This week, I’ve been thinking about my daddy a lot. I just keep having flashbacks of certain moments with him: him walking with the hubby and I to lunch near his office; him coming down the stairs when we visit him at home; him playing games till late at night (and me watching the game right by his side, trying not to scream when the zombies came up); him watching me as I got into my car to go to work at 4am before I got married; him just making jokes that I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry or roll my eyes at…
I can’t believe it’s been two years since he left us. Sometimes I would wonder, is he really gone? My daddy, who has always been there, is gone?
I also thought of my mom a lot, especially when I look at Amy. When I was three, my mom was still alive. I wonder a lot about what she thought of as a mom. What would she do differently? And just, how was she as a mom?
Alistair’s crazy sleep pattern has been continuing, as recently he woke up every hour again. At one of the intervals, I was pretty upset when I picked him up, and for a split second, the hubby thought I was going to fling Alistair away. For some reason I found that funny.
(Having said that, I am very aware of how real post-natal depression is and how some moms really struggle with it. If you ever feel that you might hurt you or your kids, seek help. There’s no shame in that.)
The truth is, both my kids can make me very upset everyday, and sometimes I do feel like screaming out loud and banging my head against the wall. Patience is definitely not a trait of mine. But. Every time I look at their little faces and I am overwhelmed with gratefulness. What have I done to deserve them in my life?
They are totally reliant on me. What they eat, do and learn… I currently hold the power to determine. Their safety, their wellbeing… Most of that is in my hands. And sometimes that’s scary. What if I screw up? Which I always do.
Why does God trust me so much to put these little sweet lives under my responsibility?
So when they are being difficult, I take a deep breath, and remind myself:
That I was once like them and I too once drove my mom (then my sis and everyone else who took care of me) up the wall.
As I’m typing this, I’m holding sleeping Alistair in my arms (yes, I’m typing with one hand) after putting Amy to nap earlier. And no matter how crazy the days become, no matter how much they make me feel like roaring, no matter how much they make me want to curl up and cry of exhaustion and frustration, I am always thankful and proud and blessed that I can call them mine.