Band-Aids and Surgery

Sometimes I think that all I need is...a coffee. A hug. A talk with a friend. A shopping spree. Or just window shopping. Or a vacation. Or something. During this Lent, however, I'm learning that those things are good--helpful, even. But they're all just band-aids.

Band-aids work just fine for a scratch. But they don't work very well if you just plain don't like your arm.

I'm not saying I don't like my life or anything. In fact, I'm more content, I think, than I've ever been. That's funny to say, actually. Because it looks like my life is taking a turn I never saw coming, and if it had been six (or even two) months ago, I'd be kicking and screaming about it.

Looks like the masters' in nutrition science may not happen after all, but not for lack of trying. And I thought I'd be more disappointed. It's been one of those things. Ever feel like this? Like something's bothering you, and you can't put your thumb on it. Not really sure what it is, but your spirit is just in complete distress. You pray and pray, you think and think, just like...what in the world? What is wrong? And then one day, you know.

I realized: Nora has been a little soldier. A year ago this week, her life turned upside down. Mine turned upside down well before that, so it didn't occur to me that she could have a real, lasting problem with such a positive change, right? A year ago this week, we started therapy at the ABA center with William, and Nora took one major step out of our lives. Her day away from me went from (8:30-11) to (7:30-2 or 3). And that's how it is now, and you need to deal with it. Of course, we were gentler about it, and she was brave. But that doesn't mean she liked it. And now, because of some recent behaviors we've observed, we realize she never did and still doesn't.

So now we're facing the prospect of sending her to kindergarten, and here in our little town, the one and only kindergarten option is full-day, and William will likely be moving to full-day as well. His full-day will go until 4:30. That means Nora's day away from us is no longer 7:30-2 or 3. Now, it's 7:30-5:30. Our time with her will be about the extent of shoving breakfast in her mouth, then dinner, then we'll put her to bed. This, I wouldn't have a problem with if she were in grade school and had some kind of athletic practice or something after school. But she's 5. And, although she puts on the sweetest, bravest face a parent could ever hope for, her behavior tells us that she does not like it one little bit.

And so I come to the bomb-dropping of the day. It looks like I may homeschool Nora for kindergarten. It'll be homeschool on the move. Like, not homeschool so much as library-in-Lafayette-school and hanging with the local PE group after school hours. But something in my gut tells me she needs it. It terrifies me, and I'm concerned that I'll do more damage than good by being an impatient mother and teacher. But I realize that now is the time to pray. Every moment, pray.

Coffee and a vacation will not fix my impatience. It will not fix anxiety. I mean, it'll quell anxiety for however long my coffee or vacation lasts. But it'll take three hours with my kids to get right back to where I was before my fix.

Our only comfort, our only salvation is in Christ. I cannot hope to be the woman I want and need to be without Him.