I can't either.
Because, when you become a mother, it stops being about you.
I make sure the children have space for themselves.
I make sure there is quiet and noise.
I make sure that if Zachary or Zoe is feeling sadness about the divorce or a move or a school change, that we talk about it. And that talking about it is often gut churning.
Just tonight, Zoe asked (as if it were the first time and not many months later), what divorce means. As I help her understand what to tell her friends in school, as she shares with Zachary and I her worries and fears, as she cries and confesses that she thought that Daddy's new house meant that she was being taken away and would never again see me, as she wonders why the rules are so different in two households, I feel inadequate and less-than.
I worry that my love is not enough.
That my house doesn't have fast toys.
That I am not as fun or cool.
That my home is not as glamorous.
Sometimes, like tonight, I cry when I talk to them.
The children ask questions.
And the questions can be asked, as Zoe demonstrated this evening, just moments from a bedtime that I am counting on to give me an hour or so of quiet.
And I can't explain everything because they are children. I can't explain the nuances of a relationship because they are 4 and 7. And so, I hold them. I work and work and cuddle them and help them to share what is on their hearts. I give life to their words and emotions. The kids are talking and being held the way that they need to be.
That is what is real.
That is what it is like, sometimes, to walk this road.
And, after, I sit with my head in my hands tired and emotionally wrung to my core.
But the entire time, there are hands to hold.
Two very beautiful. Very innocent. Hands to hold.
It has been exhausting, but, in general, it has been rewarding.
Strengthening.
As my mother says, it is possible to be afraid and brave at the same time.
I have lived through nights where I felt as if someone had surgically attached ice-cubes to my lungs.
Exposed.
And I stand in the rubble.
Bleeding. Hemorrhaging, maybe.
I blink in the settling dust.
And I think: I am alive.
I survived.
Nights like tonight are more and more rare.
They are smiling. I am smiling
There is light and love.
There is music and song.
There is play and relief and unconditional communication and support.
For, as Atticus Finch explains to his daughter so eloquently in chapter 3, "if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you'll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view […] until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."
Climb in.