God bless Max.
He keeps quietly proclaiming, “Blog post!” and making notes in my phone of the funny or traumatic or traumatically funny happenings around here. It’s a hint to write, to not forget, to make available for the future.
However. . .
*insert excuses and reasons HERE*
So here it is, 6 months – maybe 7?? – since I last typed on this keyboard. It helps that by a small miracle Gus is sleeping, the girls are occupied by the neighbor’s Legos and the boys are en route to a camp out. I should be packing for the lake, should be tackling dishes and the mess left in the wake of packing and lazy children, should be doing all sorts of things. But I’m spent. Exhausted. In the last 12 hours, four people have said I should rest.
Yes, well, about that . . . you remember all these children, right? The house? Commitments?
My body and mind agree with them, though, dragging and slow.
That’s how I found myself here. To come to terms with a few things.
2019 has been hard. Good, yes, very very good but difficult. Whole months were swallowed with unknowing and waiting, the word “cancer” was used hesitatingly, tentatively then with certainty. A resume, an interview and then another and yet still more waiting. Waiting in doctor’s offices with broken bones and well children and sickness. Waiting for kids after classes, tutors, ice cream meet ups. Waiting for my body to work, to heal, to tell us what it will do.
So much waiting.
And then it was as if, the emergency brake was released and the gas was poured on. No waiting this summer, just running, going, doing until I am here, spent, fatigued and worn out.
It’s good, it really is. It’s good that 2019 will be “Dad’s first year at the Diocese” and “The year Gus walked” and “Wednesday ice cream.” Good we will remember the rain and the storms and how very green and lush that has left everything. I know I’ll forget the tired, the wailing threenager and the babe awakened from his nap, demanding to be nursed.
Except, not entirely, now that it’s here. Max didn’t even have to write it down.