the morning lift

It’s that kind of morning. When the outline of a blog sears its brand upon my brain, smoking gray matter, no outside reasons other than necessity.

The smell of my wife’s perfume upstairs 10 minutes after she has left, wet hair, a true kiss at the door. E crawling about the feet, wanting to be up. N ramming Mommy goodbye, shaking things up.

Up at 5:50, someone has wet the bed. Surprisingly there is no shock to this news, almost no inconvenience. I have crossed some divide somewhere – I have finally immersed completely in parenting.

I have been up for 3 hours and have not yet eaten breakfast. There are too many variables in the schedule this week to keep track in my mind, but each one persistently circles overhead, tempting me to cage them in a neat linear row, but I know better.

Two nights ago sleep came wonderfully, maybe we are over the 6 week illness slump? Last night a harsh reminder of all of the Variables. E up more times than I can count, N up twice: once for potty, once for unknown reasons. M yelling intermittently with her dreams, unable to be stirred from them. Each time I go back to bed I glance at the clock; how much chance left for rest?

Watching the sunrise with L as we wait for the bus. A deep, resilient red as I hold her on my lap. The color lasts only a minute and is gone.

O hands me a little notebook of poems written by our 10 year-old. Have you seen these?

I haven’t and as I read them I cry.

The coffee lifts me, some music. Two kids at home in their jammies. Most of the leaves have fallen in our yard. Maybe we can rake them today. Make some piles that the kids can jump in before they grow up too much. As I grab yogurt for the E I notice that cider has leaked all over the bottom of the fridge. This outlines some of my work for the morning.

Inner Work

the garden in early spring which has since been nearly overtaken by weeds

 

 

It isn't rocket science, or even really statistics: that having and raising children should crowd out other aspects of one's life - and crowd others in.  And yet, the reality as it pulls on one's body day upon day, becomes striking in moments of clarity, as though the rest of the time dreams dance, mists hover about the ground you walk on, the sun comes up slowly but every day.

I started this blog when I was in charge of two children ages 5 and 0 with a steady average monthly posting output of 5.  Then . . . each year the rate steadily drops, as the age and quantity of children steadily increases. 

Children's ages vs. monthly blog output

5, 0                5
6, 1                3.1
7, 2, 0            1.7
8, 3, 1            .8
9, 4, 2            .5
10, 5, 3, 0      0

Again, this is not an innovative analysis of data that I am rushing to the nearest peer reviewed journal.  We know these types of realities intuitively, rationally, but in some ways not at all.  Reality comes to us in waves, particles, vibrations, in visions.  We describe in part what we know in part. 

I have experienced adulthood largely as a crisis of the ideal.  For our early years, we are largely thinking forward, of what will happen, what can happen, what is out there to find?  We are the little pigs who go out to seek their fortune.  At some point in the seeking, the adventuring, the delving and the dumpster diving, we crest some wave and hang in midair.  We are either exhausted or disillusioned, delusional, or bankrupt of clear hope.  The things for which we have grasped remain outside of reach, the things we do hold are much different than we imagined.  Thereupon is reflection, we allow ourselves to question our strategies and calibrations. 

At times it is easy to blame the crisis on the things or people who we have chosen to love and care for.  A part of us longs for autonomy, the freedom to build and create, unshackle the self-will. 

But something organic, something inevitable, something that works slowly but steadily like the weeds and growth that cannot be driven away; something of the necessities that enslave our daily toil waits for our quiet transformation - the hidden, inner work of a man.  As Kazantzakis would say - to turn matter into spirit. 

Well, we've gone and done it again.  Like true champions, we've managed to keep the rational voice corralled long enough so that the intuitive one can rule the day.  Child #4 arrived one week ago today!  He hasn't been here long enough to make any big, wide-swathed statements, but so far it feels both completely chaotic and completely right. 

Birth, like death, is a mighty equalizer.  At death there is universal grief; at birth there is universal joy.  The instinct is to smile, lean in and glimpse the essentials of being alive in a delicate face only days old.  After a birth, we scramble to decipher the visual code of the newborn - who does he look like?  what traits will he carry?  We dig out photos of the other children when they were born, of ourselves.  Relatives stop in to pay their respects, give their opinion and like wolves, bestow their blessing on the newest member of the pack. 

 My wife and I laugh out loud at the pictures of ourselves holding our first child almost 10 years ago. We appear inept, unaware of pending doom, naive and inexperienced. (and we were) It can be argued that we still carry these traits, but it is certain that now, 10 years and 4 births later, we have at least a bit more grasp of the situation. We know more about love, commitment, endurance, hard work, patience, long-suffering, laughter and hopefully, grace. Childbearing and child-rearing: important work, important play. We train each other along the way.

Two-Hour Delay

This morning our little school district has called a two-hour delay, so at 8:12 a.m. we cluster around our woodstove.  L (9) sits directly in front of the fire, reading a book of short stories, her "other" book before she delves back into fantasy.  We have agreed that instead of reading only books about dragons and magic, she will take turns with other types of books.  M (4) sits with her blanket and stuffed animal of the day (eagle) on the couch and twirls the Perplexus puzzle expertly in her sensitive fingers.  She takes great delight in creating shortcuts for the metal marble, jumping the rails to end up in the end-pocket, much to her sisters despair and glowering eyes.  N (almost 3) stands/runs/jumps on the couch, cheering on the Perplexus energy, giving me constant updates on its progress, and running Kleenex back and forth to his older sister, who experiments with delegation even at such a tender age. 

I assume that the delay is for the wind chill, (-10 F) as there is little visible snow on the road.  This is as a about as cold as we want it to get here in rural Ohio.  We aren't used to weather that compromises our cars' batteries.  It is easy this morning to believe that my day has a two-hour delay as well.  And so I decide to try my hand at blogging in this little window of opportunity, before the weight of housework sets in for the day.  Finish up laundry from yesterday, begin cleaning today, dress the children, gather wood, etc. 

One of the benefits of non-centralized heating is that the woodstove provides a natural gathering point for the family.  Like heat-loving bacteria around a sea floor vent, we prefer to be close to the source of warmth - and our mornings and evenings usually find us in close proximity.  (yes, we have a convenient backup natural gas furnace in the basement, but during the day our living room woodstove becomes our sole source of heat).  So on days like this one, we can feel the cold seeping into the house's edges; I am extra attentive in keeping the fire banked. 

I have found myself laughing more frequently and heartily in the last few weeks.  My wife wonders if I have reached some new level of zen - I tend to think I've learned to let more go, accept new levels of chaos and uncontrol.  Child #4 arrives in six weeks, give or take.  The existing three provide enough trial, angst and surprise for my heart.  They unseat my anger, and my complete adoration; exhaust my emotional self thoroughly and in every way.  The 9-year-old, while fiercely independent shows signs of care and tenderness.  The 4-year-old finally emerges from years of grumpiness to a wonderful delight and prank-filled robustness.  The two-year-old becomes deeply two, and experiments with tantrum and rebellion. 

 Mario Brothers