A warrior with nothing to fight...

I'm a fighter. I am all for love, compassion, understanding, etc., but when it comes to it, I'm a fighter. Give me bad news, I want to fight. Argue with me, and my  hands ball into fists. Make me mad enough, and I might lash out. When someone I love is hurting, I want to hurt whatever it is back. Maybe it's genetics, there is a fairly significant proportion of Scots-Irish genes in there. I wouldn't discount the temper I got from my dad's side of the family either. In a lot of ways I like my fighting spirit. It gives me an edge, a backbone when I'm blindsided by something, the will to stand up and fight for what I believe in.
Of course, when someone I love is sick, or in the hospital, and there's not a real culprit to go after, I feel helpless. I feel impotent. It makes me angry. And it is supremely frustrating when I feel like there is nothing I can do to help.
This has been a very, very frustrating week. My grandmother had surgery and they've been having trouble managing her pain. She's doing ok, but there's nothing I can do to help her feel better. Nothing to fight, nothing to do but wait and pray and worry.
A good friend found out that her husband's cancer is incurable, inoperable, and there's nothing left for them to do. He's going home to die. She is understandably devastated. And I feel helpless. There is nothing I can do for her. And I want to do something.
I want something tangible I can fight. Something physical I can do. I hate just waiting and praying. It doesn't seem fair. I feel like there should be more I can do, and when the answer is pray...it sometimes doesn't feel like enough.
It seems like I don't put a lot of faith in God, but that's not true. I do. God is always listening, always with us. God hears everything. God hears us when we ask for things. Sometimes I just don't like the answer. Sometimes I want the answer I want, and I don't get it. Like all children, I want my way and I'm prone to tantrums when I don't get it. So I pray. I may be mad. I may be asking why. I may be questioning. But I pray. I talk. I yell. I cry. And God hears all of it, and sends back the answer and maybe I like it, maybe I don't. But I keep the conversation going. And when I have nothing to fight, nothing physical to do, maybe I'll clean the kitchen instead.
Maybe I'll stand there attacking a stubborn spot and asking why can't I do more, and maybe the answer is because I've done all I can with my limited means, and the rest of it is a job for somebody bigger, and older, and wiser than me.
I give my son that answer a lot. You aren't old enough. You aren't ready to do that. You've done what you can. He's a tough kid. I'm a tough kid. Being a tough kid doesn't always mean that there's something you need to do. Sometimes it means that you have to be strong enough to let it go. To accept that what you want isn't what is going to happen. Not my will. Not my way. I still don't like it. But I'm working on accepting it.

Another year...

This last week was quite busy for our little family.  First, Brian, our oldest, turned 5 on March 8. We celebrated with a big family party on the 9th and then took him bowling on the 10th. Watching Brian's journey from tiny baby to 5 has been pretty remarkable. It's hard to believe sometimes that he is only 5, and at other times that he's already 5. It's hard to remember what life was like without him, but time has also just flown by. I think back on big events in his life and realize that what seems like yesterday was really 2 or 3 years ago...or more. He is now an articulate, thoughtful, goofy, wild, loud, curious, smart little boy. He'll be heading off to Kindergarten in the Fall and I'm not sure I'm ready for that, although I know he is. He is tough, and smart, and also incredibly thoughtful and sensitive and sweet. I pray that he keeps his tenderness and his sweetness, through all the roughness of school and life. He is growing into a wonderful little man, and it really is my privilege and my joy to be part of his journey.

Second, today (March 16) is Teddy's birthday. He turned 1, and I am having a hard time dealing with it. I think I've been in a bit of denial all day. My little baby, who a year ago at this time was just about 34 minutes from making his debut (it is 9:15), is now 1. We were still waiting to meet him and find out who he was and what kind of person he was going to be. A year in and we know that he is sweet, snuggly, funny, opinionated, shy, loving, and tiny. He is my little peanut, which I think makes it harder to believe that he is already 1. It's hard to believe that it has been a year since I was in labor, a year since he came into the world. I remember all the anticipation, all the frustration with false labor and braxton hicks contractions. The hope that this time was THE time, and the disappointment when it wasn't. And the final, slightly dramatic entrance of my second son into the world. And the discovery that from the minute he was born he was not the same at all as his older brother. They were similar in looks, but it ended there. Where Brian was alert, and curious, and go-go-go from the second he was born, his Teddy was sleepy, and mostly wanted to just snuggle and sleep. He had the most concerned look on his face right after birth. Not angry, but just kind of worried. And he has been more of a worrier, and less secure, and less open to new things and people, but has always, always been snuggly, and sweet.

So here's to another fun, and crazy, and frustrating, and wonderful year watching my boys grow.