Life is Suite

I have a confession to make.  Sometimes adulting makes me nervous.  Maybe I’m alone in that, but somehow, I doubt it.  It’s not that I’m new to the whole concept, because my birthday that’s fast approaching next month reminds me that I’m not.  And I mean, I’ve managed to give birth to and semi-raise three children.  I’ve signed legal documents, bought a house and made important medical decisions for other people that I dearly love.  So, definitely not a newbie at this thing called life.  And yet, knowing that I have to do things of the adulting nature is sure fire way to be sure that I’m going to feel queasy that day.  

Today was no exception.  I had to talk to people and take care of things and tie up loose ends on things that Matt was just unable to be there for—you see, Matt, he’s my security blanket.  He is an A+ adulter.  My computer tried to change that to adulterer.  Wouldn’t that have been a fun little mix up.  No, he is a terrific and faithful man.  He makes snap decisions with ease.  He handles money well and never second guesses himself.  He is the one you’d want by your side if you had to take care of business.  

And then, there’s me; the waffler.  I hem.  I haw.  I doubt.  But, that’s okay.  I’m a work in progress.  And today was a day that I knew things had to get done.  So, armed with my five year old by my side, we did just that.  Hey, even  Batman got a Robin. 

And as we were crossing the street from our last order of business, I grabbed her hand and said, We did it, Char.  We did all the hard things.  And that sweet little girl, who somehow thinks that I’m the one in charge, grabbed my hand back and gave it a little squeeze, “Of course we did.” I had to smile.  The faith of a child. Of course we did.  

Maybe that’s what you need today.  And I’m here to remind you, we CAN do hard things.  We can do adult things.  Even if they make us nervous.  Especially if they make us nervous. We can advocate and celebrate and speak up.  We can self promote and self deliver and we can just plain show up. And if you’re like me, you may need someone to hold your hand to get through it.  But, that’s okay.  You can be the very best you that you are meant to me.  Because, of course you can. 

It’s that time of year. Spring is springing (supposedly), flowers are blooming (somewhere) and the days are stretching (boy, are they).  We are on the wind down of the school year as we coast into spring break.  I feel it.  The kids feel it.  And whispers of Kindergarten are on the lips of all of my friends who are faced with the same dilemma that I am; an upcoming empty nest.  Our last baby will start Kindergarten this Fall.  And it’s going to be wonderful.  And I’m likely going to have to be sedated.  I just can’t believe we’re here.  It’s probably no great coincidence that we’ve had our children five years apart.  About the time we’d get to this stage in the game, I couldn’t be too sad, because there was a new baby on the horizon.  But, this time, that’s not the case.  We are sending our swan song to the biggest performance of her life.  And I am sad. 

Today, I found myself talking about it again today.  And when we got home, Charlotte sat down beside me and said, “Mama.  Why does Kindergarten make you sad?”  And there we have it.  The moment when the rug is pulled out from under your feet and you realize that all those times you were joking with friends about a Xanax prescription and a boo-hoo brunch, someone else was listening.  The most important person was listening.  What had I done? 

So, I had to pull up a square of carpet next to her and admit that I was wrong.  I wasn’t sad about Kindergarten.  Truth be told, I’m excited for Kindergarten.  I am sad for ME.  And friends, guess what?  This isn’t about me.  This is her journey.  And, by God, I will not make this sweet baby carry MY baggage on HER journey. She has the most promising road ahead.  She is going to make friends and make memories and keep learning all of the things that make life great. I will not rob her of that. Selfish sadness is okay for a while, but it’s not okay forever. 

So, as of today, I’m done being sad.  I’ve decided that Kindergarten is going to be the most amazing adventure that anyone has ever taken. (At least that will be my public story.  Fake it till you make it, right?) And while I suspect that the first day of school will find me hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses, as long as she sees a smile on my face, that future will remain pretty darn bright. 

Sail on, silver girl.  Thank you for always showing me the way. 

I had to run into the grocery store yesterday to quickly grab something for dinner and as I was headed out, I dashed over to the women’s clothing department. Okay, fine, it wasn’t just the grocery store.  It was Wal-Mart. I was in Wal-Mart, people. But, in my days as a soccer coach (go ahead and laugh) it’s become quite apparent that my ummm, shall we say, “active wear” collection isn’t very extensive.  So I thought I’d see what they had that didn’t cost a fortune because clearly my future doesn’t lie in professional preschool sports coordinating. 

