If I Had Time to Write, This Is What I’d Say…
Oct 21 2014
I have things to write, you guys. Stuff to say. Some of it’s drivel, as usual, but some of it’s important.
I want to write about having a kid with special needs and what it means to live with constant, evolving grief while still looking for the joy.
I want to write about how annoying it is when people say, “You think two is hard? TWO? Just wait ’til your kid turns THREE. THAT’S hard,” because three IS worse than two — it TOTALLY IS — except when two is worse than three. And parenting teenagers is WAY, WAY HARDER than parenting littles, unless, you know, parenting littles is harder than parenting teens.
I want to write about how our experiences and our feelings about parenting and life are valid and important even when they’re different than someone else’s experiences and feelings.
I want to write about the ways close families have to WORK and WORK to be close and to compromise and to champion and choose each other, because family — even really wonderful family — is hard. Life-giving and hard. Joyful and hard. Beautiful and hard. Because the people closest to us are the people most able to hurt us and the most motivated to help us heal, and that’s a strange, awful, awesome mixed up mess to navigate.
I want to write about farting and why 8 year old boys like to sit on their mommy’s lap and snuggle down and then let a giant one rip. Why? WHY? WHY IS IT THIS WAY?
I want to write about ages 8 and 9 so often being the gateway to preadolescence and how we never see that one coming. Just never. And so, no matter how many children we raise, we’re always blindsided by all the feelings and the oh my gosh, FREAK OUTs, and the ups and the downs… and the downs and the downs. And I want to write about how it’s worth it because these children, even with all the FEELINGS, can get themselves and all their stuff in and out of the car by themselves which is a MIRACLE. A MIRACLE! They get themselves IN AND OUT OF THE CAR, you guys. You don’t have to carry them there! You DON’T HAVE TO HELP WITH SEATBELTS. You can say things like, “Jump in the car. I’ll meet you there in a minute.” AND THEY DO IT. Do you understand what I’m saying? DO YOU?! THERE IS HOPE. Even with all the EMOTIONS and ups and downs downs downs, THESE CHILDREN CAN PUT ON THEIR OWN DARN SEATBELTS.
I want to write about my front door. How it’s dirty and scratched and stained and how the red paint has faded to a dull, fingerprinted orange. I want to tell you about how happy it makes me to write on it with a chalk pen, even though I know it’ll add another stain like the skull and crossbones you can see etched into the paint from Halloween last year. I want to talk about the joy of welcoming people to our mess this way. To the madness. To the chaos. And I want to talk about the small smile I smile when I walk through the door and remember to look for the magic here.
I want to write about Autumn. About the sunset maples outside my house and the way they’ve turned orange and red.
I want to write about the changing of the seasons and how this one feels so much slower than summer and so much faster all at once with Halloween and Thanksgiving and Christmas barreling down upon us. I want to write about how unprepared I am for the season that’s coming and about how I don’t care and also about how I do.
I want to write about whether I can stop long enough to enjoy this season of life or whether, like I suspect, it’ll move past me in a blur. I want to write about the ways I wonder whether my writing will be a comfort to me in my later years. Will I know I at least wanted to be present? Will it be a reminder that I wasn’t somehow ignoring this life? Will I know I was just very busy trying to love my people well? To feed them literally and figuratively. To comfort them. To heal the hurts I caused. To heal the ones I didn’t. To fully live, even at the speed that is this season.
I want to write all these things, but I can’t because I’ve run out of time.
P.S. The kids keep getting sick. Not real sick. Not pukey sick or up-all-night sick or, heaven forbid, wash-all-the-sheets sick. No; they’re they best kind of sick, really. Snuggly sick. I-can-get-my-own-popsicle sick. Go-to-sleep-early sick. But sick nonetheless. So I don’t have time to write the things I want to write. But I will. Soon. Because sick only lasts a season, too. x’s and o’s, fellow warriors. x’s and o’s.