I’m over here today, and good things will happen for you if you check it out.

On Tuesday, I woke up after a night of fitful sleeping. Such a state always precedes any deviation from my normal routine, because I am Type A and an oldest child and slightly OCD and really just walk around living in a constantly clenched state. But on this morning, I turned the coffee maker on and prepared the bottles and took The Kid to “school” and got back in the car. And then I drove two-and-a-half hours to Birmingham.

Read the rest here!

I am more of a mess than ever these days: peed on, spat-up upon, tired, forgetful. Sometimes I even wear a bit of poop in my hair.

But there is a moment, first thing in the morning, when The Husband and I hover over The Kid’s crib and he focuses his eyes on us. He realizes that we’re still here, and better yet, we’ve come back for him, and isn’t this such a fun party here in the nursery with the sun barely rising and all three of us together? Isn’t it?!

And I remind myself not to suck the joy out of life, because this moment–this moment with the smile that lights up the day, the laughter that transforms my tiredness into exhilaration, this wake-up call from the corridors of heaven–this moment with my family is staggering in its messy perfection and confounding simplicity. It is, in so many ways, all I need.

Find me here today!

Gettin’ all Jesus-y over here. Check it out!

Check me out over here!

I’m over here today–check it out!

Somehow, in the chaos that was last week, I ended up writing four posts–three of them here and one here. In the trenches of what was the busiest week since before The Kid arrived, words poured out. Lemonade from lemons. Mercy from tears. Grace from…life.

And this is our life now, I’ve realized, this new controlled chaos, this hectic scrambling to get out the door, this gathering of gear and washing of clothes and scrubbing of bottles. Our new normal. The Husband and I acknowledged this weekend that we never knew what tired really was until now, and in all likelihood we’ll never know what fully rested is again. But then, during those days of sleeping in and plentiful naps, we never woke up to The Kid’s grinning face. So there’s that.

This morning I was correct in expecting some post-weekend emotional regression in regards to carting TK off to daycare. What I didn’t expect was a diarrhea explosion all over my shirt. TH changed TK’s diaper and I threw my white-turned-curry-colored shirt into the washing machine, then I grabbed TK and began to dress him only to have him spit up all over my pants and the couch. Once that was cleaned up, his onesie wouldn’t cooperate–apparently the designers of baby clothing think it’s important to create an impossibly complicated meshwork of snaps to prevent a baby from…what? Sliding out of his clothes? I felt my frustration mount, the tears rise, the snaps unsnap and TK blow snot bubbles out of his nose. We eventually got out the door and he slept for the five-minute ride. I regaled the daycare staff with my morning story and they laughed, as did I, over what had generated tears and anger and thoughts of escape to a desert island only minutes before. Then I kissed TK goodbye as his teacher strapped him in with the rest of his class for their morning buggy ride and he smiled sleepily.

Back in the car, the space filled with stillness, I thought about what peace looks like. The diaper bag lay beside me, uncoupled from the recipient of its goods; the car seat base sat empty. My heart stretched as it always does when I’m driving away from my son. I knew I was headed to a quiet house, a mug of coffee, a computer monitor to fill. I also knew all of that would be incomplete; that I can no longer have it both ways, or have my cake and eat it too. I have a family now, the family for which I was created and that was created for me, and the moments of stillness without them are now secondary, just seconds and minutes and hours between the times we are together–where real life happens. And that is what peace looks like, because that is where the grace shows up and the words pour forth–those diarrhea and snot and vomit-soaked times of togetherness.

Last week, when I was questioning the validity of my working and TH looked at me warily, fears of crazy-wife and deal-breaking in his eyes, we sat down and had a come-to-Jesus talk about it all. I had only been considering the narrative of dropping off, crying, and absence from TK; meanwhile, TH had drawn up a spreadsheet detailing the coming years and the benefits TK would receive from my hours spent with teeth. I stared at words like education and down payment and savings. I had been considering the present moment; he had been looking toward the future. We need both perspectives. I felt my emotional arsenal fill with thoughts of a well-provided life for TK, of benefits to cling to in the time spent away with him (as he happily rides in the buggy and makes friends). Of what it means to be well-taken-care-of, and how that looks different across families and within individual lives; of how it has looked for me as grace has led me here. Of how grace looked different when I was a child, different when I was single. Of how my understanding of grace is just beginning now as a parent.

Yesterday our family of three sat on the bleachers of the gym that doubles as a sanctuary. We heard the truth spoken, words about empty tombs and life over death, and I sat between TH and the Sis; she sat between me and the Bro-in-Law. TK and The Niece sat on their daddy’s laps. I thought of all it took to get me to this moment, all the little deaths and disappointments along the way; of the unassailable love that redeemed it all and delivered me safely here, delivers me daily to (this) new life.

(That’s what she said.)

This week, The Husband and I solved the pre-church stress ritual by not going, which is sometimes what showing grace to yourself looks like. It also looks like a walk into our suburb’s downtown area, lazily strolling as a family.

