Roll with it.  Go with the flow.  Usually I think I’m pretty good at this.  I mean, I think it’s actually one of my strengths, being able to just go with whatever is happening instead of digging in my heels and bucking the tide.  But still it happens where even in my best, most easy-going, yoga-breath moments it all becomes too much, and I find myself struggling to find that place of “enough.” And when I’m not at my best?  Well, that was this weekend.

Friday morning started early, and I’m sure that I wasn’t rested enough anyway.  No school because of the holiday weekend meant that we were not constrained to any particular routine, for better or worse.  The day was shaping up to be pretty special, though, because we were anticipating a visit from  long distance cousins (more playmates!), Daddy was coming home early, and it was my mom’s birthday with plenty of celebrating to do.  But waiting is the hardest part, and our visitors weren’t set to arrive until just before lunch, and then were waylaid due to traffic and traveling difficulties, and so it was that we were on pins and needles, waiting, waiting.  I did my best to occupy the Little Ones, trying to infuse semi-tired activities with new enthusiasm (Playdoh! Let’s make a feast! I’ll roll the hot dogs, you make the pancakes!)

We had a wonderful visit with cousins not seen often enough, so thankful are we for their dedication and love for us, and the welcome distraction of a well-played afternoon.  Daddy came home early, but with kids climbing up his legs and hanging from his back, he confessed that he wasn’t feeling well and needed to lie down.  (Didn’t see that coming, did I?  Roll with it). And so it was that while the Little Ones skipped their afternoon naps because of our guests, Mark spent the afternoon in bed.  We hugged our cousins good bye and sent them off, late afternoon cresting into early evening.  After I checked on Mark, and it was clear that he was in no shape to join in the birthday celebrations for my mom, I tromped around the house coming to terms with my own ragged tiredness.  The kids whined about not seeing their dad.  I was all too glad to have some place else to go.  I threw a pack of Saltines at Mark, said a quick “good bye” and half-hearted “hope you feel better,” and felt less enough than I have ever been.

Roll with it.  Right.  As the Littlest is buckled into his infant car seat, screaming, and the bigger kids are taking too long to get their shoes on.  As I realize that the Middlest has pooped in her underwear.  To the bathroom we go, screaming infant in tow.  As, once that is sorted, we all manage to get into the car, buckled up, I open the garage door and see Mark’s car blocking our way.  As the Littlest screams, and cries, and I can’t get this car moving soon enough to lure that guy into the sleep he so desperately wants.  Enough.  Somewhere in there is enough, but I couldn’t find it.

It was a long evening, after a long day, and once the bigger kids (who were so great) were tucked into bed, full up on birthday cake, I scurried around trying to figure out how to survive what I knew was to be a long night by myself.  The Littlest and I slept in the other bedroom, after I created a makeshift space for the two of us to snuggle.  And yes, it was a long night, but joy comes in the morning, right?  With heavy eyes, heavy body I nervously tapped on my bedroom door that next morning, wanting nothing more than to see a rejuvenated husband and daddy.  It was a rocky start, and I’m not sure our weekend ever recovered.

I have been less than graceful this weekend, less than gracious.  My momentum to roll with things dried up somewhere around 5pm on Friday, and was clearly not enough to last the weekend.  What makes this even harder for me is knowing that Mark will start a night shift on Monday, throwing our days on end for an indefinite period of time.  This weekend left me dried up already, so clearly not enough to handle what little was being asked of me.  And yet, in my absolute weakness I turned not to the One who redeems that, but instead threw my hands up, acting out in bitterness.

I don’t know what this week will look like, as Mark trades his normal working hours for ones that are skewed in awkward directions.  I hope that I will reclaim my ability to go with the flow a bit more, to recognize where we can be pliable.  I am certain that I will find my edges, and be made to see more clearly what “enough” looks like, in what I offer up, and in what I receive.

There it sat, visible from the main road, yet still tucked away, part of an old village of yesteryear.  This was not our home for long, though it remains one of my favorites.  I turned the car off of the main road and meandered my way along the country paths that were once so familiar.  Remember, Mark, when you were training for the marathon?  Your feet pounded rough into the shoulders of these lanes, though eventually your knee couldn’t take any more.  Or the countless times that we crossed the main road for our adventures into the nature conservancy?  We were pretty certain that it was our own hidden treasure — we never saw another soul there!

