These Days

It's 5:30 in the morning. I've been up for an hour. 

I'm normally up at 4:30 to give the baby in her bottle and put her right back to bed. 

But then I saw a great opportunity to talk to my husband; I took it. And, well, now my mind is awake. 

I want to share something really big that is happening in my life. It's something I've come to terms with but you probably aren't prepared for, so brace yourself: 

My parents are divorcing.

(I feel like there should be a great big 10 second pause here.)

I'm not saying this to make others uncomfortable or to ask for pity. I'm certainly not saying it to dishonor my parents. I've just come to terms with this terrible statement. Somehow, by saying it, I take the first step in acknowledging the truth of it, but spurning the sting of it. 

I try not to wrestle this beast because the instant I think I've got a handle on it, I realize that I've used all my strength on the equivalent of its big toe... and there's a whole lot more of it left. 

These situations never come at the right time of life, do they? I mean, this is not a good time of life for me to question the foundation of my family... not as I'm raising my little girls. 

I can think of a much better time of life for this: never. 

Never, ever. 

Not ever. 

A thousand nevers.

The end.

They have a name for adults whose parents are divorcing. They call it "Adult Children of Divorce". There must be enough people suffering from the effects of it that they should give it a nifty label like that. "I have ACD." Um, no. I will not ever say that.

For my part, I have a renewed vision to build my home into a solid place. I pray a lot. 

For me. For my marriage. For my children. 

And I roll up my sleeves a lot, too. I'm doing a heap of house projects. 

I'm sewing. 

I'm Craigs*listing. 

I'm purging. 

I'm trying not to overdo it but the truth is that purging a boat load of "blah" from my house feels as if I'm purging any bad things that might harm my own marriage or household. 

I also have this urge to be very, very domestic. I asked my friend Ann for her family pickle recipe the other day. My friend Beth offered her pickle recipe which is "very easy" and only takes a few hours to cure in the fridge. But, I told them, "I want Ann's recipe. It's one of those kinds that needs to sit in a crock for 3 days. I want the difficult recipe. I don't want it to be easy." Easy things don't last, I reason. 

At the same time, I told my husband that I specifically did not want to use his family's recipe for something (even though it might be better) because I wanted to use my family's recipe. "I guess cooking my family's recipe is my way of holding together the pieces of my past. I don't want your family's recipe for this; I need to use mine." 

It doesn't make sense here (pointing to my head), but it makes a heap of sense here (hand over heart).

Now it is nearly 6 in the morning. My husband is running on the treadmill downstairs. In a few minutes, Morgan's internal clock will tell her to get up and ask me for her morning cocoa. The day will be a series of bottle making, diaper changing and sandwich slapping. 

But sometime today I will pause and thank God for the privilege of wiping a dirty floor; I'll thank him for all the feet that make it dirty. And this evening I'll go to bed. I'll be quite tired and sleep will come quickly. But I'll be thankful.