Run, run, as fast as you can ...

I've been having a hard time getting my thoughts together, focused, like my brain decided to switch off for a while. I guess that's not such a bad thing, just unusual for me. Maybe it's the weather, slogging through day after day of soupy humidity. Maybe it's the fact that my cup is filled to overflowing with things to deal with, difficulties and tragedies, with a few good blessings thrown into the mix. Yesterday afternoon started out great -- I inflated our big pool in the morning, so by the afternoon the water was a comfortably cool temperature that all three of us could enjoy. I was having fun with the kids, splashing around, playing silly pool games like Mommy Sea Monster and Tip the Tube. But somewhere in the midst of playing I could feel myself getting increasingly ill -- dizzy, nauseous, just plain gross. I went indoors, chomped on as many Mylanta tablets as was allowed, and ended up lying down as soon as Don got home. He's one sweet, understanding guy -- he cooked dinner.

As I laid there in the semi-darkness, still feeling a bit nauseous (but better) and unable to sleep due to the Diego video playing right outside my door, I suddenly felt -- tangibly -- all of my strength just seep away. I was feeling pretty good these past couple of weeks, despite what we're going through -- I felt strong, I felt at peace (well, for the most part), I felt confident that while the road to recovery will be long and difficult, my mom will beat this thing and there was absolutely no need to sink into despair. And yet that's just what I was doing for those 30 minutes before dinner ... sinking into despair, into sadness, and finally into a sobbing mess. One powerful line in the Anne of Green Gables story (yes, I'm a fan, even at my age -- it's timeless, really) came when Anne, having gotten into trouble yet again, sobbed out her woes to Marilla, saying she was in the "depths of despair." Marilla coolly answered (as only Marilla could), "To despair is to turn you back on God." I'll never forget that line ... yet sometimes you just slip into that place regardless of what you know to be true. I couldn't even articulate what I was feeling, really -- yes, that nasty fear came back, fear of losing my mom, feelings of resentment toward God ("Did you really lead us back home only for more heartache?!"), feelings of exhaustion from fighting something again, feeling like that's all we've been doing for the past X-number of years, fighting one battle wave after another. Sure, there are respites in between, brief moments to take a breath, but I'm almost kind of dreading those moments for they are so short-lived, knowing that when I do allow myself to take a breath it had better be a big lung-filling one because the next wave is going to hit, right on schedule ... I think, as I sobbed into my pillow with my dog curled around my feet, I just felt so tired.

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Every day I take a nap with my son, a "habit" that started when he was a toddler (under age 2) who refused to take a nap in his crib. I don't mind this habit at all, because I get a snooze too. My kids have one of the greatest things in the world: their own library -- but lately Aidan has been getting a kick out of the books that Grandma has upstairs. I'm getting a kick out of these too because these are the books that I grew up on, and they're wonderfully "vintage." I just finished reading a collection of bedtime stories (copyright 1942), but it struck me how violent they all were: Little Red Riding Hood (wolf eating up people), Chicken Little (fox eating up innocent creatures), Three Little Pigs (wolf trying to eat the pigs, only to wind up being boiled to death in a big cauldron of water). Aidan insisted on me reading these stories, but I was so hesitant -- this is a kid who suffered through horrible night terrors last fall and who is afraid of scary things. He won't even watch Finding Nemo ... how will he handle a ravenous wolf eating little children? It just struck me that you will never, ever find these story lines in children's books today. Or maybe I'm just being overprotective of my child's innocence -- if I know ahead of time what a story is about, sometimes I try to change it a bit, and leave out the parts that might scare him. For example, he loves the story of Babar the elephant, but in the beginning Babar is out for a nice walk with his mother, when hunters jump out, kill the mother, and Babar runs off to the big city. Later on, the King of the Elephants eats a bad mushroom, turns a funky shade of green, and drops dead. Now, if you asked Aidan how the story goes, he would tell you that Babar and his mother went on a nice walk in the Great Forest, but Babar decided to go on his own adventure so he said good-bye to her and went on his way. And later, the King of the Elephants got very sick and just couldn't be king anymore, so they asked Babar to take his place. Rather sanitized, but at least he doesn't have to get upset about a mother being killed. My little boy has been through enough trauma in his little life.

Anyway, I couldn't really sanitize these old stories -- he saw the picture of the fox licking his chops and asked where Chicken Little was. Thankfully he didn't have a problem with it. So we read one or two stories at night, and our last tale was The Gingerbread Man (fox gobbling up the gingerbread man at the end). I tried to make light of the story, or divert his attention a bit about how old the book was (he's really interested in dates and the age of things, lately). I said to him, "Well, that was a silly story, wasn't it?" He thought for a moment: "No, not really. It was just very strange." Apparently he wasn't too bothered by the fact that the fox had a snack; he was more perplexed that a cookie could walk and talk. I don't know why, but that just cracked me up.

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Grace is an incredible lover of music. Rarely does a moment go by where she is not singing some tune or other. Her favorites are kiddie Bible songs -- "Jesus Loves Me," "Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain," etc. On her favorite CD are also a few of the more militant Christian songs such as "Onward, Christian Soldiers" and "I'm in the Lord's Army." This last one has turned into quite a favorite, I suppose because it involves marching and other fun movements that kids enjoy. Today in the grocery store, while I was in the check-out line, Grace grabbed -- not the enticing candy -- but a handful of mini-American flags. All she needed were those few props to get her going, and as she frantically waved those flags around, she started belting out in her loudest singing voice, "I'm in the Lord's Army! I'm in the Lord's Army!" It's not my favorite song in the kiddie repertoire, but she was just the picture of cuteness (and irony). And then I thought: yeah, she might be on to something here. God, listen up (please): just turn loose a horde of unpredictable, loud, tantrum-prone two-year-olds on Satan and his Minions and you've got the victory in the bag! :)

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I'm smiling, but I am weary. I feel like I have been fighting in the Lord's Army and it's brutally relentless. And sometimes I feel like that gingerbread man, wanting to run and run and run. Unfortunately I can't seem to shake that wily fox, licking his chops ...