It's 11:58 p.m. and our daughter and husband will be home by 1:00 a.m.
Tony and I survived a willful eight and ten year old, and a one year old who wasn't sleeping through the night. For nine days!
A medal of honor to us!
There were moments. Oh were there moments. Like the night the older children determined they were staying up until 10:50. I told them to turn out the lights when they came up for bed. Two minutes later, they'd decided it wasn't that much fun to stay up late. Or the night when they were so wound up, NOTHING could be done, so we locked our bedroom door and hoped for the best.
Or the four times the baby got so mad, he couldn't breathe. Or the day the children didn't come home from school until an hour after it had ended. And yes, I was out looking for them. Then there was the Saturday with two soccer practices and one soccer game. The overwhelming responsibility. And the day I picked them up for lunch as planned, but one of them had already gone to the cafeteria and ordered pizza. And the night Tony came upstairs and said, "I think we're in over our heads." And then there were those darn cats.
But there were moments. Oh there were moments. The baby's head resting on my shoulder as I patted his back, and I wanted to rock him all night. The thank-you's when I cooked a good meal. Pretending when I made a horrible meal. Or bragging rights when their grandma had made crepes for their lunch. Knowing I couldn't have done it without Tony and loving even more this sweet, sweet gentle man. Watching Anni take pride in cleaning her room after I'd helped her just to get started. Watching the baby in the bath every night. Hearing the sibling invoked giggles. The sincere prayers that everyone would be safe.
And then there was one moment above all others. One night, while bathing Seb, I felt an actual physical change in my love for him. We often think of love as an emotion, a deeply felt emotion. But this night, the change was physical, almost as if I felt a click in my heart. It was a physical change as tangible as hunger to well fed.
I pondered this moment wondering how it had happened. Wondering how much deeper my love could go for the rest of my family. How many more shifts could my love make? If our capacity to love could be measured like the depth of a well, how deep was my well? How deep could my well go? How much more capacity to love was I capable of?
Foremost, where did the shift come from? What enabled me to love deeper? I loved Seb more because I had served him so completely and thoroughly. The incredible feelings, the gift of love, had required more of me than I was usually willing to give.
Previously to becoming the nanny, I'd been praying to have love for a difficult person. How ironic that what I'd been praying so hard for came so easily and unexpectedly for baby Seb---but the key was service---everything about that child had been my number one concern. I now knew what I had to do for the difficult person, what was required to love that difficult person. I had to serve that difficult person. Like serving the children, there were going to be difficult moments, but the culminating feelings, the sublimity of love would make it all worth it.
It had been a hard nine days with three children, but a blessed nine days. When we put the older children to bed we also had to say goodbye. It was tender, it was sad, it was wonderful--because I loved those children more than I ever had. I had learned my well was deeper than I knew. What a gift it will be to find the well goes even deeper. I now know it can.
Tony and I survived a willful eight and ten year old, and a one year old who wasn't sleeping through the night. For nine days!
A medal of honor to us!
There were moments. Oh were there moments. Like the night the older children determined they were staying up until 10:50. I told them to turn out the lights when they came up for bed. Two minutes later, they'd decided it wasn't that much fun to stay up late. Or the night when they were so wound up, NOTHING could be done, so we locked our bedroom door and hoped for the best.
Or the four times the baby got so mad, he couldn't breathe. Or the day the children didn't come home from school until an hour after it had ended. And yes, I was out looking for them. Then there was the Saturday with two soccer practices and one soccer game. The overwhelming responsibility. And the day I picked them up for lunch as planned, but one of them had already gone to the cafeteria and ordered pizza. And the night Tony came upstairs and said, "I think we're in over our heads." And then there were those darn cats.
But there were moments. Oh there were moments. The baby's head resting on my shoulder as I patted his back, and I wanted to rock him all night. The thank-you's when I cooked a good meal. Pretending when I made a horrible meal. Or bragging rights when their grandma had made crepes for their lunch. Knowing I couldn't have done it without Tony and loving even more this sweet, sweet gentle man. Watching Anni take pride in cleaning her room after I'd helped her just to get started. Watching the baby in the bath every night. Hearing the sibling invoked giggles. The sincere prayers that everyone would be safe.
And then there was one moment above all others. One night, while bathing Seb, I felt an actual physical change in my love for him. We often think of love as an emotion, a deeply felt emotion. But this night, the change was physical, almost as if I felt a click in my heart. It was a physical change as tangible as hunger to well fed.
I pondered this moment wondering how it had happened. Wondering how much deeper my love could go for the rest of my family. How many more shifts could my love make? If our capacity to love could be measured like the depth of a well, how deep was my well? How deep could my well go? How much more capacity to love was I capable of?
Foremost, where did the shift come from? What enabled me to love deeper? I loved Seb more because I had served him so completely and thoroughly. The incredible feelings, the gift of love, had required more of me than I was usually willing to give.
Previously to becoming the nanny, I'd been praying to have love for a difficult person. How ironic that what I'd been praying so hard for came so easily and unexpectedly for baby Seb---but the key was service---everything about that child had been my number one concern. I now knew what I had to do for the difficult person, what was required to love that difficult person. I had to serve that difficult person. Like serving the children, there were going to be difficult moments, but the culminating feelings, the sublimity of love would make it all worth it.
It had been a hard nine days with three children, but a blessed nine days. When we put the older children to bed we also had to say goodbye. It was tender, it was sad, it was wonderful--because I loved those children more than I ever had. I had learned my well was deeper than I knew. What a gift it will be to find the well goes even deeper. I now know it can.