The Best that I Could Do
October 2023
I was just driving.
I was just driving, trying to figure out what I was feeling. And also where it was coming from. All the while, Henry was telling me about a seed in his hand, his plans for it.
“Where do trees grow? Like what kind of soil? And, Hey Mom, how tall do they get? And how many branches do they have? And how many trees do you think there are in the world?”
I was exhausted, woken up three nights in a row by children knocking at 3:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., 3:30 a.m. Is it morning? I’m bored. It’s too bright in my room. I had a bad dream. What time is it? What do I do now? Each night, my husband–whose patience I still cannot understand–handled it, guided them back to bed. But it was too late. I was awake. Sleep was over.
It wasn’t the same kid. It was two different ones. There are four of them now, in this blended family of six.
One bad night is palatable. Three in a row puts me over the edge.
“Hey Mom, do we have a shovel?”
I was just driving.
I was just driving, fighting my tears–and should I fight them? But I was also trying to catch something, a dust mote of an idea, floating in the air, evasive and shifting. A feeling without a name. I was trying to see it, understand it, find its source.
I couldn’t.
Tell me this happens to you–the frustration of there being no words, no language, no shape to give what you’re feeling. That you go around and around, looking for what to call it, trying to find where it came from, and all you can come up with is a collection of seemingly disconnected memories, all of them showing your friends, your family members, your own parents, loving their children. All smiles and hugs. Content. And because you are not at your best, because you are exhausted, you interpret these examples as evidence in a case that is now gaining steam, until it seems that there can only be one conclusion.
Verdict: Something is really wrong with you.
But there wasn’t a name for this.
So instead, I clutched the steering wheel and then the feel of it beneath my fingers and the tears blurring my vision brought me back to another time when I couldn’t see through this windshield.
It was snowing on that day. I was sitting in the driveway, books and bulletin boards and shoe racks and a plastic chest of drawers, the last of my belongings from the house that wouldn’t be my home anymore. I wiped away tears and my windshield wipers pushed away snow the entire drive home. At least this time, the feeling is less intense.
I hate that interrupted sleep unhinges me this way. It always has. Even when they were babies and toddlers and it was expected. When they were smaller, I could rationalize it.
It’s a short time. It won’t be this way forever.
Now, the voice says, But they’re not babies and toddlers anymore. And I’m out of patience.
Another says, Mom wouldn’t get this angry over kids waking her up.
There isn’t another voice that pipes up to comfort me or defend me.
The heat rises in my face.
I was just driving, trying to name the feeling. What was it? Shame? Frustration? Resentment? Pain?
The tears were falling now. I pulled some tissues out of the center console.
“Hey Mom, what kind of seed do you think this is?”
How long has it been? It’s October. So two months.
Wait, that’s not right. She died… a year ago. She died a whole year ago? Right, she died. Then the divorce. A lot has happened.
It can’t have been a whole year.
But it has.
“Hey Mom.”
Mom…
“Hey Henry.”
“I love you, Mom.”
***
Two hours later, sitting with my husband at a card table, I was crying into tissues while the kids were in other rooms. He didn’t offer suggestions or advice, but he got up to get me more tissues. He just sat with me while I cried. Put his hand on mine.
My new husband–a quiet hand that rests on mine.
“I wish I had seen my mom cry more,” I said, my voice wavering. “Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so much like something is wrong with me.”
“She cried,” he said. “Just not around you.”
“I guess she did.”
I can count the times on one hand that I had seen my mother cry. The Coke can fight between my brothers and my dad. The night my oldest sibling was taken to a psychiatric hospital by police. The end of my reception when I got married. My father’s funeral.
Only one of those times were tears of happiness.
But my husband is right. She certainly cried more than this. But I didn’t see it.
I openly grieved my mother’s passing. I sat with my kids on that fold-out sofa bed in the hotel room the night after she passed. I told them that I was going to be sad for a long time, but that I wanted them to know that their grandmother was not hurting anymore and that I was proud of them for walking through these hard moments with me. I channeled Brene Brown’s advice for these exact moments.
“Together we will cry and face fear and grief. I will want to take away your pain, but instead I will sit with you and teach you how to feel it.”
The Wholehearted Parenting Manifesto, Brene Brown
But there have been plenty of times when I’ve hidden my tears.
When it came to the divorce, I didn’t want my kids to see my pain. I needed them to know that I wasn’t so broken that I couldn’t listen to their problems and their pain. I didn’t want them to think they were bothering me with their feelings. I had room for them. I needed them to see that I was moving, just as I wanted them to keep going. I wanted them to see their mother as resourceful and resilient, even if we were walking together toward an unknown destination. I wanted them to know that they could depend on me for certainty and safety and love.
