I took the girls to the park tonight, and it was the best ending to a long workday. We had perfect weather, and the kids had the park to themselves most of the evening.
We stayed an eternity. I gave the girls ample warning, and told them probably 8 times to go down the slide one last time.
I knew Cal wouldn't understand, and prepared myself for her melt down.
She fought me back to the bench, trying to fling herself from my arms, and screamed and hit as I put her shoes on. She tried to run while I wedged an uncooperative Coco's shoes on. Thank God E was calm and listening.
It is weird when your kid is the one making the scene.
It's a little embarrassing. Mostly from a prideful perspective.
I know that my kid has sensory issues and has difficulty calming herself down from an overstimulated environment, but to the unknowing eye she looks like a bad kid, and I look like a bad mom.
Or at least that is what runs through my head.
There was a mother sitting nearby, who I was sure was judging me. I mean, who wouldn't? What mom doesn't get her kid under control?
But just as that last shoe slipped on to the final tiny sweaty foot, I heard a voice saying, "Ma'am, ma'm, you're doing a good job." I looked up bewildered. First of all, I don't really think of myself as a "ma'am" but I guess I am now. Aiyiyiiiii.
I caught her eye, and realized that yes, she was in fact talking to me.
She kept going. "You're a really good mom. You're doing a really good job with them."
Surprised, heart wide open and all torn up, I blurted out a thank you.
"Looks like you have a four, three, and two year old," she said. "No, they're three and two. It wasn't planned," I spurted out my usual phrases as I tossed my hands in the air to take the tension off the fact that nobody has three kids in two years. Well, nobody who has any good sense about them.
She smiled gently, and offered up that, once upon a time, she had a three year old, a two year old, and a newborn.
I wanted to hate her for a moment, for comparing herself to me. For thinking we were the same, for thinking a three year old, a two year old, and a newborn were the same as a 13 month old and two newborns. Or the same as a threenager and a pair of terrible-two's, all with carnal nature in full effect.
I wanted to hug her, for reaching out to me.
There is this wrestling in my heart - knowing that my story is hard. I have settled on knowing that my life is harder than some, but easier than others, and I've tried to land in gratitude. There is a frustration, at times, that nothing can ever be normal, or easy, or that there is never a time where I'm not exhausted. There is an insecurity that lingers, a petty fear of being judged.
This is self-centeredness at its best.
My eyes are opening up to the realization that each precious soul that walks the earth goes through difficult things. There is no such thing as an easy life.
We are all confronted with things we think will break us. For each person, that difficult thing is different.
I think this makes it harder to recognize the struggles other people face.
It makes it easier to put up our walls when we say, "If they only knew how hard this is for me..." or, "If they only knew the hurdles I have been forced to claw my way up over."
But we all have our things, the things that make our life... harder.
I have this habit of greeting people I come in contact with. If I make eye contact, I give a smile, or a head nod, or a how are you.... a small gesture of recognition that I am in the presence of another human being.
I do it because I like to be friendly, and because I don't think there is enough friendliness in the world. I want people to know they are noticed, and worthy of my time, worthy of a small act of kindness.
I also recognize that I might be the only shred of kindness or warmth someone might get for the day, and that I have not the slightest insight into the backstory of the lives I cross paths with on the sidewalks and in the hallways and in the grocery aisles that I frequent. So I smile, or say hello.
Sometimes it freaks people out, like I've unexpectedly entered their personal bubble from eight feet away with my uninvited salutation. Sometimes I get blank stares, or the averted eye like they didn't really see me. Sometimes I'll get a shy, blubbering response, taken aback, not wanting to be rude. It's ok that they don't understand my motives.
Tonight I was the recipient of the kindness of a stranger. Tonight I remembered that good feeling when someone recognizes the humanness of your situation. Tonight I blubbered through a thank you, embarrassed that I had an unruly child, grateful that someone saw my struggle and had the grace to say "I've been there, I know your pain."
My heart breaking and broken and mended. My little Cal, my littlest angel. My tiniest child who loves puppies and high-fives, who shrieks when she is excited and rests her head on my shoulder when she needs a quiet place.
My child who I want so desperately to understand me - without a simple transition sending her into a tailspin.
My petty ego, worse for the wear, with all the voices in my head telling me that no one could possibly understand my struggle, and no one has it as hard as I do.
Polluted and inflated, I remind my ego again to simmer down.
And a hand extended, held in suspension, in fellowship, in generosity, using just a few short words strung together in the simplest sentence healed my weak polluted heart.
No judgement, just encouragement.
Tonight I remembered how a few short words can bring so much healing, and strength of spirit, and why I need to keep giving the same.
Here's to the struggle. Cheers to the struggle. May we love each other better because of it.