I have a set of black and white photos that I developed for a photography class bearing images of this place.  The falling down stone wall, just down a bit from our driveway.  The driveway, where it met the railroad ties forming a retaining wall and a garden.  A birdhouse hanging from the rafters of the front porch.  Landmarks remain and bear witness.

Life was simple, (or is that nostalgia?) and tied only to one another, we swung freely into our future.  We were young here, and our dreams were big.  Plans for our future were forged here.  When we sat on the front porch together, feet intertwined under our little bistro table, wine glasses perched atop, we schemed together about this wide future of ours.  When we strolled hand in hand, walking together after work looking on the horse fields, we put words to our dreams.  I’d go to school; you’d build your craft.  We’d set out our sail, moving with the wind to find our place.  And there would be babies, yes babies.  We’d always talk of the babies.  Our future was crafted, colored and created, in the places of our past.

So it was that today, as I steered the car around a rider on a horse, coming up on that artsy little village, a babe slumbering behind me, that I see this with such clarity.  Mark, this is it: our now is our past’s future.  This is our now.  Visiting this piece of our history, my heart smiled, knowing again the places from which we’ve come. But I don’t want to go back.  No, it is with true gratefulness that I embrace this present: dreams fulfilled, or not, some wilder than our imaginations would let us have then.  We are made up of this past, and so much more.

Now, our walking adventures look different.  Our hands still meet, still cling to one another, but our conversations are often puzzle pieces left to be sorted out later.  If, later, we find those moments to sit with a glass of wine, our hearts poured out to each other, it is no longer in anticipation of what is to come, but it is reflection of what we now have.

This year, too, for added measure, I have a cascade of chemicals in my body as I live in this postpartum time.  Add to these things the swath of winter illness in our community.  My intense need is to cover my Littles with these mama wings, thinking I can offer some sort of inoculation.  This could be a perfect storm for my brewing melancholy to dive to deeper depths of blue.  We’ve chosen isolation, mostly, because I am fearful to expose the Littlest to much of the world just yet, and while, with the tendrils of our own hearts, we have woven a tapestry of this new version of our family, I am still missing my larger tribe. I am choosing to stand alone, guarded tall and strong, but can’t help and yearn for deeper community, too. Living this tension of my own creation, I, like those trees, am reaching skyward alone in this season.

Which is also why this weekend, so simple in its form, was so good for my heart.  I have taken to not making calendar plans for these days, and have found freedom in following our own rhythm instead.  Snow pitter-pattered down around our house, making the outside world glisten a bit like a storybook tale.  Still tightly tethered to the Littlest, I decline the snow adventure, though never fear!  Daddy to save the day!  Ever watchful from my perch, I witness the joys of winter play. Snowmen, snow angels, snowball fights, drippy snotty noses, mud thick on their boots as the snow became rain (and then back to snow again).  Most of all, though, it was the brightness which delighted me.  The sunshine, multiplied exponentially because of the snow, cut a path through the dust into my family room, and I followed that path around the room all morning, turning my face towards the warmth.  My cheeks were tugged in the crescent of a deep smile that I couldn’t deny.  Thankful, oh-so-thankful for the swath of sunlight.

It was the simple company of my family-folk, little else to do but fold laundry, and build cities, and make paintings, and read stories, and take baths, and dig our roots deep.  The weekend was time carved out to bless my soul, strengthening me for other dark days to come.

Winter has it’s purpose.  I know that Spring will soon be upon us, and those dark and lonely trees will sprout out tender little buds.  I know, too, that this Littlest one gets stronger by the day, and soon I needn’t worry so much about his shelter.  My greater tribe will still be there, continuing to march out the paces of life, and we will come alongside again, matching our footfalls to theirs.  My tree-like limbs will grow strong again and leaf out to create the dense familiar green forest of summer.

For some time now, I’ve wanted to write a bit about marriage, specifically my marriage.  I write about mothering — the good, the bad and the ugly — and I can wax poetically about my Little Ones.  I write for a number of reasons, but often it is just as much a tribute to these Little Ones and a way to remember our journey together.  My desire to write marriage stuff is not unlike this, too.  I am often moved, sometmes to tears, by reading other’s writings about living out marriage together, and I know that I have things to say about it, too.

