There are crayon marks on most of the walls in my meager one-bedroom apartment. As well as marker. And pen. And even some watercolor in a corner. And mostly, it doesn’t bother me.
The bathroom wall has dried tissue balls stuck to it because I forget to wipe it off after a half hour of experimenting with water and tissue and practicing throwing technique. And mostly, it doesn’t bother me.
I’m hanging somewhere between Crazy Crunchy and Too Broke To Be Granola. And mostly, it doesn’t bother me.
Right up until I wonder and worry and wish I was some other Mom-more-put-together.
Oh God, am I doing anything at all right?
We occasionally go stretches without venturing outside because I’m a strange kind of people-loving introvert. And some days I’m more introvert than people-loving. And I get stuck decompressing. And I get stuck employing all the coping skills in my arsenal of depression combatants….except for one: getting outside.
And oh God, am I doing anything at all right?
(Kismet are you happy?)
I don’t own a proper diaper bag. I’ve been seen about with a tot on hip and a reusable shopping bag with a diaper and a bottle of water thrown in. And a pair of pants. Yeah, maybe a pair of pants. And wipes. Oh, and a small spray bottle of Olive or Coconut oil. Or, honestly, I scrap the bag altogether because my strange case of people-loving introversion keeps me local. That and being broke.
Anything at all, God? Anything?
And I’m lonely and I’m frustrated and I’m desperate and I’m uncertain and I’m tired and I’m grateful. Some days, an overwhelming heartache competes with an overwhelming joy and I say to myself, “ah, such is life” and I’m grateful.
(But Kismet, are you happy? Did you experience my love today?)
She has a fondness for The Hungry Caterpillar. Toddlers with a fondness for anything tend to want that thing over and over and…so I’ve had caterpillars and butterflies on my mind. And if life wasn’t the least bit uncomfortable, if we never squirmed even just a little, then we would likely never emerge as something beautiful. And maybe, if I thought I had it all prim and together, I would miss all the magnificent moments. Moments like today when an errant dancing foot caught my jaw:
“Yes, a little but it’s okay” while rubbing my sore chin. Then my little girl leaned in and kissed the booboo. Magnificent. My eyes lit up as my heart spread fragile wings and soared to God’s Throne Room to express gratitude and amazement.
And so, I do accept this hard exterior of far-from-perfect, uncertainty, fear, grief and worry and crayon marks. I will gladly (and prayerfully) squirm from Chrysalis to Chrysalis if it means a fragile beauty and flight that only the Hands of God can guide.
(Kismet, maybe nothing at all that I do is right, but He will make me better).