The Lilacs

{hanging hearts for healthcare workers}

 "Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get--a cold sick feeling, deep down inside--when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that you will never again quite be the same person you were."

— Jennifer Donnelly

When I was little, I remember the lilacs. They were growing against the side of our dilapidated, old garage, with large purple blooms that carried the most intense, beautiful scent my five year old self had ever experienced. I remember a feeling of intoxication with spring, with the flowers that towered over me, with the blue sky beyond them. My senses overwhelmed, it was all bigger than life and my smallness only made it all the more beautiful. Though so many parts of my childhood- ones that I thought were so significant, and would mark me forever- have long faded, that memory lingers still.

A few evenings ago, we walked through spotted sunlight on the sidewalk, tulips and flowering trees as our guide. Showers of sweet pink petals fluttered upon our worried heads, lining the street like a wedding aisle. The sun was beginning to fade, and laughs from the kids running ahead of us shone in the warm glow. It would all be so perfect if the world was not on fire.

{stores: empty}

All I keep wondering is this: what could they possibly think now? In fifty years, I won't want to read the stories from other adults about what happened in the year 2020. I'll want to know what they think, these little heart with so much change swirling around them. And yet, I'm afraid to ask.

I have written so much here, only to feel my hands give up typing before I can share what I feel. I want to say something worthy of it all. I want to write something that my children can read someday, and know my thoughts in this moment. But all that seems to come out just adds to the noise of politicians and TV channels. All that breathes out is anger, and shock, and bone-weary tiredness, and a discouragement unlike anything before. Every morning, I wake up, remember, and feel my heart drop. I don't know how to write about this. I don't know.

I can't make sense of this life. Nothing is right. The same way these masks are hiding mouths and disguising so much emotion and expression, I feel as if society has changed too much for me to recognize anymore. It's been over two months since quarantine started- quarantine, a word too quaint for our modern world, and now is discussed hourly, obsessively. And yet, just in March, I was sitting in an arena with Sky and thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, laughing at a comedian and buying beer and pretzels from a snack bar. The next day, they closed it down, and not a single show since. Am I lucky for that? Cursed? Did I escape a terrible reality, or am I living it now? Where am I?

{a food pantry sign that was posted in our neighborhood}

In 1918, the great flu pandemic took away the vibrancy of vision. It became a strange, telltale symptom of a quick and lethal disease. Colors lacked intensity and meaning. Everything was faded, saddened, as if life itself had fallen into a miserable depression while the whole world shook with a frightened pause. It feels the same today. Some people seem to almost rejoice in their open schedule, their cancelled plans, their forced rest. But I don't feel that rest. It's not just the fact that our home life hasn't changed much (something that I am ultimately grateful for, especially that we already homeschooled). It is that all those little things- sitting in a cheery cafe with the boys while Millie has a Spanish lesson, waiting for the piano teacher to knock on the door before suppertime, and even trying on ten shirts at the thrift shop only to put them all back- that gave life more meaning than I gave them credit for, and what felt frivolous before now feels like an essential part of the framework of life.

I have always been one for tradition. I am sentimental beyond all reason. But this year, there is to be no sentimentality because the traditions are gone. Swimming at the pool and getting snacks that melt all over our hands, startling, bright fireworks and noisy parades on the 4th of July, watching the Kentucky Derby for those few and swift thrilling minutes- the bookends of summer that held together the beauty of community and normalcy, the proof of a celebrated moment- disappeared. I have tried and tried to think differently about it, but it stings in a way I can't explain.

How is it possible that I disagree with both political parties and so many leaders? How is it that I can get angry at a stranger on Facebook? How can I feel frustrated with friends and family who are doing things we're told not to for the sake of others, or confused that it's supposed to be safe for them in one state, but not here in Illinois? How am I supposed to tell my kids that people are very sick, and so many more have lost their jobs, and that even the grown ups don't know what they're doing? We're supposed to be the voice of reason, but I feel like I've lost my voice completely.

{still can't believe how emotional this sight makes me}

When I was little, my worries felt big. Really, though, they were how far around the block I was allowed to ride my bike, and how I could talk my parents into letting me spend the night at a friend's house. I didn't have to worry about what surfaces I touched, or how close I stood to someone else, or why a park was closed. My parents didn't keep the news off because of the incessant briefings proclaiming loudly what the politicians still didn't know. And when I look at the faces of these three small people I'm entrusted with, my heart hurts terribly. My prayer is that they will never look at this kind of a life as normal.

