The Moments That Make Us

It's been a WEEK. And by a week, I mean the kind of week that feels like it will never ever ever stop, and could I please just get five minutes to myself to read a book or brush my teeth or maybe just maybe drink one cup of coffee in peace instead of taking sips while handling 50,000 other things all at the same time kind of week.

You know what I mean.

It started on Monday. I was very excited to get a writing assignment for a print magazine (Country Weekly), which involved interviewing a new artist (Joel Crouse), at a fun place downtown (12 South Taproom). I traded my faded shorts in for a skirt that's been hiding in the back of my closet since the birth of Reagan (but amazingly still fit, sort of), asked my father-in-law to keep the sweet little boy, and drove downtown. I was even early enough that I got to go into one of those cute little shops that plays soft music and has flickering candles all over the store and charges $12 for a bar of homemade organic lavender soap.

The interview went great, and I drove home with that rush that I get when I get to do what I love. The story wasn't due until Friday, but I figured I would get it transcribed while Reagan napped, and by Tuesday morning, I'd have it turned in, wowing the editor -- and maybe myself just a bit -- at how proficient and reliable I was.

And then The Fever began.

My father-in-law commented that Reagan felt warm to him, but I thought/hoped/prayed that it was just because Reagan had been playing outside. I mean, not only did Reagan eat two lunches, but he had been outside alllll day. Surely, he was fine.

But as soon as I got him up from his nap, I knew he was warm. Too warm. 101 degrees warm, in fact.

Sigh.

He barely ate his dinner Monday night, and fussed through the night until my husband slept with him on the couch. I fell asleep somewhere around 12:30, and got up to start my day a little after 5. By Tuesday afternoon his fever was mostly gone, but he was achy and kept saying "It hurts, Mommy. It hurts." We cuddled, we colored, we watched 7,169 episodes of Caillou (his new favorite show). We  played outside a bit. He even asked if he could help me make dinner (true story).  He seemed better, but still fussier than normal.

He went to bed at his normal time, but woke up a little later. I held him, cuddled him, gave him medicine and put him back to bed. At 11, he woke up again, screaming. I brought him downstairs, read him books, cuddled some more, and put him back in his bed, again, and then sat by his bed, holding his hand until he fell asleep. For about 45 minutes, I sat there, watching him fall asleep. Every now and then his eyes would flutter open to make sure I was really still there. If I moved, he'd stir and hold my hand tighter.

This is what motherhood is, I thought. This is what I waited for all those years. This is so worth it. I felt that motherly pride and silently patted myself on the back for doing such a great job.

At 4:00 in the morning, when he woke up yet again, I wondered why in the world anyone ever bothered to have children in the first place, and convinced myself in my exhausted grouchy exhausted exhausted EXHAUSTED state that the very idea of having children was ludicrous, and I would never once in my life get a full night of sleep again.

Needless to say, I did get a full night of sleep -- the very next night in fact, while my husband slept on the couch with Reagan all. night. long. (This was after he  told me that I needed more sleep than he did, which I think was his polite way of saying I had officially morphed into The Crazy Person).

He was right, and by Thursday morning the world looked much better. But it made me think about the moments in our life that make us who we are. They are the good, life-affirming, positive, feel-good moments -- like getting to do a job you love, holding a child's hand while they fall asleep, drinking a cup of coffee uninterrupted while the sun comes up, catching up with an old friend. Those are all really good moments.

But it's also those sleep-deprived nights, the times when our car won't start, or the bills pile up, or the diagnosis is bad. It's when someone cuts us off on the road, or the waiter is rude or the request is denied.

I'd like to define myself by the good moments -- the times when my life is going well and I like who I am. But I need to remind myself -- often (and probably a lot more often than I do) -- that the bad moments, or how I respond to them, define me as well.

Yesterday, I took Reagan to the doctor, and then ran a couple errands. By the time we got home, I was supposed to log in to a webinar about our adoption. It started at 1:00 and we pulled in right at 1:00. I unbuckled Reagan and told him to get inside as quickly as possible. He didn't feel the same sense of urgency that I did, and stopped to look at every stone, leaf, bug, flower, piece of dirt on the short walk to the front door. I was in a hurry, didn't want to wait for him, so after several reminders, I snapped at him -- and felt instant remorse. I was asking a two-year-old to respond as a grown-up.  I stopped, put my stuff down, got down to his level and told him I was wrong and I was sorry. He hugged me and gave me a kiss and showed me the rock he found -- and I still got to listen to the entire webinar.

I'm trying. I'm trying to be better in the good and the bad. I'm trying to focus on my attitude and not the situation. Not only to better myself, but for those around me as well. It is an absolute certainty that disappointments and rough times and difficulties and trials are going to happen. It's a part of life. But what I can choose is how I respond in those moments, the good and the bad. I'm a work in progress, for sure, but I'm trying.

But it is much easier after a full night's sleep and a good cup of coffee.