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I’m writing this from the guest room at my mother-in-laws house, where we are spending spring break. It’s late but I am not putting my kids to bed, which is a huge relief. I am honestly grateful beyond words to be sitting in my bed with my computer instead of lying in a dark room with my children, trying to stay awake longer than them so I can read a few pages in my own book before passing out.
We’re on vacation because it’s spring break, but honestly it’s rare to feel like a vacation with kids is an actual vacation. If we’re going by the dictionary definition, a vacation is “an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling.”
We’ve certainly got the “spent away from home” part down, as we are on the opposite side of the country from our current home. But it’s hard to feel true leisure when your 11 year old tells you she hates you because she has to eat dinner instead of just drinking a juice box. And we’re not at the recreation stage yet unless you count a trip to Target in which one child had a meltdown because he could not decide how to spend his $20 gift card.
On the other hand, I did get to sleep a lot the day after we arrived, thanks to a massive, post-flight headache and the deep exhaustion that sets in when you know that another, trustworthy adult will be responsible for your children if you are down for the count.
Toward the end of the day of lots of lying down, my oldest said, “Mom, why do you look so good?”
I think it was a compliment.
I honestly didn’t have an answer, although when I posted about it on facebook later, my friend Lauren said the only real answer is this:
Vacations are always a little tough. There is so much pressure to do all of the things and have epic fun. Mostly, I just want to make it through without losing my shit. But having fun would be a nice bonus.
Having 3 kids and past experience of challenging “vacations” has made me a little cynical when it comes to the idea of having a good vacation. But I am also hopeful by nature. Which is getting harder and harder these days.
You feel me?
I hang onto hope like it’s the only piece of wood left in the frigid Atlantic while the Titanic is sinking.
I can’t help it.
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine shared something on facebook about hope. She’s rarely on social media, but whenever she posts, it’s always deeply insightful. Here’s what she wrote:
It’s a beautiful question.
And as someone who also craves certainty, I love the idea that asking better questions will lead to deeper understanding. And if not leading to more certainty, perhaps offering a sense of inner steadiness. That even when things around me are uncertain and turbulent, I have an anchor deep within me that allows me to feel a measure of calm.
My answer to her question, nearly 2 months ago, was this:
“Hope. It feels so fleeting. So ephemeral. I see it in my children when they choose kindness instead of meanness. I see it in new growth in plants I thought were on death's door. I see it in difficult conversations people are able to have with curiosity rather than antagonism.”
All of this still resonates.
But there’s also more, perhaps because now we’re finally on the other side of winter, at least somewhat.
I’m writing this just past the spring equinox from what should be sunny, warm Alabama. But actually, it’s been cooler than I expected. I didn’t pack well for this trip and I’ve been cold the entire time. It rained all morning yesterday, so heavy at times that it almost looked like hail pelting down onto the earth.
Back in New Mexico, where we currently live, it snowed 2 days ago. After a weekend in the mid 70’s. When we arrive back home on Saturday, it will be cold once again. There is a running joke that in the part of New Mexico where we live, seasons are relative.
So while it doesn’t entirely feel like spring, I believe it’s coming. Spring can be as ephemeral as hope itself. Coming and going. Shifting and changing.
Spring is also an inherently hopeful season. It’s the season of emergence. Of new beginnings and beginning again. It’s a season full of friction and uncertainty but also with the absolute urgency to push through and push forward and bloom.
I think part of what encourages hope is that we need it.
I know I do.
Winter can be long and dark, dreary and lonely. And there are also seasons of our lives that feel like winter. Sometimes they overlap and everything feels heavy and hard.
This is sort of where I’ve been for the past 6 months or so. Maybe longer. There have been bright spots but it’s honestly been a lot of heavy and dark.
So when my friend Rose posted about hope, it was good timing. I needed something tangible to pull me through to the next season.
And ever since then, I’ve found myself experiencing small moments of hope.
To answer her question now, nearly 2 months later, I’ve been experiencing hope in small ways that bring color back to my life.
I’ve noticed tiny purple flowers on my daily walks on base with my pup. They line the path that loops around and through the housing section where we live.
I’ve noticed more green peaking through the cracks and sometimes it looks like a smile. I can’t help but smile back.
I love the bright baby green peeking out on the tree branches reaching up into a vibrant blue sky.