And that’s when I saw her.  A mom strolling the clearance section, supporting the head of a sleeping toddler as she napped there in the cart. I smiled at her.  A “been there, done that” smile.  She said, “Now she sleeps.  Great timing, huh?”  And I laughed.  And I commiserated.  Because a child that sleeps at the wrong time will likely go to bed at the wrong time.  And we all know how that goes. 

She seemed to want (or maybe need) to talk. So, she stood next to me as I eyed the $9 yoga capris.  We both noted our love for black clothing.  And she told me that the kind of pants that she was wearing were a few racks over.  She told me how comfortable they were and how they went with so many things.  I walked with her and found she was right in that this was exactly what I needed.  We laughed about the mom-uniform.  I wished her well.  And she did the same to me. 

I really didn’t have time to talk.  I had ten other things on my to-do list that now had to be edited to eight.  But, I really didn’t have time NOT to talk.  Because she and I-we are the same.  We are warriors marching towards a common goal.  And if one of my comrades need to talk—even to a stranger in Walmart—how could I not have time for that? 

You see, she lifted me up, too.  I left there with the confidence that we’re all walking the same road.  Some of us are just holding up the head of an overtired toddler while we’re doing it.  Look around you, my sweet readers. Sometimes strangers are just friends we haven’t met yet. <3 nbsp="" p="">

It’s been a busy weekend (week) (year) for us here in the Manning household and I swear it’s starting to show. I look around and there is clutter as far as the eye can see.  I do the best I can, but last I checked brushing your teeth while eating Oreos was futile and the same can be said for picking up in a houseful of children. 

Hunter has had a particularly busy social calendar and we’ve all been keeping busy to make sure he’s able to do all of the fun things that he’s invited to do.  Today found us dropping him off at his second birthday party of the weekend and as we walked back to the car I could tell that Charlotte was upset to leave him.

I took hold of her sweet little hand and we started our journey back to the car.  And for every step she took, she cried.  Not the loud, wailing cry that might be labeled a temper tantrum, just a soft, near silent cry that streamed tears down her little face.  But, she matched me step for step.  She never asked if we could go back and get him, she never asked me to pick her up, she never faltered.  She never asked to stop.

I thought about how similar that was to whatever path God has called us to walk.  Maybe it’s a new job, maybe it’s an illness that you just can’t seem to shake, maybe it’s letting go of something or someone that you love very much—whatever the scenery on your road looks like, it’s never easy.  And sometimes you want to cry.  In that moment with Charlotte, I thought about how maybe it doesn’t matter what you look like to others when you’re walking down that hard road.  All that really matters is that you keep walking. 

And so, a little child shall lead them. 

Our sweet girl received her name in honor of two things--the hometown of my husband’s much beloved Carolina Panthers (Charlotte, NC) and in a nod to one of my favorite childhood tales, “Charlotte’s Web”.  It’s a tale of bravery and courage and never giving up even when things look their bleakest.  It’s been a joy to introduce it to our children, though I confess, mostly they know the story from the movie version that Oprah Winfrey produced a few years back.  In fact, we were watching that movie in the car on the way to the ultrasound appointment that told us that our sweet Charlotte was a healthy and thriving little girl.  So, you can see why it has become ever more special to me over the years. 

Last night after we got home, Charlotte requested I turn “her movie” on while I was getting dinner ready for the rest of the family.  I’ve seen “her movie” so many times that I often don’t sit and pay much attention, but last night I found myself swept away by the story and as usual,  I shed a few tears at the loss of Charlotte the great.  My own Charlotte looked back up at me and noticing my tears, she laid her head on my chest and said, “Mama, you know this isn’t the end.”

Time stood still.

That may be the wisest thing I’ve ever heard. Yes, in that moment of sadness, the tears were flowing.  But, the wisdom of a child knew that happiness was just around the corner.  Indeed, this was not the end.   Charlotte’s babies would go on to bless the lives of all that knew them.  The animals that lived in that barn together would grow stronger in their friendship because of her life.  And perhaps the greatest miracle of all, a spring pig would go on to see the first flakes of snow in winter. 

