When The Kid hears something he doesn’t like–which is often these days, given the existence of toothbrushing and vegetables and getting dressed–he pronounces “DELETE!” and pairs it with a point at the person who was speaking. “DELETE! DELETE!”

It’s so cute to be deleted while trying to parent.

This verbal backspace option doesn’t work, unless the point is trying to get us to laugh, but I have to appreciate the thought behind it, given that I, too, would like to erase the parts of life I don’t like: Australian real estate purchasing…pandemics and the uncertainty they create…mildew.

It’s the season of Lent, also known as the season of virtue signaling, and while I’m not taking it as an opportunity to start a new diet or publicly post my social media cleanse intentions, I do like the idea of looking around at my life and taking stock of what could use downsizing, and what I could make more space for. Delete and add.

Under threat of filling my days and face with screens once the boys were both at school, I decided to do less of that, which means I’ve been reading more (insert curtsey). It also means I’ve had more time to…think. Which I always felt short of, that time to just sit and be and let my mind wander. It’s sort of a necessity when it comes to writing, but I’d been filling it with graphics and lights and Instagram, and it was making me feel literally ill: screen hangovers were characterising my days. It was gross.

So I feel I’ve been noticing more, which is actually pretty life-giving. I took Little Brother to the occupational therapist last week for an evaluation based on the recommendation of his kindy teacher and her concern over his pencil grip. My initial internal reaction at that observation was “DELETE” since we have dealt with a little thing called global dyspraxia before and an imperfect grip ain’t got NOTHING on that, but I dutifully booked the appointment because I am quite aware of the possibility of giving short shrift to LB when he’s humming along without a tilted head, etc.

He was…more excited about it than I was. And in that excitement I saw something both heartbreaking–he wanted to get some solo time in the spotlight finally; and beautiful–he wants to be like his big brother, swinging from trapezes and such.

He’s such a pleaser. But I have to remember that he’s not me, that he may not be headed to therapy for it just yet. Right now, it propels him to tables and whiteboards and into a cross-legged position, toward writing and reading and drawing and learning. I watched him, in that space we’d made for him for an hour on a Wednesday morning: I watched his effort and his attention and his commitment and his seriousness and his humour. I watched his full self in that hour, and what a gift to have been forced into making unexpected space for all that beauty.

I sat there watching him, and in the silence, a voice whispered into my heart: he just wants to feel special. So I made room for that. I still am.

And we’re making room for a new chapter for TK, as his Friday therapist has moved on and he’s inching–but mostly leaping–toward independence. Without even yelling DELETE.

I read a few words the other day about better things, things that belong to bigger things, and it makes me think about how much of grace is making space for those better things. Or having it made for us. Being forced into it, and choosing it, and sitting in silence and tension and uncertainty to wait for those things to show up. Inhabiting these moments that feel empty until they are gloriously, painfully, full.