I totally freaked out two years ago when Bella, William and Violet all headed to school the same year. And two years before that when Lily started kindergarten, I legit cried uncontrollably through the "Boo-Hoo Breakfast." Even as I looked through those blog posts, the feelings came rushing back and I wondered if there might be more going on underneath my calm facade. I'm regularly out of touch with what's really going on inside of me until I take a second to calm down. Usually, I am busy planning the next fun thing or interacting with the person directly in front of me - most often, my children.
A couple of months ago, I read Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng, which was excellent. One passage of her beautiful prose reached out to grab me, "To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once. You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she'd been and the child she'd become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin. It was a place you could take refuge, if you knew how to get in. And each time you left it, each time your child passed out of your sight, you feared you might never be able to return to that place again."
This idea has lodged itself with me, and I consider it sometimes when I look at my children. I can see so much when I take the time and space to look. I see the babies they each were, beautiful in their own ways and unique in the journeys that brought them to me. With my bio children, I am still shocked that they grew inside of me - that their lives would never have happened without my choices. With my adopted children, I am still shocked that they grew outside of me, because a world where our lives did not collide feels unimaginable. I see the long nights and fussy days and first solid foods and wobbly steps. Babyhood feels like yesterday and forever ago.
I can see the children that stand before me. The hazel eyes, the blue eyes and the sets of brown eyes that look into mine. They find me in laughter, in fear, in pain, in irritation, in boredom and in joy. Our connections feel bound by tiny cords that make up ropes that can pull taut with tension but never break under the weight. There is a daily tug of war - we are pushing towards the end goal of independence while also knowing these precious years and moments are fleeting and cherished.
Sometimes, every so often, I see glimpses of the future. It's cloudy and tends toward murky at best, because sometimes, fear comes for me. The variables outside of my control that take no account of my desires add up as each day passes. I see greatness in each child and their possible adult selves. I hope for the very best. I grieve the future heartache that I will not be able to staunch with a cuddle on the couch.
Each of my children have shining gifts and talents, and I hope and pray that God molds them all to his purposes and equips them to shine in their own ways as he sees fit. This is the portion of the seeing that feels equally devastating and invigorating - God is writing their stories, not me. And though I trust him as the author and know the ultimate ending, I understand that there are often hard chapters sprinkled into every book. Mine is littered with them.
For right now, I want to be here, in this space, with these children that the Lord has somehow put into my charge. It's beautiful and complex and riddled with potholes, but it's our road together. As we walk, I want to remind myself to take it in, take one step at a time and always being glad when we are holding hands and in step with one another.
