Waking up

He used to tug at my arm when the other boys were at swim lessons.  He wanted me to play with him.  I wanted to do my own thing. I wished he would just play on the jungle gym and entertain himself.  Makes me sick to my stomach now.

I never liked to sit on the floor and play with him.  I would try, and then get very distracted.  I always felt VERY guilty about that, but somehow, the guilt was never enough motivation to get me to sit down and play for very long.  I didn't know he was good at puzzles, and liked the game "Perfection" and already knew lots of his numbers and letters. 

I learned in the hospital playroom.  With a bandage on his head from his brain surgery, he taught me that he loves to paint.  Attached to chemo poles, he taught me that he loves to play "Breaking the Ice." 

I would bring my older boys to gymnastics and he would climb on me and wanted my attention. Once again, I wished he could play alone, so that I could relax.  I wrote this...

I used to be annoyed at bedtime.  GO TO BED! I'm done! 

Now it gets delayed for all of us.  We sit and play a little, read more books, or watch a little show together. 

I sing Andrew songs in bed again.  I hadn't really done that since he was a litle baby.  We sing "Amazing Grace" and "Sunshine on my Shoulders" and "All Night, All Day."  He sings along and makes song requests.

I used to get so frustrated at little things.  I suppose I still do, but they all seem so much more trivial than they already were.  The other day I was at Target with my two older boys and they were literally running in circles around the clothing racks.  I typically would have been embarrassed and frustrated and angry, and I was still a little of all of those, but at the same time, the thought most present in my mind was that they were enjoying themselves, playing together, and were happy and healthy.

I do not mean to suggest that God would answer my prayers of  "I want to be a better parent" by giving Andrew cancer.  That would be a disgusting, sadistic God. 

But I suppose that if I am honest, cancer has given me new eyes with which to see my boys.  I have a new interest in playing with them.  I now have lots of time (in the hospital) to spend with Andrew playing games, singing, and listening to his two-year-old opinion.  I have a new appreciation for each happy day, each happy hour.

I am just SO sick that he has to go through this horror.  But thankfully,  he is also getting to spend lots of time playing with "mama" and daddy and grandma and grandpa.  He is building lego buildings at the clinic.  He is putting together puzzle after puzzle after puzzle.  He is putting the pieces of "Perfection" into their appropriate places and he has an audience to clap for him when he sends the pieces flying. He is getting SO much more attention than he ever would have gotten. 

He would still be pushed way while I did my own thing, while we watched his brothers at their activities.  He would have a mother who was starting to resent the stress of three boys rather than appreciate the beauty of the days when we are all together.

An awful, horrible disgusting way to wake up.  But at least I am awake now.  I am paying attention.  I am on the floor playing, and cuddling, and talking. 

I hope in part it makes up for the pain and the shots and the mouth treatments.  These past few months have not solely been a year of trauma.  They have also been months where Mama stopped taking her blessings for granted.  Where Mama began to enjoy Snow White puzzles and playing "Ants in Your Pants."  Where Mama stopped pushing them away and started appreciating their company, their play, and their presence.

No more taking time, peace, and three little boys for granted.