The end of summer feels a bit like wandering through the aftermath of a natural disaster. Mentally moving from room to room, I assess all the inflicted damage after several months at home with five kids, namely my autistic son, Grayson. There’s the cracked window in the basement, door jamb plates that have been sneakily unscrewed at some point to avoid “room time,” a shattered lamp and glass candlestick in the storage I’ve known about but can’t quite conjure enough energy to sweep, broken glass tabletops from angry, slamming spoons, splintered doors and dangling doorknobs (oh Lord, we’ve so gone through so many doors), a garage door that won’t shut, a front door that won’t open, railing spindles that have been ripped out of place, and the list goes on and on and on…
Then there’s the internal inventory—everything I set out to do this summer, to be, to create, and simply ran out of steam. Everything just requires so much energy.
Everywhere I turn, I am reminded of my failures and shortcomings. And the sum of it all feels slightly overwhelming—a lot overwhelming, actually—and I imagine carelessly tossing everything in boxes instead of cleaning (or even leaving it all behind), then moving to the middle of Montana, or Wyoming, or anywhere other this suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood, where peeping eyes bear constant witness to our chaos.
To add insult to injury, Grayson starts middle school tomorrow and my stomach hasn’t stopped churning all week. I remember leaving him at preschool—I guess it was more like peeling him off of me and sprinting out the door—and this feels comparable. I am constantly afraid of him feeling scared or lonely, of someone being unkind, or of him thinking I’ve abandoned him.
But amidst my suffocating fears, rays of brightness begin trickling in. My sixteen-year-old son, who spent the previous school year teetering on a precarious precipice, spent the summer fishing instead of partying—all day, every day. He came home happy every evening and actually talked to us and laughed with us. My oldest daughter spent five weeks in Florida helping my inlaws care for their four small children, and last night, I stayed up until midnight with my thirteen-year-old son and three of his precious, giggling, hilarious friends as they tried to eat their ramen noodles with chopsticks (and naturally broke more glass in the process). My youngest daughter is still sleeping with her friend in the fort they worked to build until midnight; not a single electronic device was involved.
I woke up this morning reminded (yet again) of the messiness and complexity of life. Some days, I feel like I’m living in paradise; others, I’m certain we’re on the brink of imminent and irreversible tragedy. Both are true, I think. Every moment contains the full potential for suffering and misfortune, as well as peace and prosperity.
But sometimes it is not so obvious which is which. Most days, I can’t discern which events will end in my demise and which will lead to my salvation; everything just blends together in one chaotic, hot, jumbled mess.
Perhaps it is all one and the same.
Some days, I can’t see through my raging, blinding tears. By evening, tears may fall again, but from raucous, joyous laughter. Life seems to be one huge contradiction. It is chaotic yet simultaneously monotonous, sorrowful and joyful, dreadful and wonderful.
It’s pretty hard to hide—yet equally challenging to admit—my kids are a mess, I’m a bigger one, and my home is a disaster. At the same time, I know it’s the mess that makes us human, that makes us vulnerable and humbles and refines us. I can’t always say I appreciate it, that I don’t occasionally close my eyes and try to make it all disappear.
But on better days, I pause to breathe it all it, knowing that somehow, this lumpy, chaotic, beautiful mess of a life is shaping and refining this lumpy, chaotic, beautiful mess of a woman.
