She is Four

These days it’s been all about survival. When I wake up in the morning my goal is to make it through my cup of coffee without throwing up. Then, once that is under my belt, my goal becomes basic housework and child tending...again, without throwing up. This requires lots of sit down moments in chairs placed strategically around my house, and as few trips to the refrigerator as possible since the sight and smell of food, especially leftovers, tends to erase all progress I’ve made in the nausea area. 

All in all the house is unpacked and we are settled in. That feels good and right, even though my favorite place is still under the warm covers of our bed. 

Last night as I was putting the kids to bed I had an all too typical mothering moment. I asked the girls to clean up the room they share before bedtime. Sylvia finds it hilarious to wait until Sasha has cleaned a pile of toys and then come behind her and dump them out all over the floor again. Once she’s punished for such actions (which are terrible and simultaneously hilarious), Sylvia resorts to laying on the floor and singing songs while Sasha furiously cleans. It doesn’t take long before Sasha realizes that she is the only one cleaning and sits down on her bed in a huff, refusing to do the work alone. Needless to say, while the girls are cleaning I usually have to supervise, correct, and keep them on track. It’s mostly Sylvia. She’s two and acting like three and every single issue is an issue. Yet, her noxious behaviors bring out Sasha’s and it’s a vicious cycle. So, I end up teaching Sasha that she must work and clean with a happy heart even if things seem unjust (oh thank Heaven for Cinderella’s example at this point). I tell her that she must give me room to mete out justice in the situation and not take matters into her own hands. I tell her that when she reacts to her sister I end up having to punish them both instead of just Sylvia, which hardly seems fair but is in fact right.

I don’t even need to point out the way this scenario humbles me. There have been countless times when I’ve shaken my fist at the sky and argued with God about the injustice confronting me. It’s only later that I’ve realized I’ve gotten in the way and slowed down the whole process. Just another parenting moment that catches my breath and transforms the mundane. 

But last night something else happened too. I was noticing, as I watched the girl’s clean, that Sasha was reacting to her sister’s feistiness with an undue level of frustration. Beyond the typical, that is. Instead of huffing and puffing she went straight to full out throwing herself on the floor and crying buckets of tears.  It’s in moments like these that I thank God for His little whispers of insight. I certainly don't have those insights on my own! Oh how many times I’ve completely lost it when confronted with such a scene. I have given full leash to my anger, spanked both girls, put them to bed, and abandoned their room to deal with the mess later. But last night, completely contrary to my own depleted reserves of energy, I felt that something was different. I watched my beautiful little girl writhe on the floor in tears and knew there was more to this. 

So, I gathered her up in my arms, all gangly legs and snotty nose, and put my face close to hers. I told her I’m sad when she’s sad. I told her I needed her to talk to me because I love her and she’s an important part of our family. And she melted. She pulled herself up in a ball on my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck and talked. And I was amazed. 

She said she wanted to go back to our white house and never leave because then her Daddy wouldn’t have walked down the street and died. 

She said she wanted to move back to Florida to be close to her Mammaw. (They have a bond that is undoubtedly strong).

She said it’s hard to be good when she’s sad.

She said she wanted her Daddy and couldn’t find him anymore. 

The true miracles in my life are that I make it through these moments intact. Only by the Grace of God. I’ve had several of these conversations with Samuel but very few with Sasha, and none before this one that was so direct. So poignant. Which of course makes sense. She is turning four in a few days and I learned early on in this journey that children process and reprocess their grief as they approach developmental milestones. This simply means that I have to answer the same questions cyclically with my children. I can usually expect such things as birthdays approach or when they learn something hugely new...like when Samuel learned how to read and we had to go over the story again. And it is a story. Children need narratives and honestly I need one too. Yet it never gets easier to tell the story. It just never gets easier to see my children’s heartbreak or hear their honest grief and loss. It’s something I can never fix or heal. That truth is so devastating at times as a parent. I want to fix it for them. I don’t enjoy seeing something broken. I cling to the promise that we are jars of clay and the best light shines out of the jars with cracks and chips. My children are chipped and cracked already with a lifetime before them of more events and decisions and hurts that will fracture them even more. And all I can think is that they have the potential to be the brightest shining jars I’ve ever seen. I have to think that way.

After getting all of her words out Sasha relaxed and I was able to love on her. I told her that her Daddy in heaven was so proud of her and loved her still. I told her that he loves the sound of her voice because when she was very little her Daddy used to worry that she wouldn’t be able to talk well...and now she talks all the time with the sweetest and most precious voice. I told her that I am sorry. For everything. I rocked my long and lean and beautiful baby girl who is almost four and I loved her so much in that moment that it seemed my heart would shatter. There are things that are too much for words.

I tucked my sweet girl into bed and the others followed suit. I took a bath and prayed and settled things within myself. And then I got to do something new for me...I talked to my husband about it all. We stayed up late and ate pizza rolls and learned. I’m deeply grateful.  Yesterday someone told me, after hearing the story of my recent marriage, that they love a happy ending. I understand what they mean...but it’s a wrong assessment. There will never be a happy ending. There is just healing and understanding and somehow a way forward that isn’t alone.