Spring, of all times, is supposed to give us the grace of hope. I know, just like the scary parts of our history on this earth, that this will eventually fade. I know that something that will mark our generation in the deepest of ways will be forgotten in a few decades' time by many. I worry, I guess, about how long it will take to get to the luxury of forgetting. The unknown is the hardest part of all.

Until it becomes a memory, I have to do the small things that insist life is normal in some ways- tuck Millie and Walter in at night. Nurse Harry and watch him learn new things every day. Plan ways to celebrate three summer birthdays somehow. Tell Sky that I'm too tired to cook dinner. Sit on the front steps, looking at his baby toes. Look for a bicycle to take the kids on a neighborhood ride. Open my Bible to search for passages about joy in trouble. Take walks in the evening under beautiful dogwoods and cherry blossoms.

And I hope, in it all, that they don't remember the confusion, the panic, and sadness of what was lost. I hope they only remember the lilacs.

His Story & Mine: The Three Lions

"There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. 

But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment."
— Anita Diamant

Three times, I've met a lion face to face; the proof is soft, snuggled on my chest with tiny snores and a warm head full of velvet hair. And though I was shaking each time the lion's eyes met mine, I walked away without his teeth marks. I'll tell you how.

  

This time, I was more scared than I had ever been before.When pregnancy aches and pains would keep me up during the hours when the streetlights were glowing, I would hold those fears in my hands, turning them over and over until I had them memorized, examining every facet until I knew them by heart. The rounder my belly grew, the greater my anxiety. I compared it to being tied to train tracks, hearing the whistle screaming closer and closer. And while I could remind myself over and over that a billion women had done this before- that I had done this before, twice, no less- all I could feel was the fear. Friends would encourage me that I was getting so close to meeting my baby boy, that it would all be worth it- but the kicks often felt like echos, second to the task I had before me. I didn't know who I would be holding, but I did know the pain that was coming.

My mom flew in on a Sunday morning. My due date was that Tuesday, so I was glad she made it before he was born. Early Monday morning, I had some real contractions, much different from the Braxton Hicks I'd felt for months. I began to keep track of them for the first time, and realized they were close enough to go to the hospital by the midwives' standards, although I wanted to stay home as long as possible. I told Sky I didn't want him to drive to work. We all waited, unsure. After a few hours, however, they all but disappeared. Even after two previous labors, my body seemed confused. Emotionally, it was exhausting to feel like it was happening, only to have it all come to a halt. I didn't know what to think. But I had a doctor's appointment the following day, so I hoped to hear I had at least made some progress since the last one.

My due date: Tuesday morning at 3 am. I woke up. It wasn't unusual- I had dealt with insomnia for weeks, due to heartburn and an intense need to watch breathing/relaxing videos on YouTube, trying to prepare myself for it all. Around 6 am, I felt the same contractions as the day before. I timed them again, and again, they were close. Sky thought he should go to work, and I agreed- no point in missing days for nothing. My mom asked how I was doing and got herself ready just in case. After a little while, I decided I should probably get ready to go, too. I kept telling my mom that I wasn't sure if I should call Sky or not, until a few contractions helped me decide. Around 10:30 that morning, I called him to come home, then called my dad to pick up Millie and Walter. (I also called my midwife and let her know I needed to cancel the day's appointment, because it looked like I was having a baby instead. She laughed and wished me luck.) Once I knew everyone was in motion, I started to get really nervous, afraid that it would be another false alarm. By the time everyone got there, things had slowed a little. I said goodbye to the kids, and tried to figure out what to do. The contractions got farther apart. My mom brought up walking several times before I agreed, so she, Sky, and I took a very slow stroll around the block, and up and down our street a few times. I had to stop for each contraction, and could tell they were picking back up. They would talk about the features of a house we passed and I would chime in once the pain was over, describing the red flower vine overtaking the front of a home. Finally, I got too hot, and we went back indoors. I did some laps around the dining room table, still nervous to go early and trying to avoid an induction if I ended up getting admitted too soon.

{I took a photo before we left for the hospital- I knew it would be my last pregnant picture.}

But the pain slowly grew stronger, and the thought of having a baby in the car did not ease my anxiety, so eventually at around 2pm, I was ready to go. Once I got settled in the car, it felt more like an emergency than a quick jaunt down the road, and I asked Sky to hurry. Thirty seconds later, we hit the road construction on our street, and I nearly lost it for a second. We pulled up to the ER a few minutes later, and my mom helped me out while Sky parked the car. The receptionist asked if I was in labor, and then asked how far along I was- "Today is her due date!" I heard my mom exclaim. They sent for a wheelchair, and after a long elevator ride, in which everyone in the hospital got on and off, stopping at every floor (I'm looking at you, Karmen with a K), they wheeled me onto the L & D ward.

