The Husband and I try to get back to the spot where we were married–known to everyone else as 30A–at least once a year; twice if we’re feeling lucky. Our planned getaway back in February was preempted by The Kid’s halo removal and subsequent spasm nightmare, but we were able to reschedule it for this past weekend. 

Before I had a child, I talked big about…a lot of things. In particular, the prioritization of Couple Time and Date Nights and Adult Vacations. Now I see them all as more important than ever–and more difficult to achieve. In this particular instance, we hadn’t spent significant time away from TK since the long, dark tunnel that was his surgery and recovery, and I was nervous. It turns out that–even without spinal surgery–leaving a child you love is more painful than expected. But when you reach the point where U2’s “With Or Without You” is the song you’d pick to dedicate to your toddler were Delilah to ever ask; when proximity-induced blindness makes it all too easy to miss your blessings and your eyes are closed to your own life; when a sense of humor begins to be known as the One That Got Away–sometimes, clarity shows up in the form of a long, dark tunnel. But sometimes–and I am partial to these times–it shows up as a trip to the beach.

So I threw my maternity jeans into my suitcase and TH and I headed south, dropping off TK (and my lengthy How To Take Care of Him typed list of instructions) with The Mom and Dad. We cued up some Louis C.K. and discussed what we would do with time to relax. Because if there’s anything that TH and I thrive on, it’s the opposites of chaos: serene pools, crystal oceans, gluttonous dinners, resort communities full of pastel-colored houses.

Our doughnut-filled mornings, leisurely bike rides, waterside book immersions, and toddler-free two-day existence felt unnaturally wonderful. By some stroke of luck, there was live music surrounding us nearly all the time (more charming when it was a jazz quartet on a pavilion than when it was an overheard construction worker belting out Spanish love songs near the pool). The weather was perfect. We ate next to the ocean and talked about where we want to live over the next few years and eventually end up instead of “I forgot to thaw the chicken out for dinner” and “Could you empty the diaper genie?” I didn’t clean the kitchen once.

I sat out on our balcony on Saturday afternoon, reading my book and listening to a wedding band warm up, and felt the but approaching. The but this isn’t real life. But it’s easy to be happy in paradise. But what about gratitude in the every day? Because we’re going to be going back, you know. And I put down my novel and turned to Nouwen, my current grace-allotted sober companion. He told me what that long, dark tunnel had been whispering for its entire length: “The source of our suffering becomes the source of our hope.”

And in that sun-drenched moment, after a long-in-many-ways winter, I considered the life I lead–the life of a we now–and the never-ending tendency of ingratitude to accompany daily monotony. How I miss the forest and the trees daily by turning the trees into obstacles when they are actually gifts I’ve waited on my whole life.

Back in that real life, that toddler-consumed dailyness, I read Nouwen again and find myself constantly praying for patience, for understanding. Endless repetitions as in danger of losing their meaning as I am in danger of losing my sight. I find that, when I open my eyes, I am constantly being invited into opportunities to grow into the answers I seek. Outside my window, there are two trees with a hammock suspended between them. There is a toddler on the monitor dissolving into laughter at something only he knows. I can inhabit these moments, but only if I want to. Only if I choose to. 

It’s true that joy can be reduced by brokenness. I think about friends who wait to see how their hopes to start a family will play out, and know that my own excitement can never not be diminished by a factor of their longing. But I also know that joy can be amplified by brokenness, by the daily struggles large and small–surgeries and tantrums–and I realize that there is so much life that we just write off because it hurts. There are so many relationships that are squandered because of difficulties, labeled “growing apart”, when really? I think these moments are actually us growing into each other. Moments in the hammock, moments at the diaper genie, moments of food thrown and messes made, moments mid-tantrum, moments on pristine beaches and mundane couches, all stretching us into who we are meant to be so we can be big enough for each other.