What A Journey

As I am wont to do, I become philosophical when confronting challenges and trials.  I look at what is occurring, what I am experiencing and feeling, and then postulate ideas based upon them.  It is probably only normal and to be expected that as I near the end of a two-month journey with my daughter, son-in-law, and four grand children, I try to figure out the “takeaway” of it all.

In speaking with people, I have been told how wonderful it is and how blessed it must be to have them stay with us.  To be sure, it has been a great and memorable experience, but as with most life situations, it occasionally has involved some “rough sledding.”  My intent is not to pass judgment on the past two months, but merely to comment on what it has been like.  I hope that came through as well in the last posting I did as seen through the eyes of one of the triplets.  There have been some wonderful, touching moments, and there have been others when I left home with children screaming and crying and feeling grateful that I was able to leave.

Much of societal change and invention in this day and age has to do with self-satisfaction and finding meaning in one’s life.  The mantra seems to be that if one feels stress, boredom, anxiety, challenge, sadness or pain, that person should do whatever it takes to simplify life, to ease up on the gas pedal, so to speak, and to do whatever it takes to reduce the difficulties of life.  It seems to be a societal belief that having these “negatives” in one’s life is unacceptable and to be avoided.  If you doubt what I am saying, you need to go no farther than to the television and look at the substance of the commercials.

Not that one should deliberately look for difficulties to steer through in life, but what has been my life experience has been that I have grown the most in my character in those moments when I have found myself in the crucible, those very difficult circumstances.  Obviously, my challenges compared to those of others might very well be considered light weight or barely registering on the difficulty scale, but nonetheless they have been difficult for me.  I see them as divinely given/allowed for specific purposes and for my exact needs.

I have written previously about the experience of the decision and then attending graduate school in an effort to effect a career change while serving as a lay ecclesiastical leader of a congregation of 200. I did this while working full time and being a full-time husband and father.  These were times of extremity, times of frustration, times of extreme weariness, times of self-doubt, times of non-stop intensity.  I think about other times in my life when obstacles were numerous, feelings were intense, circumstances were challenging, and I have lived through them all. 

Most importantly, in my extremity, I have grown the most and learned lessons that I would have missed had I chosen/been given an easier path.  I have become what I am today, and while there could be a discussion as to exactly what that is and to my value in the pool of humanity, I am comfortable and accepting of where I am.  That does not mean that I will rest on my laurels or whatever other metaphor comes to mind.  It means that I will not be afraid to put myself/be put in challenging positions in the future because I know they will be for my best good now and in eternity.  It means that having my New York family here was a difficult, wonderful experience.

Every tear, every scream, every child crying jag, every toy picked up, every diaper changed (especially the poopy ones), every dish and utensil washed, every dollar spent on additional food, every child buckled into a car seat, every wiggling child held during a church meeting, every door slammed, every window dirtied by sticky hands, every piece of furniture moved to accommodate cribs and pack and plays, every email not sent from my office that now serves as a child’s bedroom, every light globe broken, every peanut butter sandwich made, every piece of cheese and grape cut in half for the kids’ snack, every piece of food swept off the kitchen floor or picked off the floor and pew at church, every room vacuumed, every night’s sleep awakened by a crying child, every towel wrapped around the wiggly body of a just-bathed, wet child, every spill dried up, every child pushed in a stroller, every child swept off their feet because they were where they shouldn’t be, every fly taken out of a baby’s mouth (yes I did that once, and luckily it was dead…but so gross!), every bottle warmed up in my bleary-eyed state at 6:30am, every plastic latch opened and shut purchased to prevent kids from getting into a cabinet or drawer and emptying its contents, every face washed over the sink because of food or dirt, every toy on the floor that becomes an obstacle course for me, every ladder or chair that is in my front yard to stop kids from going where they shouldn’t go or from eating dirt, every leaf pulled and shredded into pieces in the house, every Christmas ornament yanked off the tree, every child crying because they’ve gotten themselves stuck, every bib put on and taken off covered with food, every attempt by a little hand to turn on the disposal or to reach something on the dining room table, other furniture or Christmas tree, and every hand print or pen/pencil mark on a wall or closet door, will have its opposite, endearing, smile-producing (and maybe tear producing) memory. 

I want to remember the contentedness I felt and they felt as I held one in my arms while they drank their warmed morning bottle.  I want to remember their delight in the bubbles I blew on the front lawn, their laughs as I sprayed them with a hose and played catch with them on the lawn, their “wan-wan” sounds when they heard dogs, their utter amazement and delight as they looked skyward to see a helicopter or on the ground to see a flower, their giggles as I pushed them in the swings at the nearby park, their giggles as I played “Eye Winker, Tom Tinker, Nose Dropper, Mouth Eater, Chin Chopper and Gollywhopper,”  their looks as I fed them grapes, pieces of cheese and crackers, or snuck in a piece of banana with their oatmeal, their imitating my animal sounds while sitting on my lap and reading countless books to them, their playing and giggling with their cousin Daniel when he came over, their wide-open eyes gazing upon the Christmas tree, their imitation of placing a toy on their heads because I placed one on mine, their dancing to “Hold Still…Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle” and “At the Hop” and “Pumpa’s favorite” Chantilly Lace, or “Put Down the Duckie,” their joy at watching “Yo Gabba Gabba,” their trying to make adult words like “thank you” and “I love you,” their lying still while I changed their diaper and put the legs to their sleepers back on them, the joy in their voices when they talked with their Daddy on the phone or watched him on the I-Phone or Skype, their tiny hands in mine as we walked, their waiting in line for me to play “Patty Cake, Patty Cake, Baker Man” with them, their dancing to the sounds of dueling toys, their giggles as I threw them in the air, over my shoulder, swung them in front of me, or played with them on their beds, and their quietness and stillness (at least for a short time) as I sang a lullaby to them before putting them down for a nap or for the day.

All of the challenges and difficulties and accommodations will melt away in the future as I think of Emily’s grateful, if wan, smile and heartfelt thank you for helping her and giving her support at this time of her extremity.  They will melt away when I remember Elizabeth’s inquiring face then charming, full-face smile as she looks at her Pumpa and wonders if he is just being silly or is he saying the truth.  They will melt away when I remember Charlie, the boy everyone says looks like me, looking at me and imploring me to hold him while I read him a book while he sucks on his binky and holds his blanket.  They will melt away when I remember little chubby Lucy looking at me through those slits of eyes and saying quite articulately, “I love you.”  And they will melt away when I think of Eddie constantly holding out/up his arms for his Pumpa to hold him and hug him.

This has been a difficult, demanding experience, but the transition from a full, noise-filled nest to a quiet, empty one for Pumpa and Geema will likewise be a new, if wistful, one.