Perhaps part of me also knew that I wanted my kids to see me pull through a hard time. If I was going to take them straight into the storm, I would find a way through it, hold the umbrella over them, and not stop until the clouds had parted. I would keep leading them, day after day, without stopping, until they felt certainty and safety again.
Felicity walked into the room and paused. “You okay, Mom?”
“No, it’s been a hard day,” I said, looking at the mascara in my tissues. I didn’t want to hide my tears, but I still couldn’t meet her gaze. “But thanks for asking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“My mom,” I said reflexively.
Not, Grandma, I thought. What came out of my mouth was, My mom. How would she hear that? Sometimes, they forgot that their grandma was my mother.
Felicity paused and then hugged me around the shoulders.
“You told me not to be sad about Grandma,” she said.
I bristled. Had I really told her to not be sad? I was pretty sure that I acknowledged over and over again throughout those first months without her that we were all going to be sad for a long time and that was okay.
“That doesn’t sound like me. Pretty sure I didn’t say that.”
“You said that Grandma would want to see me happy.”
That was a different sentiment, but she was right. I had said that. I had said that to Felicity in one of her hardest moments after Mom’s passing. It was delayed grief, nine months later. She exploded in tears of anger and jealousy. It’s not fair that they get to spend all day with their grandma and I can’t!
What do you say to that? I’m certain I told her that it was okay to feel that and that I had feelings like that, too. But after this, I probably did remind her that her grandma would feel the most at peace if she saw that the people she loved were happy.
“That’s true,” I said. “She does want that.”
“Your kids make you happy, Mom,” Felicity said. “Listen to your kids.”
***
“Hey Mom.”
It was the end of the day and I was tucking Henry into bed, the soft furry blanket against his skin and the smooth comforter over top of it.
“Hey Henry.”
He pulled his hands out from under the comforter and peered upward at the seed, still in his hands.
“When can we plant this seed?”
“Are you going to sleep with that?”
“Uh-huh.”
I let it go. He was probably old enough to not choke on a seed in his sleep.
“How about Saturday?”
“But the real question is, Mom,” he paused for emphasis, “do we have a shovel?”
I laughed out loud.
“I don’t think we do.”
He touched a finger to his temple. “See that, Mom?” He nodded, as if answering his own question.
I laughed more and kissed his head.
“But the real question is, Mom…”
Where he had picked up this phrase, but the real question is?
“What will it grow into?”
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“We will,” he said.
“Goodnight, Henry.”
“I love you, Mom.”
***
November 2023
I’ve been trying to publish this post for over a month now, partly because I haven’t had time to sit with these thoughts enough to know if they are something I want to share.
But it’s also partly because there is just no conclusion for this. There won’t be for a long time. The seed is still a seed. It hasn’t sprouted. I’m looking at this seed, wondering what it will grow into. There have been plenty of tears to water it and a few merciful breaks in the clouds for the sun to warm and dry my face.
My thoughts circle a lot lately, returning over and over again to questions that will never be answered.
Why, mostly. A lot of why.
It’s a seed in my hand, one that I keep turning and examining from all sides.
Not why did my mother die. But why did our marriage fail. And what can I do safeguard this new marriage.
Every time I circle, I move a step forward when I allow myself to put down the heaviness of why.
It doesn’t matter.
I did the best I could. I know I did. I don’t regret every arrangement, agreement, negotiation, every discussion turned into argument, every intervention that we tried. All of it was necessary for me to accept that there was no path forward that we could both walk together.
I’ve named my failures, how I contributed to the demise of my marriage by withholding my feelings, my truth, my omissions, in the name of keeping the peace and in the hopes of sustaining an unsustainable relationship.
In fact, no, it wasn’t keeping the peace. That’s a mischaracterization. We weren’t at peace in those last years of our marriage.
It was maintaining the status quo.
We were stable. But we weren’t at peace.
Sometimes, it’s not what you’ve done, but what you’ve left unsaid, unspoken, and undone.
But I’ve gathered all these thoughts said them as prayers on the wind, always when I run, early in the morning, before the world joins me in the day. I give my offering of pain and open my heart to receive peace. I am not enough. I don’t have enough. But I do believe that I can open my heart and be filled with a Source of Goodness and Forgiveness and Grace that is beyond me, where there is always enough.
Even on my worst days, I believe this.
That was the best that I could do at the time.
And now, I’m ready to believe that he also did the best that he could.
Acknowledging this doesn’t sting the way it used to.
Because I finally believe it.
That was the best that I could do at the time.
And now, I’ll do better.
How do I let go of what I control?
“Revival” Judah and the Lion
I don’t know what will be left to hold
Will I be left alone?
If I don’t let go
I’m fighting my own
Lost fight, grip tight on a heavy rope
That wasn’t mine to hold