The pictures of newborn babies, the frosted glass doors, and the room signs brought back a floor of memories from Millie and Walter. I let out a sob, overwhelmed that I was back in the same space again. The nurse told me to change into a gown, and I started to worry again that it would all be for nothing. They quickly checked to see how dilated and effaced I was, then told me I was staying, and got me to a delivery room. I remember Sky pointing out the baby bed at some point, and being slightly surprised and in awe of it, even then.

We talked with the nurse a while, met the midwife on call, and I settled in with a birthing ball, rolling my hips, and looking out the big windows that gave a view of our town and beyond, all green and sunny. Sky and my mom took turns rubbing my back, and the nurse checked on us often, stopping to laugh at The Office episode that was playing. The whole room began to fade into the background as the contractions intensified, and I got into the shower to get more pain relief. There was a bench to sit on, and my mom and Sky held the shower head over my belly while continuing to rub my back. I felt so selfish during this time, knowing they had to be tired, but feeling like I needed them too much to ask them to stop. Sky turned on the worship music playlist I had made a couple weeks prior, and I tried to breathe through each contraction as I listened to the familiar songs from church float in the air, trying not to get emotional when I heard "It Is Well". I didn't even know if I would be present enough to hear any music, but I was so thankful that I could focus on it, and have the constant reminder that God was there with me.

After changing positions in the shower, I made my way back to the ball for just a while, until it was time to get onto the bed. With Millie, I had pictocin and an epidural, and a horrible experience with them. With Walter, I didn't have any medication, and while it was very intense, it was a better decision for me. This time, the only option I wanted them to offer me was the nitrous oxide gas, based on what I had read and what I thought was best for myself. Someone brought it up, and I said yes. They told me how to breathe, but the mask felt a little suffocating, so I did the best I could, trying to find the energy to raise it up to my face as the next wave hit. The midwife had tried to talk to me about breaking my water, but I did not know how I could handle more pain, or less breaks between it. Finally, my mom pulled her aside, worried that I was getting too exhausted. My mom explained to me that it was my choice, but she didn't want me to become to tired to push, and I agreed. After all, it had been over 16 hours since my first contraction at this point- a far cry from the short labor I had hoped for/expected, since Walter was only 5.

  

Once my water was broken, things happened quickly like the midwife promised. She told me there was a little meconium, so the NICU team would be called in just to be on the safe side. I pushed for about an hour and a half, feeling completely drained of energy, very hot, and nervous. Towards the very end, they made me turn onto one side, then another, and then gave me oxygen and fluids. I started to worry about the baby, and started to get nervous about the possibility of a c-section, because it was threatened with Millie. The midwife told me to curl my body around the baby, tuck my chin in, and push, and though I had stopped being able to respond much to anyone hours ago, I heard her voice in the distance and gave it everything I had. 

Once you've had a baby before, you know the signs. I felt as if nothing was happening until that moment when there is a spark that sets the whole room on fire. Suddenly, I heard the midwife say to page NICU. With Sky on one side of the bed and my mom on the other, I heard their encouragement heighten, and everyone's voices got higher. The quiet nurse began to speak up, too.The lamp on the baby bed, which looked miles away, got switched on as the nurses poured into the room. I felt a huge gush and heard a cry. He was here.

  

I don't remember the order of what happened after that. I know the placed him right on my chest, and his crying was a relief. I remember seeing Sky wiping tears from his eyes, and giving me a kiss. I remember my mom holding him for the first time. And when the nurse asked what we bet he weighed, none of us guessed the 9 lbs he was. We all laughed at the size of his footprints, and marveled that when they placed him on his belly on the warmer, he lifted up his head like he had forgotten to be a newborn first. He was born at 12:34 am on August 14- just 34 minutes past his due date. If I hadn't been so stubborn about breaking my water, he likely would have been there right on time.

By the time we got to our postpartum room, it was 4:30 am, and I had been awake for over 24 hours. Sky and my mom were completely exhausted, and while he drove her home and brought our bags up from the car, I held our new son, marveling that it was all over and he was finally in my arms. All of the last year- the surprise of those two pink lines on the test, the papers from the emergency room with "threatened miscarriage" typed on them, the night I thought I was losing him, and all the aches, pains, sleepless nights from the heartburn, and crying desperate tears from the severe nausea- it was all gone. 

