Moving On

I have lived, for varying lengths of time, in eight states. Eight states in 18 years. I had around 20 different roommates my four years of college. And before I had children, I taught in a junior high school. I am a flexible person. And then I married a flexible man, and I've given birth to three flexible children.

We go with the flow around here. I still laugh at my mother, who likes to plan as far ahead as possible--I'm pretty sure she schedules her dog's grooming appointments months in advance. She'll ask me on Monday what we're doing on Friday, and my answer is always the same, "I'll let you know Friday afternoon." Once we went on a week's vacation, a day's drive away, on 10 hours' notice. We're a spontaneous, flexible family. And we like it that way.

So I'm having a hard time explaining why I'm holding on to the present with a white-knuckled grip lately. I have to fight the urge to eat the same exact thing every single night for dinner. I'm tempted to wear the same clothes three days in a row. And every night, when I peek in on the children in their beds, I feel a little sad that they're going to be one day older in the morning.

We're in a good place lately. All three kids are exceptionally healthy. There are no heart ECHOS, kidney scans, or even regular doctor appointments in the near future. Our house isn't on the market, and we're not in the middle of any projects. I have one standing obligation each week, which takes an hour, and nothing else on the calendar. Our days are free, and calm (as calm as they can be with three small children), and routine. And I like it that way.

But then Addie had to hit another full-on nursing strike, and now she's weaned. I had no intention of weaning her yet; she's my last baby, and I wasn't ready to stop nursing her. But she was done. And then Caiden had to get another day older, another inch taller, another day closer to going to kindergarten. And Grayson had to start singing the alphabet song, letter-perfect, without my help. Even Hammy the Hamster is changing; she got a new cage, and now she spends her days hiding in her tube, rather than peeing out the top of her suspended running ball. Life is changing, and I don't like it one bit, even if it means the hamster pee is contained.

I guess it's because the last couple years have been bursting-at-the-seams full. Chris changed positions in ministry; we had back-to-back children born. Heart surgery, kidney scares, tonsils surgery, learning to crawl, losing baby fat (Grayson's, not mine), growing inches taller. But the thought of the baby turning into a toddler pulls at my heart. She may only be around 15 pounds, but she's working her way toward walking. He may be my first baby, but his first day of school is around the corner. Yesterday when I dropped him off at the church for an all-day activity for the kids going into kindergarten, he walked away without a backward glance. I shouted after him, "Caiden! Don't you need a hug?" He froze mid-stride, then turned and stared at me. "Do you need a hug?" Darn it, he's perceptive. I fought back tears as he squeezed me and then ran off. Life is moving too fast, and I'm digging in my heels, wanting to push "pause."

Life doesn't work that way. I keep imagining myself with gray hair. I inspect my head everyday, daring one single follicle to turn gray. If it does, that'll be it. I might lose my mind. I just want one single thing to stay the same, especially if it's my hair color.

And then, in a moment of clarity, I think of the caterpillar in its cocoon. A butterfly is a beautiful thing. A caterpillar is not. Maybe a baby girl who doesn't want to nurse, who wants to drink her milk out of a sippy cup, is a good thing. Maybe a little boy who can tie his shoes and ride his bike without training wheels is a good thing. Certainly a hamster who knows to pee in the corner, not out the top of the cage, is a good thing. Change is hard, especially when it's not always welcome. But no matter how hard I hold on, little girls will grow up, and little boys will move on. It's only harder on me when I refuse to let go.

Maybe I'm not as flexible as I thought. Maybe physically moving locations is easier than emotionally moving on. I don't know. I do know this--trying to hold back time is like trying to contain a waterfall in my hands. Water is prettier when it falls than when it is held stagnant. I'm trying to remind myself of that very truth tonight, as my baby sleeps with a tummy full of whole milk, and my little boy dreams of No. 2 pencils and recess.