maple, and one of my oldest friends. But in the afternoons, when I usually drag my mat out onto the deck and make shapes overlooking the view from the north shore and the bubbles in the park across the water, I napped. I let Fredzo bop around on his tablet; another adaptation to his first summer with no naps; and I slept. I would wake up bleary and soft and entirely certain that I was only scratching the surface in terms of the rest I needed. And then, with some predictability, my body began to deteriorate a bit. I got a crummy cold and something funky developed in my left arm, from shoulder through elbow. And more than anything, I simply could not rally.

When we returned to VT, over a week ago now, I remained slumped against the wall I had hit while we were on the coast. No bouncing off for me this time. And this is fine. This is ok. This makes so much sense. As though all of the superpowers I donned back in January and carried through the many months of caregiving and fear and trepidation and grief and so much rallying, sloughed off in one great heave, and now here I am, a little worse for the wear.

I am not sad, but I am very soft. Tender in a way that I might be uncomfortable feeling were I not so worn out. It turns out that we can only carry the burden for so long before we break and that the brave face will lose its tone sooner or later. I am tired and emotional and feeling many of the big feelings that I spent the first half of the year managing so well. It is a lot and it is real and I am right here. In the middle of it.

I remember, toward the end of each of my pregnancies with the kids, feeling distinctly as though I were on a fast-moving freight train and that there was only one way to disembark and it was going to be intense. It was gonna hurt. It was gonna require every last ounce of who I am to make it through. This was true every single time. When you give birth you leave absolutely nothing on the table; the tank is well and truly empty.

It feels like that again now as we move, with what is beginning to feel like breakneck speed toward Maple’s move-out date. We are full throttle. Even in the slow and seemingly regular and mundane summer moments, we are speeding toward an end line. During these intermediary three weeks, while she is in Maine and the four of us are home, doing all of our things without her, we are practicing for when it is real. This is a dress rehearsal. And yet, we really do miss her. Every day. All day. With Freddy we chat about what she might be up to at any given moment and all of the things we cannot wait to tell her or show her once she is home. He misses Maple so much. With Eider, it is tender in a whole different way. He misses her in ways that I will never really understand. For him, it is as though the one person who keeps him tethered to his childhood simply because they shared so much of theirs, is gone now. In her absence, he has taken a step closer to the edge of his time with us. And he knows it. And so does Chris. And so do I. Even though three years is all the time in the world, and then some, it is also just around the bend; just over the horizon.

I am in big feelings about all of this. To be sure. Daily caregiving for a little kid, one who wants so very much to do with me most of every day, brings into hi-def the contrast, and the trajectory. I cared for both of my big kids in this way to. With so much intensity and immediacy. So much physicality. And while they still very much need me- I am not naive to that in the least- it is not in this whole body/whole being way that caring for Freddy is now. Which, of course, means that it will not always be this way with him either. One day my littlest will no longer live in the circle of my arms. Just the same as his big sister and brother. He will step to the edge and then step beyond the circle of our home and our lives here together. It will be Chris and me. (and probably lots of dogs and chickens and sheep… but even so). And the grief comes for me in the knowing. I see the path. I have walked it. I am walking it and I will walk it again. It is the goal. It is what I longed to do way back when I was only dreaming of mothering. To have them close and then to one day release them into the wide world.

So, as the day approaches, I busy myself with some of the regular summer tasks along with some new ones that involve establishing the systems of care for someone who is somewhere else. I am in no position now to muscle anything. I am soft. And I am tired. All I want is to enjoy any time we get to have together this summer, in all of our many configurations of five or four or three or two. I am trying to hold myself in the presence of the immense gift of the here and now, marveling at where we’ve been and where we might be headed. Even as my heart hurts nearly every minute, I still live in the very center of this utterly charmed life. To love and be loved. To both laugh and cry with the fullness of my being. To feel so deep and so big. This is all the very best stuff. This is the winning ticket. The ultimate blessing of life’s grand design. And I hope, I pray, that each of us, everywhere, gets to know this love, however we do. It is everything.