These moments, this story

I walked outside to get the mail this evening, hoping for a particular delivery that wasn’t there. The view up my street -- the long shadows of trees spilling across freshly-mowed lawns, the sunshine still gleaming between them -- made up for that little disappointment, though. The air smells divine, full of grass, the weekend’s rain, blossoms, and light. I love winter, but I am so ready for spring, and spring in the Pacific Northwest makes me glad to be alive and in possession of a healthy set of lungs.

I came back inside to the pile of toys on the family room carpet, the pile of dishes in the sink from the morning’s coffee and Matt’s lunch, the pile of papers from Suzannah’s backpack, the pile of laundry waiting next to the washing machine. The familiar chaos. The ebb and flow. The things in these rooms write the stories of our lives right now.

I love the stories. I hate the clutter.

But tonight I lack the energy to be terribly upset about it. This morning, Isaac received word that I have taught for nearly two full weeks without missing any days for sick children or senior orals or jury duty, and he responded by waking up with a fever of 101 degrees, a cough, and a bad attitude. After yet another rousing game of “Who can stay home today?” it was determined that Matt would work at home and I would go to school. Tomorrow, we will trade, each of us hoping desperately that all will be well by Wednesday because we both have Very Important Things going on. (I struggle with this. I don’t believe my work is less important, and neither does Matt, but my work is not the work that pays all our bills. So I struggle with a neverending stream of guilt and worry that no matter what, no matter what, I am letting someone down. And at the back of all that is the worry that if I get sick, there are no days left for me.)

It was a beautiful day. Perfect day for a run. Isaac was sleeping hard when Suzannah and I came home from school today, and Matt asked if I wanted go, and I did, and I’d looked forward to that all day -- a good head-clearing run in the sunshine. But I stayed up too late this weekend, and all the resolve drained out of me in that moment. What I wanted was a nap, a thing that doesn’t happen for me on weekdays. Matt returned to his work, and Suzannah busied herself with her usual afternoon activities and a snack, and I sank into the couch cushions. Matt woke me over two hours (two! hours!) later.

“You should have gotten me up sooner!” I sputtered. “I was going to go to the store for dinner things!”

“We have everything we need for black bean burritos,” he said. “Let’s just have that. You were really tired.”

I was really tired. I am still really tired. Isaac’s fever flourishes. Is it strange that normal childhood illnesses make me feel more anxious than in-the-moment traumas (of falls, for instance, resulting in blood and loose teeth)? It’s the dread, the insidious dread. Can we protect our other child? Ourselves? (Because my son wants to be held, and though he is no longer nursing he still lays claim to my body as an extension of his own. His sister can keep her distance; his mother cannot, and will not.) How long will this last? I’d sort of like to have a nice, self-indulgent cry right now, but I’m in the middle of other things.

I don’t know what the week holds for us. Matt and I haven’t had a night out alone together in forever and I find myself reaching out to touch him as he walks by in the kitchen, just to grasp some little connection that is just ours. All I see is the laundry, the dishes, the little plastic cups with the sticky orange remains of children’s ibuprofen. This, right now, is my story.

And at the end of the day I still understand that it’s part of a bigger one, the only one I really want to be writing. But I’m eager to push through it anyhow, because the beautiful bigger picture is difficult to see in the smaller, stickier moments.