Thankfulness.

I had to have a mini-breakdown last week - the emotion from Jake's CF hitting us in the face with this nasty bacteria in his lungs was too much. I'm thankful to have a ton of support right now: Matt and I are going to "family therapy" weekly with a woman I think is fantastic (though we may go to biweekly soon - it's a big time commitment and a week passes in an eyeblink), and I had enough flex in my schedule to have a couple of nonproductive days. Still, I'm struggling to keep up with work right now, and to define work in a way that helps us make our financial goals, yet allows me the time and energy to be a good parent to my little guy here - and he requires a lot of time and energy. Not to mention my daughter! Sometimes I think she's too self-sufficient.

Yesterday it was about fifteen degrees, but Jake wanted to pick outside for a bit. At first I sent him out with long johns, snow pants, his parka, and a hat - and made sure to put his thumbs through the holes in the fingerless fleece gloves that are built into his parka. After a while of walking around outside myself with Burke, I realized that Jake must be freezing. I went inside and got out his thick, double-layered merino wool hood. I bought four of these hoods when we first moved up here. They have one opening for the face and are made of the thickest, softest gray wool ever. As I took off his hat and tenderly pulled the hood over his head, I felt a surge of protectiveness. I need to protect him, enshroud him, allow him to do what he wants but protect him from his lack of knowledge about even his own needs. I wonder if he would just stay out until hypothermia set in, too bent on picking the plants. I know he has, before, stayed out until he's uncomfortable, then come in crying about his hands being cold. So I struggled to put glove liners on over his fingers. It takes several tries because he doesn't get the idea of spreading out his fingers and fitting one in each finger-sleeve, at all. These glove liners have pockets for handwarmer packets, and he can still pick his precious grass while wearing them. I pulled the fingerless fleece back over his hands, easing his gloved thumbs through the holes, one at a time, gently. Then I pulled his parka hood over the thick gray wool, zipping it under his chin.

He even went on the swing for a bit, pumping his legs, through the twenty-mile-an-hour gusts, just experiencing wind and sun and frozen tundra. To me, I go outside and feel the blast of wickedly cold air and get angry - it's cold; I want to run and hike; I can't because I will freeze to death. He doesn't. He just experiences it all, one moment at a time, without judgment or interpretation. A gift for which I am grateful today.