Dutch put the trampoline up yesterday, which means that spring is here.
When Jack can walk outside with his big bare hobbit feet, we breathe deeply. It’s like someone removed the shackles of winter we’ve been shuffling around in for months. We can stretch and move again.
Something clicked in me the other day. I decided I’m tired of being depressed. I’m sick of having no energy. I’m done with things as they always are.
I proceeded to put away the dark chocolate (after eating some, of course). I worked out. I baked cookies for the guys. I read part of an actual book. I tripled my daily scripture intake. I took Truman on a walk. I talked to my friends at church. They gave me hugs.
I also cleaned up an obscene volume of urine in FOUR different rooms of the house, because Jack lives here, and just because I’ve decided to be happy, it doesn’t change the crazy-town dynamic of our household. I can resolve to be cheerier. I can also continue handling the daily crap all the day long, because it doesn’t go away.
While I sat in church today, I thought about the little gifts—of friendship and kindness. Of people asking questions and trying to understand. Of books and stories. Of movie dates. Of respite and therapy helpers. Of sleep. Of watching Henry’s basketball games. Of families sticking together despite centripetal forces working to pull us apart.
March is a gift. It’s brown outside, and somewhat soggy, but it smells clean. The air is fresh. It’s warmer. It will probably snow again, and I can’t muster any anger about it.
Jack will empty his bladder on the couch and the bathroom floor. He will stuff half an uneaten banana behind the cushions to turn black and slimy. He will shred paper, photographs, and packages. He will have a meltdown about gum and going in the car and basically just Sunday in general. In fact, he is recovering in his room from this very episode, right now.
That part is the absolute worst.
But the meltdown isn’t where this post ends. It isn’t where today ends.
Whenever Truman or Charlie start to shriek because something isn’t working out right, Dutch and I quote a ditty from Daniel Tiger on PBS. “Keep trying,” we sing, “You’ll get be-e-tter!”
They hate it.
What they don’t realize is, I’m mostly singing it for myself.