Treasure

I think that everyone has rational fears and irrational fears. Sometimes our irrational fears can become very real and we must walk them out to see if they materialize or if they are, in fact, irrational. Today I had to take my son to All Children’s Hospital to see an immunologist. We were referred there about a month ago, so for the past few weeks I have carried an invisible burden of wondering what is wrong with him and how serious it is. When I first heard that there was something showing up in his bloodwork pertaining to his immunity system, my mind immediately said, “cancer.” When we were referred to All Children’s, my anxiety began to climb, because I knew what kind of kids were at that hospital: really sick kids. For a month, I acted like I was OK with the situation, and I acted the part of the faith-full mom who was believing that there would be nothing wrong with her baby, when inside I was a petrified mess, playing out every “what if” in my mind. You see, one of my irrational fears is that God is going to realize that I was the girl who wasn’t supposed to have kids, that some cosmic mistake had been made, and He’d decide to take them back. I have an awful fear that something horrible will happen to my kids and I will have to figure out how to exist without them. And I can’t even wrap my brain around how that would play out. So when we entered the cheery halls of All Children’s this morning, I saw some sick kids. Really sick. Bald-from-chemo sick. And I pushed my son in his stroller down to the immunologist, wondering if I was about to find out that my baby boy was as sick as these other kids.
As it turns out, Gianni is not that sick, and although they aren’t yet sure exactly what is going on, no one thinks that it is anything that can’t be easily fixed, so my invisible weight has been lifted and I feel lighter. But as the day has gone on, I cannot help but picture those sick kids. The journey that these families are on is, to me, one of the longest, most difficult journeys there is. Parents simply aren’t supposed to outlive their kids. They should never have to pack a nursery up, get rid of car seats and high chairs that are no longer needed, or have to pick out the last outfit their child will ever wear. Is just isn’t fair.
So in this month that I have had to walk out my irrational fear, I’ve treasured moments, not knowing if they were numbered. I’ve let the house get a little messier, and I’ve cuddled a little longer. I’ve played a little more and yelled a little less. I’ve let dirty laundry wait while chubby little fingers tickled me for as long as they wanted to. And perhaps this is really how life is supposed to be lived.
Only the perfectionist in me cringes at the thought of leaving dirty dishes in the sink while my kids and I make a fort with blankets. And the realist in me knows that there is no laundry elf, and the longer I let it go, the longer it will take me to catch up, and it is inevitable that I will have to catch up. And the pessimist in me says that if I think I’m supposed to do nothing but play and enjoy my kids all day every day, I’m living in some sort of fairy land, because chores need to get done and people need to be fed. But perhaps there is a fine balance somewhere in between a scheduled day full of chores and errands, and weeks and weeks of dress-up and picnics. Perhaps somewhere in between loads of laundry I can stop long enough to enjoy the closest thing to pure happiness on this side of heaven. Because I’m pretty sure that the parents of those sick kids aren’t too worried about how clean and organized their closets are, or how high up the corporate ladder they have climbed. I’m guessing that they’re trying to squeeze the most out of every single moment that they have with their kids, and taking a million pictures, and jotting down every detail so they don’t forget how their child’s face lit up when a favorite song came on, or how sweet he smelled when he got out of the tub. It’s not fair that one day those memories are all they will have, and that makes me even more grateful for what I have right now: a daily reminder of the fact that God loved me enough to allow me to wake up each day with two living, breathing miracles in my house. And somewhere in between making beds and making mud pies, I will treasure moments. I will take pictures. I will jot down details. And I will remember to be very, very grateful.