You might know that Winnie the Pooh quote:
"sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart..."
Man is this true.
8lbs 1 ounce of little Bowling boy takes up so much room in my heart some days I feel as if it would burst at any moment. And I'm a girl. My heart is already pretty full of other stuff.
So full of joy. I LOVE my family and my life. I LOVE my wonderful, handsome husband. I LOVE summer and having a plan for dinner and smelling Jabs' head after a bath. I LOVE my great God with all that I am.
Just the same it's also jam packed with frustration at the many moods of our mercurial teens and pre-teens. With that icky overwhelmed feeling when the laundry overflows (and smells - it's summer after all), and wet towels are all over the floor, and it's 6:47 and we're get home from swim team with a block of frozen solid chicken as the dinner "plan..."
And then there's the grief. It continues. It has abated. Probably a lot. I actually care nearly every day about what's for dinner and feel very much like getting out of bed. But it's still there. Hello Bob-o, my old friend. I miss that little man. Definitely a lot. Jasper gives me such delight, but it's always accompanied by a little (and sometimes not so little) pang of sadness. You know. That we don't get these moments with his big brother.
I really am thankful for the healing. I am honestly elated that my little boy is rejoicing in the presence of our King every single moment now and for all eternity. But I still want to hold onto my Grieving Certificate (remember how I thought we really should issue grievers business cards so they can hand them to people when they draw a blank at the deli line or neglected to see that they are trying to pay for 153 items with a credit card in an Express/Cash Only Line? Here. Read this. I promise I'm not an idiot. I'm just very sad.). Because there are still those moments where it takes up all the heart-space. And I just don't feel like (fill in the blank) __________. I want a pass for the things I don't feel like doing or feel like explaining. That sometimes it's all I can do on this day 2 3/4 years after leaving our little boy in a box in the ground in a cemetery up the street to show up. Don't ask me to also make engaging conversation or to pretend this day that I'm not all broken up inside. Many (most) days I am not. All broken up inside. But today is one of those days. Here. Just read it on this here certificate. It will explain everything.
Then there's the general malaise that is held at bay by some small but vitally important everyday life things. How can I explain something like our kids not doing the A swim meets because my Handsome Husband and I absolutely have to have our long, slow saturday morning walks because they heal our broken hearts all over again every time and without them we just both start to let it all get to us and all these people depend on us to keep it all together so, I'm really sorry, but we just can't. We just can't?
But there are not those sorts of identifiers in life. I try to remember this when I step outside of myself for a time to see other people as I want to be seen. Is that surly check out clerk suffering today? Is the nasty tail gater sniffing my vehicular bum in traffic aching for someone they love and miss? Because they don't have that explanatory document to hand out either. And so you just don't know. I hope more often than not I give them the benefit of the doubt. And that they understand a little bit when I don't.