Juggling act

Parenting three children is so incredibly time-consuming, and I sometimes have so many balls in the air that I drop quite a few. And man, when they land, they seem to always land on my head.

Launching a business while parenting three children has made it even harder to keep up with my Threestroms. For most of August leading all the way through most of November, there were soccer practices, soccer academies, and soccer games nearly every day. Henry had tennis lessons, and his homework increased two-fold. The twice-weekly grocery shopping, coupled with the daily housecleaning, and the endless errands, had to be squeezed in where they could. Trying to find time to connect with my friends got squeezed in even tighter. Managing the playground project meant that everything got positively squished. And the one person I needed to connect with the most - my husband - almost became lost to me.

In the meantime, the kids continue to grow. And quickly. This is what my friends with older children meant: enjoy them while they're young, because they grow up so fast. In the blink of an eye, they're gone. I didn't believe it then; in fact, I longed for them to grow up so the constant caretaking would end. But it isn't ending - it's merely changing. The perils of parenting are even greater now, for their needs are growing, not shrinking, and I have to constantly try and keep up with where they are at in their lives. They need me more now, in different ways, and I'm learning (sometimes so slowly) to meet them where they are.


One happy sign of how our family perhaps came together alright was how my kids' teachers spoke of them during family conferences. Lina's teacher so clearly enjoys having her in class; she is his "old soul, the grandmother who takes care of everybody without losing herself." My mother says that Lina will be the one to take care of us all - and she said it when Lina was only three. (Although I hope not - I want that girl to go everywhere she wants to go, and be supported by us, not the other way around!) Lina's brightness, her bubbliness, and her brilliance is a gem; she shines like the sun.

John's teacher, so quiet and composed, was waiting for that moment in our conference when John identified what his goals were for the rest of the year. She practically pounced on him when he shared his first one: to become "an expressive writer." She said, "But John, you already are. You're meeting that goal; you're doing that work." Turns out that he's meeting other goals as well: making new friends outside of his soccer gang, becoming more respectful in class, and demonstrating mastery of math. Just the fact that he uses phrasing like "more expressive writer," or "demonstrating mastery," slays me. Her beaming, shining eyes said to me what Lina's teacher's eyes said: this kid is special, and he's going far.

Thanks in part to our wonderful school, my kids are getting what I most wanted in my life: they're being tracked. Other caring adults are following their lives; other caring adults are helping them grow. Our good fortune is such a blessing that it's just a little bit difficult to accept my faith that there is no God.

And then there's Henry. Luckily, he's finding his way as a middle school student, in ways which he couldn't when he was in the elementary school. He was very difficult for his primary school teachers to connect with and, since the acknowledged philosophy in his school is that students must take charge of their own lives, he was pretty much left to his own devices. He didn't stand out in ways that make teaching in the primary grades so difficult: he didn't act out, he didn't misbehave, and his grades were sufficient. He was learning how to read and write and compute, and wasn't a disruption, which was enough in a classroom of 28 kids, many of whom struggle with the basics. Which is just a basic fact; learning the basic stuff is hard! In comparison, the teachers in the middle school think that he does stand out; in him, they see leadership. They see mastery. They see brilliance. They see the boy I know, and my gratitude is immense.

But perhaps the single greatest joy for my husband and I during the past many months has been watching as Henry developed a sincere, warm, appreciative relationship with a girl. Not his girlfriend, but a girl who is a genuine friend. Yes, they have a crush on one another, but they are "not going to become romantic, because (they're) only twelve." Watching Henry reach out to other people, need other people, see other people, relate to other people, is a mother's joy. For many, many years, his unwillingness to become vulnerable to others held him back in countless ways. And yet. And yet. Just at the point where he's finally reaching out, he's pulling back from me.

And then there's my husband. My Markus. For nearly two years, I've been a solo act, and people noticed. My bond to him was nearly severed by distractions and self-involvement and blindness. But it seems that the worst has passed, which is so clear to me now that he's been gone for two weeks. His absence has cut through me like a knife; I think of him all the time, wonder what he's doing, how he's feeling, whether he's sleeping, whether he's getting what he needs. I remember now all the things that made me love him so: his humor, his intelligence, his curiosity, and his creativity. When I met this brilliant Austrian, I fell hard; he was such a good listener, such a good lover, such a good friend. Through all those early years, he tried to bring out the best in me, which was pretty hard in the face of my undiagnosed and untreated depression, and yet he tried to keep me from sinking. He was, and is, the most wonderful person I'd ever met. How nice to meet him again.

And so I'm trying to juggle less, and let the balls fall where they are. There are really only a few I should catch; if I stop throwing the rest, they'll stop hitting me on the head. I guess I need to get out of my own way. With love.