On a recent, mid-morning run, I noticed a small bird sitting right on top of a flowering tree next to the running path, then swooping in front of me just before I ran past.
And I’ve been hearing birds chirping to one another just outside of my window when I’m writing and moving in my room.
These are signs of spring, reminding me that nature wants to begin again. And so do I.
I’ve been struggling hard with my oldest, lately. Sometimes being a little mean when I’ve hit my limit. And also sometimes just making choices that she doesn’t like but are honestly best for her at this moment.
We fight a lot. I hate it.
And every night she waits for me to put her to bed after her brother and sister have fallen asleep. She builds her fortress of pillows and burrows in so she’s hidden from bad guys, then reaches her hand through the pile to hold my hand.
This is how I experience hope. That even when she and I are battling it out, she still trusts me enough to reach for me when she needs me.
Another experience of hope is a conversation I had with my son a few weeks ago. He asked me why I don’t like watching the Simpsons. I explained that I liked it when I was his age (ok…close to his age. The Simpsons premiered the year I turned 8 but I probably wasn’t watching with my own family until I was a few years older, closer to his sister’s age). But now, as an adult, some of the jokes just feel mean spirited and in bad taste.
He thought about this for a minute and then said, “because they make fun of Homer being fat?”
“Yes,” I answered. “That and some other things. But yeah. It bothers me that Homer’s body is the punchline in almost every episode. Other bodies, too, but especially his.”
“They shouldn’t make fun of Homer for being fat,” he said. “Fat is just another way to have a body. And fat bodies are cool.”
“You think so?” I asked.
“Definitely,” he said. And then he went back to eating his yogurt, while I smiled, mostly to myself. Experiencing so much hope for my kids and the future they’re creating, often because of the difficult/interesting conversations we’re having.
This morning, I stood on the beach with all 3 of my kids. The first time the gulf water brushed up against my ankles, I squealed and laughed with joy. I wasn’t ready to get all the way in, but I did keep inching further ahead, hoping the water would get warmer.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t actually get warmer. But it did feel warmer.
And there is something hopeful about watching the waves build, crest, smash against the sand, pull back again into the bigger expanse of water, then repeat it all over again.
It reminds me of our capacity as human beings to go through the same cycle. To begin something, grow within it, put all of our energy into it, then experience loss or release before retreating back into ourselves. And then, starting all over again.
That is how we experience hope.
Hope is not knowing what is coming next, but continuing to climb the hill in order to try and see what’s on the other side (even if it’s another hill).
When I started writing this essay 2 days ago, it was late at night. Now I’m sitting on the deck at my in-laws house. My kids are resting by the pool, after their second aquatic adventure of the day. I’m not in charge right now because I’m writing and my MIL is watching them, but I occasionally steal glances in their direction. I can’t help it.
Mostly because they decided to try some silly pool challenge — walking and crawling across various pool floaties from one side of the pool to the other. Hoping they don’t fall in. I love their silliness, their creativity, their courage.
Tonight my kids will probably stay up too late, despite having a day full of high energy activities. 2 of them slept in the car for a total of 10 minutes but that will be just enough to fuel an outsized second wind. They’ll ask Nana to put them to bed but it won’t work, just like the first night I started writing this.
One kid will walk into my room around 9pm and say, “Mommy, Nana got tired. Can you come put us to bed?”
Yes, I can.
If we’re asking still asking questions (and I always am), one question would be, “how much longer do I have to put them to bed? When will I get my nighttime back?”
But that’s not the question I want to ask.
“Am I really bothered by this?”
No. Not really.
“What kind of mom am I?”
I don’t ask this in a judgey way towards myself. Just to consider what I actually enjoy about motherhood. What I’m decent at as a mom.
I am not the kind of mom who does well with imaginary play or rolling trucks down a ramp or even things like catch (I get bored so fast).
But I am the kind of mom who can read books at night and cuddle my kids to sleep for as long as it takes. Especially when I’m on vacation, I don’t have a dog to walk or dishes to do, and no one needs to be up early for any reason.
“How much longer will they ask me to be there for them when they need to feel safe and supported?”
For always, I hope.
How are you experiencing hope right now? Leave me a comment to let me know!
I can’t imagine life without hope. To me it would be an abyss.