Thoughts from the Kitchen, by Way of the Stars

I hold his little body flush against my chest, switching the arm underneath him as I move through mundane tasks. One-handed, I put a filter in the coffee pot, measure the grounds and pour the water... rinse the utensils and put them in the dishwasher... replace the butter in the fridge and pull out the half and half. We do our everyday dance across the kitchen, and my heart breaks.


 My heart breaks for the reality that he is NOT the center of my universe, even though his 18-month-old self would will that to be true. It's immutable. He has to learn to share my focus... and to know he has ENOUGH, even when he doesn't have it ALL, RIGHT NOW.


My head says it would be to the child's detriment if I rearranged everything to revolve around him -- but it breaks my heart, all the same. To know how much happier he would be, every day, if I simply did everything he wanted, right when he wants it. How much more laughter we would have in our house, how many fewer tantrums and wails and snot and tears. How I cannot bend to his very small, very tiny will. I doubt myself; I question, repeatedly. On the best days I assess I'm doing OK. But what a daily crush of the spirit.


 My hearts breaks for how frustrated he is when he thinks he's said a thing, and what comes out is incomprehensible. Even to his mama. How he rails against my misunderstanding. He acts as if I'm willfully getting it ALL.WRONG.ON.PURPOSE! No matter how many times I patiently say, "I don't understand, baby. Can you say the word again? ...Say it again, please!" Then, when I lose all patience -- because he's already melting down on the bathroom rug, flinging his head against the tile floor and swearing in that tiny person way they curse without any cursing schema -- my heart breaks for both of us. I walk away. I "shake it off." Some days I yelp in psychic pain. But it all hurts.


 My heart breaks for how much MORE he has to learn. And how HARD learning is. Such large leaps he's making, all the time. And, still, thousands of thoughts and small experiences lie ahead to be processed, incorporated, put together and accepted. One day his emotions will allow me to do the ordinary things (make his toast, get dressed) without an outburst or complete breakdown. I have never mothered a child with bigger wants or deeper needs at this stage of life. ...And the older two were no picnic for their first four years, I might point out. But this one goes beyond. He cries for more food when his mouth is full of food. He screams and throws things when he is currently GETTING WHAT HE WANTS -- but isn't getting an excess of what he wants. He cajoles and manipulates and demands and loves and adores us, all in the same interaction. He is -- I say it with grudging respect and deep reverence for how this kid is made -- a piece of work. And it nearly breaks me, completely, every day.


I wonder, idly, waiting for the coffee to perk or the last minute of a wash cycle to complete, why I don't run away? Why I haven't given up? I won't. I'm pretty sure. ;) But the "why" is not always clear. Is it because I'm missing some logic gene that says, "cut your losses, already, lady!" Am I too stubborn to quit mothering? Too idealistic? (Fourteen years in, how could that even be?!)


 It's God, I figure. The God who set the stars in motion, who moved across the deep and ordered the chaos. He who first imagined growing things, seeds and seasons and cycles of life... That God holds me in place the same way He keeps the planets in orbit.


 He does it by imagining me, too.  Me at my beginning; me at my best.   That giant God of the Universe?  He helped form me, and he notices me, too. Even now. In my kitchen with a snotty, emotionally exhausted little boy heavy in my arms. He knows me and he loves me. And that love won't let me go.


 So I hang on. I stay in orbit. I spin and I dance, every day, a sentient Heavenly body set in a Milky Way of small obstacles. I spin and sometimes I collide. Battered, I keep moving.


 All the while, I hold in cupped palms this tiny, little life currently full of broken bits and temper tantrums. A fragile treasure of not only beautiful things, but also of disappointed expectation, of tears and struggle and sometimes terrible behavior. (Mine and the baby's!) In this life, in this time, I, too, throw things. The words of my prayers and heart are often unintelligible, at cross purposes to my truest self, and still, I yell at the Father for my own misunderstanding. I am such a baby, sometimes. 


Yet I keep at it, folding one more load of clothes, signing one more sheet of paper and straightening one more fallen thing before bed, because I believe this is the life designed for me. Even when I'm messing it up and taking the best parts for granted, I know enough not to leave my orbit... which is four other people so perfectly fitted to who I am, what I can give, and what the world needs.


When I put my head outside this season and look down upon it -- frazzled, fractured days of great needs and tight scheduling; of difficult relationships in the nearest places, ones that fail to nurture me, and that I fail to nurture; a calling that comes with huge emotional weight -- I tend to visualize myself in the bleakest, rockiest of meteor fields.


 But when I draw that picture, I'm forgetting how many shiny things litter the Milky Way. Sure, there's a chance they're just prettier rocks I'll still dash against.  But maybe, maybe... when I glimpse an awe-inspiring flash of some sparkling OTHER beyond this everyday, I'm seeing stars not birthed yet. Seeds of things yet to be. Maybe the God who set everything in motion and filled creation with extravagance and plots good things in good time, is RIGHT HERE, still, offering His abundance and grace for all who receive his notice and stop their pity party long enough to LOOK UP.


 ...When I hold a needy little boy in my kitchen, and dance, and allow my heart to break, it does feel like maybe there's more, and better, to come.