It is a truth universally acknowledged, that when a woman thinks to herself about how well things are going, she must want them to fall completely apart. –not Jane Austen

When Little Brother and I took a tumble down the stairs a couple of weeks ago, I figured we were knocking out the worst part of our week early. I thought that, much like Charlotte crapping her pants, maybe I was done. But I was wrong. In hindsight, that fall resembles more of a foreshadowing. Because the last two weeks have been, in many ways, complete shit.

LB clung to a resistant ear infection through one round of intestinal-blasting antibiotics, screaming his way through the week and nights and sending me spinning back into what felt like the newborn period, all crying and clinging. Then on Saturday what started as mild nausea for me ended up shooting out of both ends all night long, alternating with The Kid’s middle-of-the-night hurling sessions in his bed. We woke up together there Sunday morning, all dried puke and poor sleep, and spent the next few days recovering–and, for me, praying everyone else would be spared–and not just for their sakes.

I was reminded of all that I’m terrible at: being patient, rolling with unpredictability, adjusting my schedule, not threatening to leave in the middle of the night but then standing in the garage sans pants or contacts and realizing it’s just too damn cold to go anywhere. And I was reminded at what I’m better at: executing multiple loads of laundry, operating in crisis mode, disinfecting the hell out of rooms and toilets…and in some small way, making a home for my family. A home that I occasionally threaten to leave, but still–a home. Finally, I was reminded what I am nothing at: running the universe, and saving us.

TK stayed home from school for two days, and they happened to be two of the coldest days of the year so far. My stomach still roiling, there was little pleasure or escape to be found outside our four walls, the three of us–my two boys and I–relegated to couch and floor, TV and toys, to pass the time. One afternoon while LB slept, I momentarily rued this forced indoor playtime and the intimacy it pushed us into. Then I heard him say, “more Mama.” I remembered when he could only sign “more”, and then I recalled back further when he couldn’t even do that. “More Mama.” I looked over and he grinned at me from under the dining room table, beckoning me to join him there. I could think of so many reasons to say no: discomfort, exhaustion, lint. This time, though, I bowed my head and crawled with him, back and forth, his laughter punctuating each trip. We practiced words, volleying them back and forth in what might not sound like a conversation, but was. I grabbed his baby book and sat on the couch, his head on my shoulder, and told him stories from his own life.

The next day, things were supposed to be better. He was supposed to be ready for school, and I was supposed to be able to go to the gym. Instead, he woke up lethargic and sluggish. I wrote out “home” and “school” and he pointed home. The three of us gathered in the room with the bay window while, outside, big and messy flakes fell to the ground. I felt cut off from the rest of humanity, from civilization. From my plans. From our schedule. A part of my heart peeked into it all and said that maybe this was all okay. Maybe, in fact, it could be beautiful. This was not the same part of my heart that banged my hands on the steering wheel later during our Drive to Nowhere while TK whined and LB cried in the backseat. It was not the part of my heart that sighed as if the world was ending when LB threw his tray to the floor at dinner. It was not the part of my heart that tossed harsh words around at TH and the boys before dinner, when I felt the weight of the day and sickness all in my shoulders. But it was a part of my heart. And it’s nice to know it’s there. And on a winter morning in a room with my boys, it allowed me to see that being trapped together can actually be a kind of freedom. We read books–the same ones over and over. I mediated fights. I rubbed backs and held hands. I read liturgy scattered throughout the day instead of in three clean sittings. We watched the snow fall.

There are the things we think we’re done with: the couple who’s done having kids but sees the two pink lines anyway. The couple who had a feeling this would be the last round of IVF and they’d be done trying to conceive, but the test said differently. The parents whose kids are sleeping through the night ALL THE TIME! And then they’re not. Ever. I’ve been done with so many of the hard parts only to find more of it around the corner. And I’ve felt cheated. Mistreated. It seemed unfair. Felt like too much. I wanted to complain to management, who up to that point I had assumed was me.

Then I turn back to the dark house with the crying kid and the sick four-year-old and remember that there’s a bed for me here, a spot of warmth on a winter night, and forgiveness. The car and the plans and the schedules look less important, less inviting. At the very least, they don’t look like everything. I head back to my place with my people. Maybe tomorrow I’ll do better, and maybe I won’t. Maybe it will be less hard, or not. Maybe we’ll be healed, or maybe we’ll still be sick. The day is not going to be what it is because I made it that way–it will be what it’s supposed to be. And these moments, the hard and the easy, the beautiful and the awful, they will never be over–I will never be done with them–because grace will never be done with us.