I've conquered one of my biggest, deepest fears- three times. When Sky told me he was proud of me, my heart could not have been more full. It's not the length of the labor, the medication used or how big the babies were (although I am certainly not above claiming the extra credit if I get any)...it's that I did it. My body did it. By God's grace, they are all here, all healthy, all wonderful, and I am their mama.

~

Tonight, I was looking at your eyes as you dreamily stared at mine. It's amazing that we share a story together, and that I remember some of it before you, but you'll continue it long after I am gone. You'll never know who I was before we met. But I hope that, someday, I will be able to look down from Heaven and watch your life in full, because my heart will still be with you, loving you. You see, Harry, it's you, Millie, and Walter that make me a mama, and along with your dad, are the people I most adore.

I love you, my darling boy. I am so glad you were made for us, and that God put together those cheeks, the softness of your hair, and your inquisitive, searching eyes just for your dad and I, just so we could be the ones to start you on your journey in this world.

I'm so happy that you're home. 

Our Maternity Photographs

{Photography by kDarling Photography}

 “In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. 

You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.” 

― Rumi

Two weeks earlier, I was running my hands over dresses at Goodwill. A soft dress seems like the most comfortable thing to wear these days. I pulled out a minty blue-green that was $5.99, and took it home with me that day.

Not long after, I was talking with our friend and family photographer, Kristin. I say friend, not because she is who we call when I get the itch for updated family pictures, as I'm always desperate to capture the stage that Millie and Walter are in before it disappears forever. She's truly become a friend, because after ten photo sessions- beginning, funnily enough, with maternity pictures when I was pregnant with Walter- there's such an openness and comfortableness with her. She knows us so well, and always finds a way to show Millie and Walter exactly how they look through my own eyes. She also uses light in the most beautiful, indescribable way, and now that she shoots with film (a talent all its own), there seems to be this intangible magic there even more than before.

So earlier this month, I pulled the mint dress from the closet, gathered what I could find for Sky and the kids, and met her at a park down the street. The sun was at the perfect point as it began to set, the air was calm, and the glow and haze around us felt so appropriate.

When I saw the first photo come back from Kristin, I looked at Sky, and said, "Look at us. Look how happy we are." Because despite the physical and emotional toll this pregnancy has taken, we are so very, very happy- deeply n love with each other, with this new baby boy that we'll meet in mere weeks, and with the shape our family is taking. I could not imagine a more beautiful life, and now it's captured on film for us forever.

Thank you, Kristin. It means the world.

 

 

The Questions

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." 

— Zora Neale Hurston

Nearly every night, as I tuck Walter into his bed and say a quiet prayer with him, I see his lip trembling in the murky glow from his nightlight on the wall. His voice begins to shake and then he asks me. "Is Daddy coming home tomorrow?" I reassure him that he is, and that he'll be home for dinner as usual. "But I miss him," he says, his tiny murmur breaking a little. Every time, the same. He's not leaving just yet, love. He'll be home tomorrow. But I'm running out of days I can promise that.

People have asked the questions even before I was his wife. He's coming home soon, though? He doesn't have to deploy at all, because he's not active duty? Or, he doesn't have to deploy again because he's already been to Afghanistan, right? As if there is an Army punch card like the kind they hand out at a smoothie shop, and once you've checked that box of deployment, it's just counting the days until retirement and easiness. 

He has been away most of this summer, partly due to pre-deployment, and partly for "regular" military training. During the last time, as we talked in the car, Millie said she missed him, but she was getting used to him being gone. My heart sank. She told me the Army makes her sad because he has to go places a lot, and all I could do is nod from the front seat, and try to let her know I agree without crying in front of her. The night after he came home, Walter asked, "You don't have to go back to Georgia for a while, do you?" He needed that reassurance, even at three years old. And we had to break the news about the deployment the next day.

But it's their questions, the most innocent questions, that break me. Where is Daddy's toothbrush? Why is his car here? Is he on an airplane? Where is Georgia? Where is Virginia? Where is Afghanistan? Did Daddy fight people? Can Daddy fix this toy when he gets back? What chair is the one Daddy sits in- I forget? Where is he going this time? Where is that country? Why does he have to go?

For someone who usually finds respite and refuge in words, I'm suddenly without them. 