God, in all his vastness and kindness, can be worshiped anywhere.

But last week, in the midst of the Ralph Lauren/Prevacid/spit-up debacle, as TH crammed The Kid into his carseat and I wiped down the kitchen like I do, we hustled to get out the door, and with a pump in one hand and a diaper bag in the other, I whined to myself and anyone else who would listen: “Why does everything have to be so much harder?!”

Gear. Loads and loads of gear fill our lives now, like the loads and loads of laundry that fill the machine every third day, TK’s clothes rising from the grave of dampness and stains. Strollers, plastic bottles, hooded towels, burp cloths, dirty diapers, extra outfits, wipes. The list of things Not to Forget before walking out the door has grown exponentially from the days of wandering out of my New York City apartment with wallet, cell phone, water bottle. There is another life to think about now–his and ours.

And as we walked this weekend, TH pushing the Bob now and my hands free, I considered that what I had labeled as more difficult might not, through gratitude’s eyes, be defined by such limiting terms. Yes, there’s all the gear. And there is the steadily (and thankfully) growing body, the cheeks outpacing it all with their horizontal bottoms resting on his chest. There is, also, the sound of his breathing and sighing, which I can only imagine makes the angels giggle with glee as much as it makes me do the same. There’s the sound of his cry, but then there’s blessing there too–because wasn’t I admitted early to the hospital, preterm contractions igniting the fear of unprepared lungs, and the steroid shot to prevent that problem having clearly worked? Then, miracle of miracles, the smile we waited so long for, the lazy grin first thing in the morning paired with arms stretching to heaven.

We went out to dinner for the first time as a family on Saturday night, early-bird special at 5:30 pm, and sat at a two-top outside with TK in his stroller beside us. TH and I shared cheese dip and glances at TK and thoughts on it all being a success, then we walked to the yogurt shop nearby. Two high school couples were on a date, the girls nervously patting their hair and adjusting their (too-short) dresses, the guys trying and failing to play it cool. My family and I ambled back to our car, where we would have to eject the car seat from the stroller, place the car seat back into the car, return the stroller to the trunk, and do the reverse when we got home. I realized as we walked, a trio, that there are logistics…and then there is life. And a life that seems to have gotten harder? May just actually be fuller.

When we showed up at the Perinatal Center yesterday for our every-other-week ultrasound, The Husband and I didn’t bring a backpack filled with snacks and extra underwear and books and laptop. Which I guess is one piece of evidence that I’m not a total paranoid pessimist, right? Regardless, after my onscreen measurements were taken and I was put on the uterine monitor, we heard hushed conversation outside the door, and a few minutes later the nurse came in and informed my recliner-occupying self that they were…keeping me. I knew what she meant–hospital admission–and the choice of words seemed appropriately dire. I tried to steady my chin, put on my Big Girl face at least for TH, and then I remembered that even Jesus wept. Faking is for losers. So I broke down. It wasn’t so much out of fear–the words I write here are true, I know where my ultimate hope lies–it was just that dammit! I wanted to go home, where there was a planner and a fireplace and DVDs and books and all my other security blankets. Not fair!

To his credit, TH immediately rushed over and held me (he’s getting really good at bearing uncomfortable emotional reactions), even as the nurse awkwardly handed me a towel and slowly backed away. I calmed down, the words twenty-four to forty-eight hours rushing around my head as both comfort and sentence, and we were admitted and led to our room. TH ran home to get my security blankets and to Arby’s for some good mood food, and I let the nurse order me Ambien because apparently wine is not on the menu here. Then TH came and we shared a romantic hospital dinner and some How I Met Your Mother on DVD. I sent him home because he has work today–but not tomorrow, a.k.a. slumber party tonight in room 133!–and fell asleep, waking periodically to nurses’ monitor readjustments and my own Ambien-induced hallucinations. It’s been too long, Ambien, too long–I’ve missed your room-tilting, shadow-creating properties. There were a few seconds when I was convinced that the blood pressure monitor at the foot of my bed was a robot who had come to kill me. Other than that, it was kind of fun.

You know how they tell you that when you’re in love, you’ll just know? Well, they also say that about contractions. “They” are only right about the first, at least in my case. I’ve probably been unwittingly experiencing them for weeks, and yet here I am with The Kid, perfectly safe and monitored. The most painful part of my experience right now is the hospital’s wireless internet speed. Besides that, I’m loaded with snacks and fluids and steroids for The Kid’s lungs and an only occasional urge to complain, which for me is progress indeed. Lest I feel the need to give in to that urge, I need only look directly out my window at the entrance to the Cancer Center, mere feet away. Well played, All-Knowing One. You really do think of everything. I know how blessed I am to be sitting where I am, to be a healthy hospital patient with a healthy baby who just wants to meet us already. And the feeling is oh so mutual. But let’s give it a couple of weeks at least, shall we? Just in case, though, I’ll remember in the meantime that it’s not up to me–for a reason.