slow to see

Last week we celebrated Ginny’s birthday, as well as our 11^th anniversary, with a trip to St. Louis that just happen to coincide with Lena’s doctor appointment at said location.   At least that is the version proffered for the romantics.  For the more practically prone, we went to the doctor in St. Louis and snuck in an expensive meal to acknowledge the date on the calendar.  It’s all a little better for the romantics don’t you think?

Life in the newly-expanded, ranch style residence we call home is precious these days.  I am not sure the casual observer would handpick this adjective; but I do.

There is singing, only to be outdone in volume by the crying.
There are trucks, blocks and train pieces that Anders needs to pick up, but won’t.
There is a dollhouse with all if its tiny, plastic accoutrements; brought to life daily by the imaginative mind of Miss Hazel.
There’s a stander, wheel chair and quite an assortment of toys that blare music and light up- the wake left by Lena.
There are constant epic battles over whatever we have one of.
If Hazel picks it up, then Anders suddenly wants it with a ravenous passion matched only by those who paint their bellies for NFL games.
There are the stall games played by Hazel every night in order to fend off sleep; ones displaying a level of strategic genius on par with Bonaparte.

I need a drink. (kindly oblige.  tuck in.  3 minutes in bed & up)
Why did God make people? (pray with her.  tuck in.  4 minutes & up)
I do not know how to sleep.    (refuse to go in room.  make a threat & shut door.  1 minute in bed & up)
My lovey is hiding, can you help me find it?
(forget what it was I threatened.  search for 5 minutes for the lovey- knowing she hid it.  go find Ginny.  make a wrestling tap out gesture while yelling,  “your it; Napolean is still up”.

There are our apologies offered to the sweet teacher telling us that Anders pushed a kid in his Mother’s Day Out class this week.

I was reminded this week that it all goes so fast.  Life does not have a pause button, and whatever you call life today will be but a memory all to soon.  This is a memo one might think would be emblazoned in permanent marker across my forehead.  A truth that I, of all people, should not need to be reminded of.  But I do need to be reminded.

Every chance I get to slow it down in my mind, to see it for what it is, affords me the opportunity to be thankful.  Otherwise I am left in perpetual motion, taking much for granted and blinded to the truth of these moments; they are fleeting.

The loss of Eliot has made me somewhat of a softy.  I often repeat a peculiar routine with my kids: I hold them tight, I close my eyes, and I take them in.  I smell their necks; I feel the weight of their miniature bodies on my lap.  I think deep down this routine stems from a deep reservoir of fear that there will be a day when these snapshots from my senses will be all I have of them.

I have lived that.  I am living that.

It is not a fear to be fought or overcome.  At least a sliver of this fear is to be welcomed.  Some of it, I believe, is of the healthy variety.  A fear reminding me that each moment is a gift.  A fear that leaves me gasping with the awe of absolute thankfulness- not breathless with dread.

The world moves so fast and carries us along with its rising tides.  Clarity comes when we slow down, when we swim out of the current and take a seat on the beach and see things as they are… precious.