It’s impossible, really, this relationship I have with The Kid. The moments of exhilarating joy, his laughter my greatest accomplishment; then the crying that unbolts me from my hinges and pushes me toward a straitjacket. The bipolar nature of being a mother writ large and small–across the days and in the details, every moment tempting me to label it a failure or success. Last night, he cried uncontrollably (operative word: control) for an eternity when we tried to change his bedtime. An hour later, he fed sleepily and passed out for ten hours.

But the crying. I watch the monitor, agitated, while The Husband watches the TV. And good God do I ever take it personally. Every wail, every kick a jab at my need for a reason. I turn to TH and sigh heavily, frustrated by the very thing that balances and saves me: his peace during storms. The peace I covet, am made for, am being constantly challenged to embrace. My mission, should I choose to accept it. My transformation waiting to happen. Grace is standing quietly by, gently nudging me to let it do the work of turning the cry into a moment of gratitude. Instead, I clutch the monitor and feel my blood pressure rise.

This is not a test. Why do I turn everything into a test?

Last weekend, TH returned from Home Depot with the idea we had months ago, bagged up in tangible form: a hammock for the backyard. I saw it as an emblem of our survival of the newborn period, a sign that it’s time to relax. This was hours before TK threw us for the night-waking loop, but I didn’t know it as I lay between two trees, suspended in air, held by the rope that wove through itself so it could carry me.

TH had created a pathway to the hammock, a series of brick steps toward relaxation, an oasis in our midst. That’s kind of what he does, what he brings to the table around here. Moments of calm in a sea of storms.

I wonder how many of those storms I stirred into being. How many times grace and redemption have woven through each other to carry me.

I told The Sis the other day, that it feels like once you’ve crossed over one hump, another awaits. That it seems to be two steps forward then one back, all the time. One enemy vanquished, another waiting in the wings. A day later, KA wrote her assessment: “status = in transition. Pretty much always.”

And here I sit, hands grasping monitor as I silently demand that he cross the hurdles I’ve erected, when the hammock beckons me to stop the leaping about from tree to tree, the efforts to control everything, the need for constant landing…and just stay between the now and not yet, held.