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It's Sunday afternoon and my three daughters are asleep. All of us have been bone tired—like brittle skin, scratchy eyes, achy muscles and hair-trigger-cry-muscle tired. The work and school days seem to bleed into night, homework, dinner and bath time battle for priority. Sean has been pulled in too many directions with work and performing. Promises to ease it back and find ways to rest have disintegrated and so he battles with exhaustion, frustration and an uncharacteristic temper. Conversation and romance haven't a chance, and so we soldier on, doggedly pursuing some sort of balance, while trying not to resent each of our needs bubbling to the surface and making everything that much harder.
I had thought that while they all napped I'd write or work out, but instead of napping Sean has come downstairs. I thought about how so much of what has made him tired has left me handling everything on the homefront. Potty-training, housebreaking, math, reading, cooking, laundry, bills, bedtime, shopping. I am aware of my own anger—anger that he isn't taking care of himself; anger that I am not getting time for myself and the worst is the anger at myself for letting more anger enter our life.
I want to scream "I need sleep too," but then I remember that I slept in, while he took the morning shift. I claimed my restoration and if he couldn't find a way to do the same for himself, I should try and help, if not for him, for me.
"You are being stubborn," I said to him as he walked downstairs. "You said you'd sleep." He came over to the couch and explained that he couldn't. I chuckled with complete exasperation as I said "You can sleep anywhere, anytime." He nodded and said, "So, see, that shows you how true it is that I can't sleep if I am still awake." He sidled up next to me on the couch and I regretfully set my laptop aside. He was smiling impishly. "You are like a fourth child," and he was, but he was also really cute.
He curled up on the couch and I stroked his brow. My fingers pressed against his temple and he began to sink into the sofa, the lines of his shoulders softening as he exhaled. My thumb traced the hollow between his sideburns and his ear and he sighed contentedly. I began to match the rhythm of his breathing and my own tension slipped away.
Time slowed as he drifted off to sleep. My fingers brushing across his whiskers made a shushing sound and with each pass I felt release. His forehead has always made me smile and I remember our courtship and the way I'd press my lips against his forehead, so soft and always smelling like the breeze over a field in my childhood.
The hairs around his forehead are silver now. We've been living to the point of exhaustion for twelve years now and it is in just this moment, lawnmowers roaring outside, girls sleeping upstairs and Sean at my side that I finally get it. Despite all the insanity of dueling schedules and emotional compromises, this life, these loves of mine are a gift.
Every moment, every negotiated nap and completed-by-the-skin-of-our-teeth homework assignment is a privilege. The downy white, sun-kissed hairs upon each of the brows I stroke are my reward and as I sit here reflecting I am reveling in the ephemeral magic of understanding that my chaos is my paradise.
Amanda
