everywhere, the crocus is springing purple. the weather, puddling wet and the boys in splash pants and boots. there is no greater joy than a pair of rubber boots in a puddle. no brighter picture than yellow rain-jackets.
and then, at the end of every day, it’s time to make supper.
i hate making supper. it hurts my head. ever since my eating disorder, i struggle with what is normal, and how much, and when, and it’s all so complicated. i was the girl that ate cheese and crackers throughout university, who snacked on marshmallows, and now i have four hungry boys and a man to feed and it’s all a bit much.
so i make menus and i study recipes, but some days, it’s tuna melts on bread with tomato on top, and those are the days joey won’t eat, and trent sends him to bed because he won’t see his wife weep hard for nothing.
and then there are meals in which i serve too much food. “let me help you,” trent tells me, taking the bowl full of tomato soup i’ve poured for aiden, and dumping out half, and it hurts my feelings. because i don’t know portion size.
“i don’t want your help,” i tell him, like the sinner i am.
i just want to be good enough.
i want to be the one to clothe and feed and care for my children and it’s hard to receive help. especially for something as ordinary as portion size. and one night trent takes the plate of spaghetti i’ve dished out for joey and he shoves half of it back in the pot. “he’ll never eat all of that,” he says, and again, i cry.
will i ever be normal? and will correction always hurt this much?
and i’m reminded of aiden falling down the stairs. of me, running and holding him him as any mother would, and then joey pretending to fall down the stairs too.
“oh joey, you don’t have to do that,” i said. “you don’t have to hurt yourself to get my attention. you’ve got it, sweetie.”
i feel like that. like i’m always falling down the stairs trying to get God’s approval.
when i had it, all along.
(‘the springing of the crocus’ by e.wierenga, found here)