He probably won't get leave to visit us halfway through and make it a little easier. I can't dress that up to make it prettier. I can't shrink the distance, or improve the wifi signal for Skype, or change the time zone there to match ours. Instead, we'll sleep as he wakes, and he'll go to bed as we're getting up. He'll be doing his job in the heat of the day while we are quiet in our beds, and when he rests, we will be busy with school, and errands, and life that has to continue to be lived in Illinois.

We took a small trip to St. Louis last weekend. I desperately wanted the kids to have a large, shining memory of our family and our time with him before he leaves, and it was just that. We laughed, and ate too much, and visited family. Most of the time, I could push the deployment towards the back of my mind, and while never completely gone, I felt the weight drop from my shoulders a little. Now, as we return back to every day life for a brief amount of time, all I can do is look at the calendar with dread. The tears are back, and it's turned from a bitter rage to a choking panic. We talk about it late at night, and he lets me cry and say all the things I need to say until I'm able to catch my breath.

I am running out of questions to ask, because no matter the details, I know he simply won't be home with us. So instead, I try to answer theirs. I tell them we'll send boxes because he'll miss the holidays. I encourage them to go on a walk with him or read an extra story at bedtime. I assure them he will be safe. I set my jaw so that I can answer all the questions without worrying them.

But then, when it's just the two of us, I ask him over and over- do you have to go? Then I close my eyes and hope that the answer will be different than all the nights before, and hug him tight while I still can.   

Yellow Fireflies & Green Corn

"those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night." 

— Mark Strand

June is supposed to be a month when time slows. We sit on long front porches with glasses of sweet tea, talking a little more slowly, our posture a little more relaxed, with less to do and less to think. That's how it should be, in my mind. But instead, June has been a series of busy moments, of loud, brief thunderstorms, blinding sunlight, and humid nights beginning to glow with the gentle luminescence of fireflies looking wistfully at the stars.

So much has happened since I last wrote- none of it very important but to our little family. Still, there are milestones, memories, birthdays, and long stretches of time apart that compel me to stretch out on my bed and type for a while.

First, we recently wrapped up our beginning year of homeschooling, and more importantly, Millie's kindergarten year. It's strange to think that she was a newborn in my arms nearly six years ago, that those years have gone by like days, and that she will begin first grade in the fall. We spent a lot of time on reading, of course, and there is nothing that compares to witnessing that process. I watched her bloom into reading sentences after sounding out three letter words over and over again. Perhaps most amazing was seeing her handwriting that I've helped form, leaning with her over the lines and the curves until she's confident enough, after a few misspellings, to write "I love you Mommy" on a construction paper card, with magazine scraps cut out and glued to it. She also attended a homeschooling co-op, and it was wonderful to make friends who are learning the same way.

Walter, who still feels like my baby, will be three this month. The last two days, I've sold a dresser and rocking chair to make space in his room for a twin bed. They were both pieces- probably the only ones left- that we used when each baby came home from the hospital. I had a little cry after they were gone. Sky and I haven't completely shut the door to the notion of having one more child, but it's slowly creaking to a close and days like today remind me of that. I was never one to imagine my children, or to dream about how many I would have someday. But when I quickly learned just how fast they grow, my heart doesn't want to forget what it's like with a newborn on my chest, soft and warm and impossibly perfect. Thank goodness Walter still loves to snuggle with me.

{photos by Kristin of k darling photography}

Sky has been away all month, completing more training for his Army career. It's always interesting to see how the time apart will be, because every time he leaves means leaving kids of different ages than what they were the time before. I never exactly know what to expect, and this time was no exception. Millie, Walter, and I were really down when he first left. It's kind of a helpless, lost feeling. Thankfully, we planned swim lessons for Millie during two of the weeks he'd be gone, and that has helped us stay busy and entertained. She finished them up today, triumphant and elated that she can swim underwater now. Walter and I splashed in the baby pool, I got a slight tan and then a less-than-slight sunburn, and we were happy and thankful for the fresh air, albeit in 90 degrees.

The biggest differences with this time away are the quiet nights and subdued moments of the day, when I pause for a breath and remember my husband isn't here. So many times, earlier in our marriage, I would wonder if the only thing keeping us together was the forced time away from each other. But in the early morning hours after he drove to the airport, the tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could do was whisper, "Thank you, God." I know that my heart needs his, and that is a gift and a miracle. The three of us here are so proud of him, and we're ready for him to come home.

