Being: Conscious, mortal existence; life.
Every month we welcome two families, two people, two voices to share their stories in whatever way they chose. We hope that you find joy in their daily lives, and their simple habit of just being.
Sitting in a hospital cafeteria at 7.30pm is not my idea of a good time, luckily I had good company. My 7 year old son sat opposite me, demolishing a slice of pepperoni pizza with extreme vigour. He was entitled to enjoy his meal, we were 4 hours in to an 8 hour medical extravaganza after his younger brother took a tumble off a hay bale, landing smartly on his elbow. After 8 hours it was confirmed that he had fractured it, poor little pod.
But as we sat there, quickly scoffing some food out of sight of the poorly patient who was not allowed food or drink, I was struck by an eerie sense of deja vu. This hospital is the one where my eldest was born, 7 years ago, in the middle of an even larger medical extravaganza that would see us back at the hospital more times than I would ever wish.
As he motored through his pizza I told him that he was born here, he looked around excessively surprised until I explained that I meant the hospital not the cafeteria. I told him that his Dad and I used to sit in this very place while we waited for doctors to do their rounds in the NICU. We would drink bottles of water, talking about his health, how he seemed today, how many grams he had gained in the night. Every gram counts when you are born 3 months early.
Sitting their, worrying about my youngest little boy who was pale and drawn but happily snuggled with Daddy down the corridor, I was struck by the strange juxtaposition of images. The vivid recollection of my tiny baby, hooked up to medical monitors and looked after by medical people. My longing to take him home, the agony of separation. I still can’t bear the smell of hand sanitizer and even driving past the hospital has my stomach clenching.
Yet here that baby was, sitting in front of me broad shouldered and full of life. He chatted animatedly, noticing everything, asking questions, inhaling pizza. Gone is the tiny, vulnerable little body, replaced by a vibrant and fully formed child. No one could doubt his health, vitality and sheer will to launch himself through life full throttle.
Despite my exhaustion, worry and desire to rush back to the side of my littlest boy, I took a moment to enjoy. Those old memories, lingering, nagging, were pushed forcefully aside; pushed aside by the very boy himself. As we headed back down the corridor, hand in hand, ready to return to our injured member’s side, I internalized this memory and the lesson attached to it. That moments add up to days, weeks and lifetimes. That the interminable, the joyous, the pleasurable and the painful will indeed pass. What lingers, what lives on in our hearts and spirits, is the love shared through the good and bad. It’s the love that lasts.
This month we are happy to welcome Emma to the Being series here at Rhythm of the Home. A homesteader, homeschooler and creative spirit, Emma shares her life as mother and farmer through words and pictures on her blog, 95 Acres of Sky.
Rhythm of the Home is an online magazine for families that focuses on creating with children, nature explorations, seasonal celebrations, conscious parenting, and mindfulness in all that we do. To learn more about us, please visit us on Facebook,Pinterest, and Twitter.
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