The last few weeks have been a revolving door of serial viral maladies—pretty much the lot of anyone with kids during some period of the year. On the East Coast this usually happened during the (what I now feel was bitterly cold) winters; this year, we’ve managed to escape being sick until being hit now with a double round. Just as the fourth kid is recovering from what’s been passed through the three previous kids, the first kid gets sick again, this time even worse, and down we go through the line again.
So this afternoon found me again holding lethargic, clingy, feverish kids and figuring out creative ways to get a two year-old to drink medicine she hates, while still dealing with the bickering and appetites of the healthy kids. And trying to somehow sort out germy and non-germy things on behalf of my public-health husband who believes we should have been able to contain spread of this contagion (he may be right).
By the time Dave got home, I didn’t feel like sitting through forty-five minutes of bay-area traffic to make some doctor’s meeting I had signed up for, but the best part ended up being the traffic, because I turned on some Focus on the Family podcasts like I used to during commutes in Virginia. Gary Thomas was sharing as an empty nester. He said one time when he was in the mall he saw a toddler run in front of her daddy to say, “hold me; my legs are tired!” The dad didn’t look too happy, but he shifted his bags to one hand and picked her up. And suddenly he was struck by the fact that he would never again hold one of his kids while walking through the mall (his youngest was twelve). These changes happen so subtly, he said. He wished someone could have gone back and told him, “this is the last time you will hold your kid while walking in the mall!” and he would have been more present.
I thought about how just today, I was feeling frustrated about having to hold Esme while walking into school for pick-up. But thinking back now I remember how the wind blew her wispy, sticky hair in my face; how her little chubby arm crooked around mine; how she kept talking on despite her fever about how there were letters on the road! And there was a dog! And she wasn’t wearing any shoes! (always a score in her book)
I remember Ellie exclaiming how nice it is to read a good book when you’re sitting sick on the couch. How she burrowed in my bed when she got chills. That moment when Eric was mad-faced and teary but agreed to be held and then jumped up to hug me hard when I hefted him up. The sleepy way Elijah rolled himself into his special blanket on the couch after waking up from a long nap.
The danger of my present, I suppose, is that it is so engulfing. It is hard to retain perspective or true presence. And I suppose part of wisdom is realizing that there is something in all of it, the good and bad, the healthy and sick, that I will one day wish I could retain but cannot. There is a part of my every day that God has portioned for me not just to function through, but to notice, to be aware in and even treasure, because it will not come back. I don’t want to be so consumed that my gratitude, focus, or curiosity has been sucked up by impatience, efficiency, or tasks. I don’t want to be so worn down by the consuming repetition of caregiving that I write off wonder in the common things.
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