The photos here were shot by someone who has not only been taking pictures for our family since Walter was in my belly, but by someone who has become a friend, too. She's been on much of the journey with us, and though we have had lots of beautiful pictures of the kids as they've grown, I couldn't help but stare at the one of our whole family that she took a couple days before Sky had to go. I love where we are now, and the hope of where we'll be. How blessed we are to be together.

So perhaps June hasn't been lazy and calm the way it is in stories. For us, it's been a time of growth, of beating sun and the smell of chlorine, of long distance phone calls and 'goodnight's from far away, and a time with two little people who seem to be a bit bigger and older every second. It's bittersweet, and it is filled with the broken and beautiful moments that string one day onto the next. The cornfields are so green and climbing high, and if the corn is good, it must be a good summer in Illinois.

The Sewing Machine

 "I know you're tired but come, this is the way." 

— Rumi

In December, my mama was here for a visit. One night, long after Millie and Walter were tucked into their beds, we brewed some tea and dug out my sewing machine. It was bought years ago and was primarily used for collecting dust. She made adjustments here and there, explained the mechanics, and promised to help me learn. And in my deep desire to make and to do and to be motherly, the idea thrilled me.

I have many memories of lingering near her sewing machine as she measured, cut, and stitched. I can still hear the sound from her room across the hall, even though she's on the other side of the country now. There was a red satin dress with pearl buttons and puffed sleeves that she made me for Christmas, a little doll with a flowered gown and bonnet, the green jumper I wore on St. Patrick's day, the pastel for Easter, and a few dozen more. That machine was always humming away.

The next morning, with the kids crowding around the table to play with scraps and measuring tapes, Mom showed me how to make a quick pillowcase. The technique made an easy idea even easier, and in just a few minutes, Millie was clutching her pink and purple flowered flannel, while Walter made joyful exclamations over his cotton train print. After Mom left, I set the sewing machine on the end of the kitchen table, determined to make a pillowcase on my own. That was nearly two months ago, and I haven't sewn a single stitch.

It used to be the same with reading, especially when I had to juggle schoolwork as well. While I've gotten better at working through books these days, it's still not at the pace I did at 10 or 20 years old. My days are so different now. I don't remember them being anything other than filled to the brim.

I'm tired. Most nights, my eyes are sore from it. I got a small taste of it in pregnancy. I expected the tiredness then, and the sleepless nights that would follow, but imagined life leveling off after the first year or so. During the second pregnancy, it hit even harder. Here I am with two little ones, and despite being able to sleep though the night (baring sickness or storms), the energy I used to have hasn't returned. I find myself daydreaming about a meal train and help with laundry for moms of children under 18- never mind new mothers. I still have to look up the recipe for lasagna, even though it barely needs one and I've made it one hundred times. I'm too tired for much memory.

It begins before I open my eyes and find pieces of light breaking through the blinds. I hear little voices talking, or singing, or calling for mama. I stumble through breakfast with decaf coffee, get them dressed and sometimes dress myself, and the day has started. It's full of school to teach, places to go, appointments and lunches and laundry and nap times that seem to flutter by too quickly.

I'm so sleepy that I can't make a pillowcase. Maybe tomorrow, I tell myself, when I have less to do, less to clean, an easier supper to cook or less errands to run. Their bedtimes stories leave little energy for some of my own. As the night grows dark and the baths are done, my plans change from reading a few chapters from one of the books in my towering stack, to flipping through a mindless magazine instead, to giving up completely and hoping Downton Abbey isn't a rerun. Mostly, I just wonder how my own parents managed, and how they had any energy left to unfold the newspaper after dinnertime.

And yet, there is an irony. People talk a lot about their truth, or a great touchstone in their lives, and this is mine; I find such sweet rest in those two little people who have the loveliest faces I've ever seen. In those hugs, the kind that wrap all the way around my neck as if they're holding on so not to be swept away in a wild current. In the sleepy sweat of their hair in the dark, when I check on them one more time and whisper things for them to hear in their dreams. In holding their small, soft hands as we cross the street on a walk. In watching as they sit side by side on the couch, turning pages in a book and exchanging outlandish thoughts in a way only a five year old and two year old could do.

I give them this part of me, this very strength I have to go through the day, because they somehow give it back tenfold in the smallest moments. We dance through this give and take, through the exhaustion and the exhilaration, because it is all we know and all we could ever hope for in life. And though the sewing machine may have to wait for a few more days, and then a few more after that, I know when the house is still, we have done what we could do that day. The rest that comes in this is more than enough.