But.

I find that I have shied away from this.  I have yet to stick as much as a toe into the waters and I am afraid of what lurks underneath.  I am afraid — afraid mostly of what you will think.  I am afraid that I will come off as condescending, as if we have it all figured out, this perfect package of marriage.  I am afraid that it will be too real — will I have crossed some unspoken boundary?  I am afraid that I will embarrass my husband, he of deeply private sentiments.  Too, I’m afraid of what I might discover.  I am afraid of what I will learn about myself.

Isn’t it interesting, how this topic of marriage can seem taboo?  Most of us are neck deep in these trenches, much like with parenting, but other than an occasional rant about the sink full of dishes or a funny story about daddy-style parenting, I find that it is uncommon to discuss our married lives.  To go deep in talking about real marriage, even with our closest of friends, is hard.  It is ok to admit our parenting challenges, our gaffes and our successes, to share stories here and in person that illuminate the truest shades of mothering.  But brag a bit about my husband?  Write honestly about what makes our relationship so thick and so worn and so good?  I’m just not sure it is encouraged in the same way.

I’m going to think about this one a bit more, decide if it’s something worth writing out, working through in this public space, or if it is writing that I might just keep to myself.  Until then, I will share with you some who are bravely, and beautifully, doing just this.

Sarah Bessey at Emerging Mummy writes occasionally about what their love looks like.  Here are a two of my favorites: In which [love looks like] a real marriage and In which [love looks like] a handmade bed.  Oh, and this one to: In which our [love looks like] 10 years of moments. 

Also, Amber at The RunAmuck and her husband have been writing marriage letters to one another.  Here is a good one: On the Sexy.

Through this cacophony it can be oh-so-hard to hear the most important voice of all:  your very own.  This was the truest, best wisdom I heard when I was a new mama, and the only that I will ever pass on as encouragement.  Still, as my Little Ones grow, and change, and our issues move beyond nursing, through struggles in listening, to sibling rivalry and conflict resolution, I deeply abide the voice inside, my own mama instinct.

I have put those experts aside.  Sure, there are plenty out there more experienced, perhaps more educated in this business of parenting.  But not more experienced in parenting my little one, in my little family.  I have found freedom to get quiet, to be still and listen, to know that tug in my belly.  I am blessed that I have people in my life who affirm this.  When I call the doctor’s office, worried about a Little One with a fever, and the nurse on the other end of the line says, “you’ll know when it serious – trust your gut and call us back if you need to.”  When a particular strategy for sleeping arrangements is falling to pieces, and a family member reminds me to go back to the basics.  I know that feeling I get, that tug of it in my mama gut.  And I know not to ignore it.

It’s this gut feeling I have the pushes us, me and the Little Ones, in certain directions.  It’s a tough day, lots of tears, and I know that we need some fresh air and sunshine.  Bundle up, it’s out we go.  It’s my mama gut that shows me that life has been too demanding and we’ve lost our center. We may need to keep things a bit more simple for now,  cut out some activities, maybe stay home and play for a day or two to mellow out.  I pay attention when deep down I know I need to ask for help.  It’s my mama gut that wrenches, telling me that this is all part of the growing up, both theirs and mine.  It has both tears and laughter along the way. Sometimes I get it wrong.  It’s forgiveness, and love, and kisses, always.

Ancient wisdom, tucked deep in the secret of my heart, mine simply for being a mother.  My intuition is mine alone.  Yours will look different, sound different, feel different.  But we are all fierce in our love for our little ones, and we feel that fire in our bellies.

Linking up with Sarah Styles Bessey at Emerging Mummy today as she hosts a Carnival displaying our many Practices of Parenting.  Check it out, and share what you consider to be yours.  

