m + 2 days

Amidst my early morning thought spin cycle - a jumble of thinly connected inner ramblings about life after Meghan, being a mother of four (boys), Peyton Manning and getting son number one to school despite his waking declaration of illness - I decided I would put it down on paper. Or computer screen. I hate the idea of a blog, everyone has one, and next to no one should...but that is another day's topic.

I had my fourth son just short of ten days ago. And, despite an eleventh hour panic attack that the impossible weight of having four children would overshadow the mothering instinct in me and render me incapable of loving him at all, Liam is the love of my life...yet again. For a moment, a brief, ephedrine crazed, narcotic glazed moment, as I pushed this baby out of my body, as I partook in creation, and looked at this baby's tiny face...For a moment, I understood (ever so dimly) how God would have stretched His right arm across time and space for just one of His children. How He can love each one of us so completely, so perfectly, I could feel it in the love I suddenly and inexplicably felt for this little one they were laying in my arms. Ten days later, the noise and clutter of "real life" have been turning my gaze from the light of that truth, from the lightness of that love and seem to be placing a heavy, and again, unbearable weight on my shoulders.

My sister Meghan, probably the best friend I have in life, the one person who truly understands me (as much as a person can understand another), the adult to whom I best relate, left my house on Saturday. Today is M +2, my second day after Meghan. My first day doing this thing by myself. Sidebar: I visited my sisters Wendy and Meghan after each of their first couple of kids...I think I was under the impression that these were social visits. Sure, I tried to be mildly helpful, certainly tried not to be a burden, but in light of what Meghan did for me last week, I am going to publicly apologize to the two of them for so woefully missing the mark of a proper post-partum doula. She cleaned my house every day. She did regular cleaning, deep cleaning, rationalization (as my dad would say) of closets, cabinets and all manner of "storage" messes. She parented my older children, took my six year old to school and back, shopped for me, cooked for us. God literally ordered events so that she could arrive the day after I came home from the hospital. It was nothing short of a miracle.

But now she is gone. And my mind wanders, and wonders, and says how the bleep am I going to do this without her. I got Sebastien off to school: fed, dressed, and carrying a lunch in his backpack. I got Jake and Oliver bathed and dressed for the day. I even took my own shower. I ventured downstairs and was so relieved to find the living area still pretty clean and as I rounded the corner to the kitchen my heart sank. The sink was filled to high heaven with foul dirty dishes. The table was cluttered from last night's meal. Oh God Help me...and twenty minutes later I had cleaned the dishes and moved the pile to dry on the counter ( because my dishwasher is broken) and I had cleaned up the mess from the table, and swept the floor, and killed a few hundred ants.

An hour and a load of laundry and a breakfast batch of dishes later, I sat down to start this blog. My mobile, vocal, middle two sons have interrupted me with their incessant fighting begging for treats of all kinds, attention deficit-ed requests for movies, games, book reading, paper to color, cut, paint and I am reminded of my dad's favorite saying: "THESE are the things that make a rich man poor." No, he actually said it the other way around, for his quiver was full of nine children and he wanted that counted as righteousness on his part. But his actions, and the way he said it and nearly everything else he said to/about his children, had a way of translating the actual words he said into the above quote. And there I was, yelling at my sons to leave me alone for ONE SECOND, so I could blog about how much I love them. I hate that about myself, that my earthly father's influence has such an affect on me...that by observation and unwitting conformation, I can so accurately mirror his reaction toward normal childhood behavior...that as Paul would say "what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." My thoughts accuse me, and berate me, and ask myself, is this love? is this why you have children? is this why you have had yet another child? this is why people look at you funny at Target. that guy from Rick's work is right, you shouldn't be so busy populating the earth. Asked and answered.

But thanks be to God! Paul reminds us of our rescue from this "body of death." That Christ did indeed bring salvation to me, and that I can sit here, nursing Liam, cuddling Oliver, watching Jake eat the popcorn I finally made for him as he watches the movie the two of them at last agreed upon. OK so the house isn't as clean as it was two days ago, and it will incrementally get filthier as the days without Meghan progress. But, I had those 5.5 days with her, sharing her much missed adult company, enjoying my relaxation without having to worry about a single chore and basking in the knowledge that things that hadn't been touched in two years were being organized by her capable hands. I am still way ahead of the game. And OK, so i lost my temper (more than once) with my kids this morning, but those moments were short lived and there are so many more good moments that we can, and I hope they will, choose to remember instead. And OK, this blog is pretty rambling and may have wandered far from the point, but there is less clutter in my mind and maybe you enjoyed reading this (if anyone ever actually reads this!) or at least made you feel a little better about your own madness. Blog - 1, Constant inner monologue - less annoying. So far so good.