No Particular Wisdom

(Written April 2021)

Life feels very hard right now.

Both on the small scale, and on the large scale.

We’re coming off of three days of little sleep, with a sick kid who has alternated between lethargic, screaming, and hyperactive.

Linden had to go to the ER this weekend, and I couldn’t come, because of COVID and my pregnancy.

Our house is well… relatively clean, actually. But somehow my eyes can only find the mess: the toy on the floor, the Sriracha left out on the kitchen table overnight, the peels of wood veneer on our doors, where Minerva methodically scratches to be let in, the pile of folded clothes.

I think I have a UTI coming on.

I’m exhausted, and pregnant, and emotional.

I’m terrified about how we’re going to handle two kids.

I miss my mom so much it hurts.

I have two million deadlines, and I don’t know how I’m going to meet them all.

Jordan’s job is even more stressful.

We’ve existed in a vacuum for the last year, without real friends, without a real community. And life isn’t set up for us to be able to spend enough time with other people that we can regain a sense of who we are outside of this house.

We are rough around the edges.

I frequently feel too overwhelmed and crusty to want to kiss my husband on the mouth.

I haven’t exercised for three months.

And yet, amidst it all, there are these moments, hanging like pearls:

Linden leading me out to the hammock yesterday, looking up at the tree tops and dreamily saying, “So high….” while we swayed beneath them. Jordan coming out a minute later, and the three of us curled up together in the mellow golden sunlight, the sun dappling as the breeze ruffled the trees to the west. “All together,” Linden says, echoing the satisfaction we all feel.

Waking up this morning at 4:40 a.m., unable to sleep, and deciding to get up to write an article that I’ve had on my to-do list for weeks. Walking into the living room to find both dogs on the couch, curled in matching balls, noses pointing together, front legs overlapping. Their warm, silky, furry bodies bunching with joy around me as I settled in with them.

Linden coming in at 6:30 to tell us about the baby in his tummy (“baby is moving, mom!!!!”) and pulling the covers in tight to our chins before asking, “Snuggly?” and then whispering, “Take nap!” and tiptoeing out the door.

This is no particular wisdom.

It’s just life.

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