We are home from our recent road trip, which was a success in many ways.  We always come back better for having seen and done new things.  This trip however, was a journey back through time in many ways.  Instead of the glitz and glam of days gone by we have been immersed in the world of the Victorian poor. (will share more from our visit to the workhouse in coming days!)  At the hotel I was huddled up with Jennifer Worth memoirs.  My head is about to explode I think.  

I have thought and thought so many things in recent days but a conversation keeps coming back to me.  A friend in nursing who has worked extensively with the poor and elderly remarked not long ago about yet another article by a young mom "burned out" and tired – a young, suburban, middle class mom whose husband supports her and her children and who has the luxury to complain about her lot on a state of the art computer.

We, this friend and I, have both raised large families. We have both been homesteaders.  Came from lower middle class rural roots.  We know tired.  We do.  And we in no way mean to suggest that bearing and caring for small children is no longer a taxing job because it is. 

HOWEVER

It isn't the same level of suffering known by much of the world throughout time.  Even as late as the 1950s flats in London were without running water – hot or cold.  Families shared community toilets.  Hundreds of people to one toilet.  I have such tremendous respect for the women who came before us and for the women who are still working in these conditions around the world.  When we get bogged down I remind myself what a luxury it is to wash clothes in a machine, to wash dishes in one's own sink in one's own home, to pull dinner ingredients out of a refrigerator, to be able to quickly clean,medicate, and bind up small "owies".  

Even today, so many are still toiling the better part of their waking hours away from the homes they long to be in, grateful for any opportunity at all.  Homemaking, when done well, takes great discipline and diligence, physical stamina and emotional sturdiness.  It is hard work, but those of us who have been able to do it for any length of time should never forget what a gift it is.  It is a job denied to many.  

We are now up to date with Call the Midwife.  Those who are fans know the last season ended with an exchange between a nervous expectant mum and a coworker, a grandfather who had no good role model when he began his own parenting journey many years earlier.  Instead of expounding upon deep paternal philosophy he offered just this, that in the end it really boiled down to proximity.  Staying in the game. 

This is it, I believe. We are so very flawed.  We did not have perfect examples and we cannot be perfect for our children either.  We can, however continue to be there, to walk alongside them down this sometimes  - often – messy road. 

He was sauteeing when I walked in the door. It is our new dance night routine. For better than an hour I can sit outside the gym with my laptop and attend virtual photography workshops while kids dance their hearts out. My husband gets home before us, turns on the oldies, and pulls out the Pioneer Woman cookbook.  That's where he was, moving steaming veggies from stove to set table, Tom Petty free-falling from the ipod dock in the background, when I paused in the doorway. 

The boys were in the courtyard outside where I had told them to sit for a minute.  From where I stood I could see them through the window looking deeply regretful, as I was, wishing we could will time backwards.   Just moments before we were crusing home, sunroof open.  We had prayed the rosary on the way, as we usually do on dance nights, knowing we get in late.  

As we pulled to a stop the rush to get out and in to Dad commenced with little people pressing against the doors and running to the house with backpacks dragging and sweaty faces grinning. Abbie Rose had begun to doze off during the last mile or two and woke up distressed to discover she was the last one out.  The Hello Kitty bag got all caught up on the carseat and tears flowed.  I came around her side and helped her out, then walked around the car to get my purse and laptop bag. Before I reached my side again all those little people were running back to the car, talking over each other.  Hurried explanations, many more tears. 

See, in an instant a poor calculation was made.  One boy had opened the laptop bag en route to see if the movie the boys were going to watch with Dad was downloaded. In his momentary euphoria he ran, laptop open, across the paved courtyard to the kitchen door.  There were technological casualties. (well, more like techo-disabilities)  In the abstract, you could say it's just stuff.  Truth be told, though, it was expensive stuff, expensive stuff that was recently purchased. 

So I stood watching his back bent over the buttered veggies and knew we just had to get this over with. The news was met with a GAHHHHHHHHH! No! And affirmation by me that yes, it really happened. Irreversibly.  He went outside to talk to the boys.  There were sighs and contrite nods. He sent the boys upstairs to clean up and stood there rubbing his forehead while he explained to me that we probably would not be repairing the damage since we have allocated funds other ways this coming year.  It is what it is.

Without words we exchanged one of those parent moments where you silently recall damage done over the years, silently replay other responses. 

In that instant he just turned, walked back to the kitchen, and  said, "Dinner's ready.  Come down and eat."    Soon after we were squeezed between blankets and kids on the couch.  We will be working through a cracked screen for a while, but the important things are intact. Machines break, hearts shouldn't.