Wrangler Dani

I’ll never get tired of her smell, the smell of coconut oil and peanut butter, fruit snacks and sweat. She crawled into bed with us this morning and rubbed her hot little face on mine, nudging my arm over like a dog who wants to be scratched, in the supremely confident license of childhood.

It’s been a tough few days of readjusting back to home life this week – after a busy month and a hectic week of travel, we aren’t sleeping well and we haven’t been eating well and it took us a few days to remember that french fries aren’t actually a food group.

I cried last night – big, hot, ugly-face-making tears – because on one hand I just want what’s best for my kids, I want to protect them and keep them safe and bubble-wrap the world for them, and on the other I just want a life that is not interrupted by sticky fingers and potty accidents and “If I have to tell you one more time…!” I’m tired, really, that’s the answer. I’m overwhelmed and wrung out and I probably just need a few more night sleeps and a bowl of salad and an afternoon with a good friend or a good book.

I need to learn to ask, though, and when offered, to be willing to take. When Isaiah wants something, he says, “I do,” in his tiny husky baby voice, so cute it breaks your heart. “Isaiah do you want a snack?” “I do,” he affirms, rubbing his eyes with chubby baby hands and looking at me expectantly. Then – miracle of miracles! – a snack appears, as if he really does have loving parents who want the best for him, who will peel his bananas and unwrap the string cheese. What if I lived as though God would give me the same, as if I really can be cared for, that I could mutter “I do” in my moments of stress and sadness – miracle of miracles! – would sustenance appear?

I have some big questions about the future. I’m scared of knocking on a couple of doors because I don’t want to hear what’s on the other side. But my kids don’t have that fear. They barge in whether Mama is indisposed or not, whether Daddy is sick or asleep or busy. They open wide the doors and push in, they know that they will always be allowed under the covers, into the room. They will always get a snack if they ask for it (although not a popsicle, much to Addy’s chagrin) they will always have hands to hold. I want a break. I want a quiet hour (both of them are asleep right now, so maybe Jesus was listening to my wailing prayers). But more than that, I want confidence. I want to believe that I am welcome, needed, heard. I want to believe that I can have what I need, that my dreams are not foolish, that asking for help is powerful, not powerless.