HBD

Happy birthday to me.

What do I want to celebrate this year? Probably the fact that I’m still upright and functioning, most of the time. I never would have imagined the level at which I now multitask – “Dad, please drink your juice, you’re getting dehydrated…Cosmo, stop eating the chicken food. A little is fine but you’re making a meal out of it…Evelyn, I love you so much but I need some personal space so could you stop standing on my foot?…Miranda, please, please clean the litter box and cat vomit…Steven, where’s Cosmo – he just disappeared, and did Dad get his meds, and do you have any dirty laundry for me to wash, and I’ll meet you at 2:30, no 3, no 2, and we have lessons to teach at 4, and what about Bible study tonight?…”

If I listed the things I did in a single day and read them as if they applied to someone else, I would think that person was a superhero. But when it comes to me, I give myself no credit. All I see are failings and shortcomings, all the things that I still need to get done, the lack of undivided attention I give to everyone and everything. There’s almost constant worry about what I’m forgetting, and what mistake I’ll discover I’ve made tomorrow.

Readers, I am a problem solver. The level of burden, responsibility, and complexity of mine and Steven’s daily lives is not sustainable and it’s not okay. It took a long time for me to be able to admit that, and then longer to say it our loud to him and to my closest friends. But here’s the thing: not all problems can be solved.

I could choose to move my dad to a memory care facility, but a) I have to be the one to look him in the eyes and actually do it, and b) it’s an hour and a half away, and how often could I or should I visit, and would I want to take the kids because it’s good for them, or not take them because it’s too hard, and what if there was an emergency and I couldn’t get there quickly, and it would add a huge financial burden, and really, does this lower my stress at all? Unequivocally no. Even if I changed the logistics, there is no way to lessen the pain of my father declining and slipping ever so slowly away.

I also can’t solve my children. I carry the weight of their emotions and well-being in my bones, in my stomach, and in my mind at all times. And with 3 of them, someone almost always has some problem, whether it’s standing in ants (Cosmo), struggling with being so isolated (Evelyn), or figuring out how to become an adult (Miranda). Steven and I can comfort, facilitate, take them to the park and the library and the orthodontist, and force our eyes and ears open at 1 a.m., which is the only time girls want to talk. We can exercise patience beyond all human limits, we can smile when we want to scream and hug when we want to strangle, but ultimately they have to learn their own way of being in the world. They have to feel all the feelings and sob and wail, and laugh with joy, and shake with excitement, and sometimes actually throw up with nervousness. And I just have to watch and be there and feel my heart ripped out over and over, and have faith that they, too, will survive growing up.

Another thing I can’t solve is my conscience. It’s who I am, and it will always have me overcommitting, saying yes instead of no, squeezing in extra horse lessons, staying up late at night to finish grant proposals, getting up early to help Steven with billing, and basically opening a vein if I thought it would help my kids.