Ethan's had a different best friend every year since he was 3. This year it's Matthew. I like this one. He's a really sweet, good kid. He came over yesterday and I didn't see them the whole time he was here, except when I would peek in to check on them. Ethan wanted to call him tonight. As I was putting Colin to bed, Ethan was laying on the couch in the playroom with his feet propped up, chatting away. He was telling Matthew things that he hasn't told me. He seemed so adult and so far away. I flashed forward 10 years and thought, "He's not going to talk to me at all before I know it." It made me so sad. Then I hear him say, "Well, we should do that, but November's really busy for us, so we should make sure we do it in October. How does October 20th look for you?"
I have NO idea why November is busy or why October 20th works or where on earth he comes up with this stuff, but I'm grateful for the constant entertainment my kids provide. After he wrapped up his call we were in the office for a few minutes before storytime. He picked up a post-it note, wrote "I love you" on it, and stuck it on the front of my shirt. I wore it the rest of the night until I moved it to my bathroom mirror, where I'm going to keep it for the next 10 years so I have something to hold on to.
It's been a rough summer of intense emotions, some positive, many negative. Right now, I'm feeling angry at the passage of time. I was happy before the summer started. Really, truly happy in a carefree way that you can be only if you've never been dealt any major blows by life. Sure I'd like to lose weight, or have all our medical school debt paid off, or have infinite patience with my kids, but overall, life was good. Really good. And then July hit. Followed by August. And September.
I'm still happy, but it's a different kind of happy. More grateful. Less carefree. More in the moment. Less worried about things that don't matter. I'm not sure if it's better or worse. I think (hope) I'll come out of 2010 a much better person.
A month after Max died we found out my very healthy, very energetic 57-year-old mother has metastatic colon cancer. It's in her liver and abdomen. It was a complete shock to the whole family (especially her). Today she started a 6-month fight of chemo sessions every other week. We are praying for time, for strength, for peace...but so sad she has to go through this. Trying not to fully comprehend how little control we have over our lives, or how temporary this state is. At peace with the choices we've made and the relationship we have. Trying to figure out how to navigate our new reality, where really bad things happen to the people you love. It kind of stinks, honestly. And it changes things. I wish I could freeze time to spring of this year, when all 3 kids were in a great place, and every family member was alive and healthy. As the years pass, our kids are going to leave home, close family members will continue to move to the other side, and eventually (hopefully not soon), Jason and I will as well. I don't like that. And yet, it's the very core of life. How did I get to 32 before being faced with the reality of this mortal state? (The very definition of which is "susceptible to death.")
My mom's doing great. She's a pillar of faith and strength and peace and calm and optimism and trust. She's incapable of self pity. She's doing what she does best, which is face whatever life throws at her with a no-nonsense, let's just handle this attitude. I'm sure she has moments, but she doesn't let them overwhelm her. And overall, the rest of us are okay, too. And time will continue to march on, and I will continue to have very little actual control over life, but that's also okay. When I need it, I feel at peace. And when I'm not dwelling on things out of my hands, I am happy. I'm a better mom than I used to be, and focusing my energy on making sure my kids live in the same bubble of innocent happiness and faith in God that my own parents provided for me. Because someday down the road (hopefully decades away) they are going to need it to fall back on. I want them to know, whenever true adversity hits, that they are going to be okay, that life has meaning and purpose and joy if you choose your priorities carefully. As hard as this summer has been, I know I'm going to be okay, and that my family will be, too.
