Part of something bigger

It came with everything.  Even cheese.  Because I forgot to tell the waitress not to put it on.  I never order cheese.  I couldn’t scrape it off, so I just swore I’d have a salad later.  And onions were stacked along with the cheese.  Simply because I hated to make work for the workers, I knew I’d just pick them off later.  But they were too embedded in the cheese.  A delectable first bite.  Followed by another.  Heavenly.  I never get everything on my burgers.  Cheese has too many calories; I’d rather save them for the Oreo shake.  Onions are a little potent.  Such silly reasons not to indulge.  And relish the whole experience.

And yet that’s our tendency.  We fail to be present, to embrace the whole day.  We want to pick out the onions—the hard parts—in case they lead to bad breath or poor form.  We want to skip the gooey stuff, the messes, the inconveniences.   We just want a straightforward day.  Plain with ketchup and lettuce: a little work, a little socializing, a clean house with a structured game plan.  But really, life is better with a little cheese.  The onions turned out to be the crunch and diversion I’d been craving.  Go with it, take it all.  Better to enjoy it than to wish you’d ordered it.

But we do that.  Who wants to remember the part of the day I cleaned up the gallon of milk that one of the kids dumped all over the kitchen table that then cascaded into our baseboards? Or when I mopped up slippery throw-up spewed from a big kid off the bathroom walls and floors?  Why would I think it would be fun to squeeze out nine towels and a quilt my 2 year-old dumped in the dyed-blue bathwater?  My mom used to tell me, as I’d cry on the phone to her over the commotion of my young and active household, “Just hold her.”  Exasperated, the last thing I wanted to hear.  I felt like escaping to my book or anywhere where there wasn’t noise, not holding a crying baby for any more seconds. 

How do you even know what parts of the days to savor?  Which ones you’ll long for? Was it all the Saturday mornings I spent cleaning houses as a teen while my family went to the beach or the later ones that I spent picking up the dog piles with my little ones while Todd was at work?  Was it doing the dishes by hand every evening while the little boys were asleep and Todd was at school studying and knowing I’d have to get up at 5:30 and leave the boys with another mom while I went to work?  Was it driving on treacherous Montana-Idaho snow-packed roads in the middle of February as a family on route to a funeral? Was it cleaning up after a new litter of puppies because the garage smelled like the monkey house at the zoo while we were trying to sell the house with five little ones home for the summer while building another and tending the garden?  Is there a way to embrace life as it happens?  The whole of the day? 

Maybe part of it is how you frame it.  Thinking about it in a different light helps us appreciate the smaller segments that work together to create a whole.  For instance, we might think making dinner is no big deal, a necessary piece of the day on the way to another part.  Maybe even a good part to skip.  But it’s a part of the day worth being present for because it’s an act of nurturing, of creating an environment where the family can gather and talk about life.  That’s important.  Because it’s part of something bigger.  And maybe that’s the key. 

While I didn’t plan on rinsing throw-up or milk rags or nine towels and quilt soaked with blue bath water on those days, I really am grateful that I was the one there, that I was able to fix the noodle soup and tuck in a sick boy, that I was the one to be there for the breakfast charade, that I was the one to take a picture of the bathtub scene.  I long for a little two year old again, even his gallon-size messes; you know how entertaining they are when they’re imitating grown-ups.  I’m glad we’re a family that loves animals, even if it’s work on Saturday mornings (and lots of other times).  I’m glad I was able to be home to tuck the boys in bed while their dad was studying instead of having to run off to work at a convenience store leaving them alone for the evening.

I think our obstacle to savoring the episodes of the day is the way we think about time.  We think we will run out of time for other things—the real things—or that we’re missing something better.   We’re all about getting to the next phase of the day, of the week, of the future, the fun stuff.  It’s only when we’re on the warm sands of some postcard land that we finally let ourselves embrace the entire day.  But what’s the ratio of tropical days to spaghetti-before-we-read-stories-and-pay-the-bills-days?  Why save it all up for the predictably awesome vacation days?  Why not embrace the abundance of our every days? 

 I have some experience with this mentality even if you don’t.  Even now I want to get through the night routine simply because I’m tired, I haven’t been able to read or write all day, I just want half an hour of alone time.  Because I can tell I’m fading.  But my 10 year-old calls me on it.  Why are you being fast?  Why are you mad?  I’m the worst actress, I can’t help but show my colors.  I hate it.  I hate that I do that.  I know better.  And sometimes I behave like I know better.  Those are the good times.  It works when I put future activities kind of on hold and tell myself this is all I have planned for the evening.  Because I really do want to spend time with the kids, I want to make sure they’re developing good habits, I want strong traditions, I want to have created memories with them, I want them to know that prayer is important even when we’re tired.  I want them to feel peaceful and to go to sleep knowing that they are loved, not feeling guilty that they’ve interrupted their mom’s plans for the night.  And so I’m getting better, there are more times than there used to be when I remember what’s important.  This helps me slow down and remember that the small parts of the night routine--brushing, flossing, rice bag, drink, stories, prayers, song--are part of something bigger.  I’m creating an atmosphere, a nurturing environment of peace and safety.  Even if it’s a bit tedious reminding them again to brush, to supervise, to usher them away from the Legos and into the bed, it’s worth being engaged. 

Right now I’d give almost anything for an afternoon on a rocking chair soaking up the smell of old milk on any one of my little babies. I’d love to have piles of mismatched baby socks and little undershirts littering my bed from the overturned laundry basket.  I’d love to make them macaroni and cheese and put applesauce and little carrots in the sectioned plastic dishes, but no one asks me to anymore.  It breaks my heart that I can hardly remember life with babies and toddlers.  It’s bittersweet to look back on their scrapbooks.  I wish I would’ve not been in such a hurry for them to get out of the tub so we could get on with the night.

But that’s what perspective gives you.   Time has a way of erasing the wrinkles and handing back a freshly pressed memory.  Because I’d re-live any one of those days in a heartbeat if I could.  I’d give anything to fix the mistakes of stress and weariness and just embrace the whole day as it was happening, to just accept the pieces of the day one at a time rather than wading through them on my way to the “real stuff.”  I’d go back knowing that all that really mattered is that I was there and we were together.   That all the parts—even the gooey messes, the unanticipated onions I usually like to avoid--were part of something bigger.  I’d savor every bite without regret.