I wasn’t sure that I was going to be able to get this today.   Still I’m listening to the Middlest shout jolly songs from her room, but she is happy and occupied, so I smile at her energy, and know that at least Mark will be home this evening to help corral her napless self to bed.  The Littlest, Newest Babe of all is still so new that we are trying to figure each other out.  Lately that has looked like a lot of time in my arms, and gladly so.  His tight body winds around my limbs, and I look into his sleeping face, trying desperately to memorize the way his chin comes to this precious point, and press the quiver of his lips into the creases of my heart for a time long gone.  Mostly, these moments of warmth, body against body, are perfect and tender, but if I am unsparingly honest, I confess that sometimes I long for a moment of my own, too.  Today, the Middlest needed a bit of attention in the midst of her napping-play, and I had to ooze the Littlest into his swing seat to attend to her.  His eyes fluttered, he squirmed himself deep into the seat, and settled back into his comfortable dreamy sleep again.  When I returned from the Middlest’s room his eyes still held firm.  I had landed my moment with victory.

I take this gift today.  And I know it for the gift that it is, because it is set against the backdrop of a tea party, and diaper changes, and water cups refilled.  In the setting of jackets on, and laundry sorted, and putting a babe to breast I take this time to let it all wash over me, and into me.  There is much here under my care; I am there, too, lest I forget it.

Even today, even forgetting the creative dalliance that I yearn for, the brilliance that I want to impress on you, the picture of perfection, or at least clever living that I want to polish up and offer as an apple for your delight.   Even without all that, I still write. For my delight.

These hidden surprises, these moments to jump out and shout “boo!” to one another, are woven throughout our days.  And then there are the bigger ones: catching us off guard, these surprises may cause us to weep together, or gather inward.  To look to the sky for answers, or to laugh in disbelief.   This weekend was full of surprises in our family.  Joyous surprises, full of exuberant celebration.

It’s Friday morning.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the Little Ones, Littlest asleep in my arms, the bigger two turning farm life out of play doh.  I lift my coffee to my lips but before I can take a sip there is a knock on my front door.  This is so shockingly out of the ordinary that I stumble from my chair.  As I approach I see through the window: this visitor waves and smiles wide.  My dear, dear friend from England — here on my doorstep!  Surprise!  My disbelief on full display in the form of teardrops on my cheeks, I fumble with the lock for what feels like eternity.  She is here to surprise me, to surprise us.  To gather in celebration of my new babe; and to honor my sister’s thirtieth birthday.  She is part of our tribe.

Now it is Saturday night.  I am crouched low on the floor of the family room at my mom’s house, little babe tightly wrapped around my bosom, the Middlest balancing on my knee, the Eldest holding my hand.   The room is crowded, and warm, and we all hold our breath. The door opens inward, and in simultaneously erupts with bellows of Surprise!  My sister is launched into breathless tears as she recognizes this gathering of her tribe, this celebration of her years.  I’m not sure who had more fun: those of us intent on bringing about this awe, this disbelief, this unexpected moment, or my sister as dear recipient of it all.

Life is full of these moments, isn’t it?  While much of life comes down to repetition, the tedium of the everyday, it is peppered by the unexpected.  Sometimes this is fun.  Often it can be scary.  We like to exert our control, and things happen that catch us off guard, reminding us that control may not be ours to grasp.  Even in good things, control can be difficult to release.  My sister relinquished control of her birthday by allowing her boyfriend and family to plan the festivities that would honor her.  This alone can be a difficult thing to do, and I have often ruined my husband’s attempts at surprises because I have wanted too much control.  I have not allowed either of us the gift of surprise in those occasions.  I’m sure that if my sister had planned her birthday it would not have been as elaborate, and she would have missed out on the blessings of this weekend.  She would not have known the depths and breadth of love for her, and she would have robbed others of the opportunity to be a part of it all.  There was profound grace throughout every aspect of these surprises.

Life is made up of this balance of the predictable and the unpredictable, the expected and the unexpected.  Too much of one upsets this balance.  My sister alluded to this when, in debrief of all her surprise moments, she confessed that her heart needed time to settle back in on itself.  Similiarly, routines that are not peppered by some shock become dull.  Life catches me off guard sometimes.  Even just this week my husband’s truck unexpectedly died, and now we are in search of a new vehicle.  The timing could not be worse.  Surprise! For now, I’m going to roll with the punches.

And tonight, at bedtime, it will be my great joy to feel the surprise when the Eldest jumps at me from a newly discovered hiding place.