My friends, no matter where you’re at in your walk today—this is not the end.  No matter how dark, how low, how lost you may feel—your story isn’t finished.  And you, as the writer, have the power to turn the next page.  Joy comes in the morning.  Sometimes it comes later than you would have liked, but for the most part, it always shows up. But, just as Charlotte knew in that moment, we had to get through the tears to see the happily ever after.  The heart of a “radiant” little girl knew.  In our times of greatest sadness, this is not the end. 

Forget “Some pig”, how about, “Some girl”.  

My mother died when I was seventeen years old and it rocked my world.  I am now thirty seven years old and my world is still shaking.  I walk around most days perfectly put together.  I have made great effort to make sure that (for the most part) none of my aftershocks occur in public or that none of my unfinished edges show.  But, lately I’ve been thinking.  I feel like a cake that somebody took out of the oven before it was done baking.  It looks done on the outside so you take it out and you take the time and effort to beautifully decorate it, but what no one is aware of is that underneath all of that frosting lies a shaky mess.  I am that shaky mess. 

I liken it to when my mother died life took me out of the oven.  I wasn’t quite done baking, but it didn’t matter-my time was up.  And in many ways, I’ve stayed in that state of mind for the last twenty years.  Oh sure, I’ve put myself back together, but nothing can ever replace that time in the oven that was missed.  And I’m starting to wonder, how many of the rest of us are walking around unfinished?  How many of the rest of us didn’t get enough time in the great proverbial oven?

I had a shaky day yesterday.  I feel like I’ve been having a lot of those lately.  I had to put myself out there in ways that made me feel vulnerable and insecure.  Those are two of my triggers.  But, putting yourself out there is just part of life (especially when you’re a mother, because-hello, you have to go to bat for your kids).  But, my goodness, does that make my weak spots feel even weaker.

Usually when I write I feel like I have a point to get across.  But, today I’m not sure that I do.  I think I just want to be bold.  I want to admit that I am weak.  And in doing so, maybe I can become strong.  I want to be public with my state of uncooked batter, haha.  I want people to know that if you yourself feel this same way, you’re not alone. 

And so, if you are reading this and you ever have a day where there’s just not enough frosting in the world to cover up your vulnerability, think of me-because, maybe-just maybe-if we can generate enough love, it could replace the warmth of the oven and get us a little bit closer to fine.

When Jackson was born, my grandmother said, “Well, children are the best thing that will ever happen to you, but you’ve slept your last good night.”  At that point I thought she was probably kidding (I hoped) or at least exaggerating (I prayed), but now-almost 14 years later, I can vouch for her-she was 100% correct. 

Oh sure, there’s a night here and there where I might fall asleep at a normal hour and actually wake up the next morning in the same place.  But, it’s rare.  It’s more often that I wander and bed hop.  The sounds of bad dreams, sniffles, drinks of water and covers that “need fixing” have replaced REM, and man, do I miss it. 

Last night, it was Charlotte who woke me up.  Technically, not her fault, but I awoke to the sounds of her in the midst of a terrible coughing fit.  She wasn’t crying, so I didn’t rush in to her room.  But, she could never quite settle back in.  I found myself sitting in the floor outside of her bedroom door.  She was having a terrible time off and on, but she never called for me, so I wanted to wait and see.  And as I sat there and listened to her, I felt an overwhelming closeness to God.  It was as if I could feel him nudging my heart, It’s hard to watch her struggle, isn’t it? That’s how I feel waiting for you.  

And so, as I sat there with tears running down my face at 3 o’clock in the morning, I knew that God was close to the floor.  And He was right.  If I never call out to my Father-if I never invite him in when I’m struggling, He’s just as helpless as I felt in that moment with Charlotte.  I am good at saying, Father, take this cross from me, but boy do I love to take it back.  I love to feel like I’m strong enough to manage on my own, but as usual, God knows best. 

For today, that is my prayer.  Lord, when I’m feeling weak.  When I’m struggling, help me remember to invite you in and help me remember that asking for help is what makes you strongest of all. 

But, Nana was right.  Lightning strikes of wisdom and moments with Jesus or not-I really had slept my last good night.