It keeps escaping me somehow.  Just out of reach.  I feel like I should have it, like I have almost grasped it.  Then suddenly I am reminded that it is just an illusion.  And I get so frustrated.

Angry with myself.

I should be able to do this.

After all, this is the way it was before.  I had two kids to care for.  I cleaned the house.  Cooked the meals.  Taught the lessons.  Laughed and played.  Kissed the owies away.

It should be normal.  It should just be the way it was.

But of course it isn't.  Because he is not with us.

And he should be with us.


Instead, after a frustrating day of not being able to focus on the task at hand.  Instead of completing his own schoolwork, the Peanut draws a picture, in his sister's book.  His little brother.  "Running into the arms of God."
And when the Princess tries to climb on top of the desk, she falls and scratches herself on the grave marker that sits in the corner waiting to be placed.

How did a gravestone in the corner become our normal?

And when I walk into my bedroom and see the crib in the corner...

The crib that has been there since we moved in.

It has always been there.  It is normal.

Two babies have slept in it.

But there should be a baby in it now.

Instead it is filled with linens and towels removed from a cabinet that was destroyed by the upstairs bathtub leak.

I remember the day I stared at the havoc wreaked on my house by the last Pipe Gremlin attack.  I told my sister that I couldn't wait to get all the kids stuff back into their room.  And get everything back to normal.

That was the moment that it hit me.  Things would never get back to normal.  There was no normal after the ultrasound.

And there are days I accomplish so much.  Like the day I cleaned and reorganized the kitchen.

But then I remind myself.  If he were here I would not have been able to do that.  I would have been too tired.  Too busy taking care of his needs.  And that thought sucks the joy away.  The accomplishment suddenly hollow.  Because I would gladly trade.

Or the day I created a meal plan.  And finally went to the real grocery store.  Something I hadn't done in seven months.  Not since June.  And I can't believe I let myself go that long.  I can't believe my family put up with me going that long.  With quick trips to Target for the essentials.  Just to get through another week.  Then I would go.  Then I would be up to going.  I would force myself to go.

And then there are the days I feel like I have accomplished nothing.  The days I can't get our schedule on track.  Or I watch the work I did the days before vanish in mere seconds.  In the blink of an eye an entire days worth of work undone.

And I ask myself.  Why can't I snap out of it.  It has been four months.  I should have a handle on all this by now.

Then I remind myself that it has only been four months.  I am being too hard on myself.  I have to give myself time.  Go slow.  Keep moving forward a bit at a time.  After all, it took me a year after my miscarriage to feel like I could breath again.  I can't rush this.

Then I get frustrated at myself.  Just get it done and quit making excuses.  There is nothing wrong with me.  I am fine.

Except for the arguments constantly warring inside my brain.  If anyone could hear my thoughts they would probably have me committed.

So, I go right to my computer and share them with the world.

And then I tell myself that I shouldn't share this.  It's too sad.  Why write something that might make someone else sad?  Happy.  Happy is good.  Funny is good.

Yes, funny is good.  It's normal.  But some days.  The funny just won't come.

The truth is, most days I am fine.

But some days.

Some days are just hard.

Matthew 2:18


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