“Do you think we’ll get everything done in time?”
I was supposed to be relaxing, leaning back on the recliner, wrapped up in my favorite afghan lovingly knit by my late grandma, ice on my shoulder.
“Get what done in time?” He barely looked up as he answered me… partly because he was engrossed in what he was doing, and partly because he knows me…. knows that I was stressing out, and knows that there’s a specific way to handle to it.
“All of it. The rest of the shopping, all of the advent stuff with the kids, getting the house in shape…” Our house, which on the best of days is half a notch above “lived-in”, has been relegated to new levels of disorder over the past month while I’ve been incapacitated. There’s stuff all over all the flat surfaces – including the floor – dishes are piling, laundry is piling, and I can barely get to the 8 year old’s bed to kiss him goodnight. Last week, a friend stopped by and I was actually embarrassed.
I knew this season would be different than last, and I thought I’d made peace with it. We got our tree, we did most of our shopping, we stamped and mailed 50 Christmas cards, and I finally got the advent calendar up for the kids. We made it to a Christmas light parade; they’ve been playing with friends. We’ve been baking, and making paper snowflakes, and watching Christmas movies, and going to the library, and having carpet picnics… and it’s been nice and it’s been busy and it’s been oh.so.tiring. I’ve been caught between that place of relaxing and going with the tide, and getting stuck in those moments of panic: “Christmas is in a matter of weeks! We have company coming! I’m still in pain! I haven’t slept in a month! We have so much to do! Aaaaaaaaaa!!!”
“So do you think we’ll get it all done in time?”
Calmly, matter-of-factly, and so patiently it would have irritated the %&$# out of me had it come from anyone but him: “Yes. Of course we will.”
“And it’ll all work out?”
“It’ll all work out.”
And it will. Of course it will. I know that. Intellectually, I know that. But the moments of freak-outs seem to be every bit as hard wired as my blue eyes and not-quite-blonde hair. I’d like to think that if I were single, that I’d still be able to live in the moment, that I’d still be able to talk myself through the stressful moments, that I’d still be able to keep it together. But what can I say? While I could survive without a husband who’s the calm to my storm and the order to my chaos…..
I thank God I don’t have to.
