You Are My Happy.

Last night, there was a dance party at my house. There was a full-on, booty-shaking, jump-up-&-downing, arm-waving, bass-thumping rave in my living room, and it was fantastic.

Did you know that I have a three-year old now?

Three years ago, the second-hardest year in my life had just begun. “It was the best of times; it was the [almost] worst of times,” and it was a tremendous, tumultuous torrent of faith, fear, post-partum psychosis, and sleepless nights.

It was everything I wanted, everything I was terrified of, and everything I needed.

It still is.

Parenthood has drawn more out of my husband and I than we ever thought possible. It has pushed us physically, mentally, and spiritually to our brink, and it has made us more thankful for life, for each other, for Jesus, for breathing, than we have ever known. Parenthood makes you speak in superlatives on a minute-by-minute basis. Everything is amazing. Everything is awful. Everything is incredible. Everything is terrible.

Parenthood leaves no room for middle ground.

Parenthood-post-loss leaves no room for sleep.

It leaves no room to allow the mind to relax (for the first year) because you are constantly fighting the “what-ifs” that want to run rampant in your postpartum-crazy life. YOU CAN’T LET THEM. They’ll take over, and you’ll find yourself in mental hysterics that only Wellbutrin and Jesus can fix. You can’t let it in, not even for a second. It gradually gets better, but I know my first 6 months after JD was born were so mentally difficult. You’re afraid to celebrate the moments, because you alone understand how quickly they can be taken away.

It’s a feeling that permeates your soul for years.

Last night was a great example: There we were: David and I, jumping around like 2 insane, sugared-up rhythmless Michelin Men around the living room. Jericho, meanwhile, was getting a first-class lesson in how to shake his rear, which resulted in him looking like a tiny, underwear-clad Derek Zoolander. He couldn’t figure out how to “shake” his rear, so he’d stop, stick out a hip, and rock a Blue Steel pose like nobody’s business. Too bad he’s gonna be short, because he can pose like Karlie Kloss! LOL—I kid. Anyways, we were dancing like fools to “Happy,” and while we were in that moment, I wanted to be deliriously happy…

 But I couldn’t let myself…

Because the last time embraced a moment and allowed myself to be deliriously happy (and blogged about it), the next day I found out I had cancer and could possibly, permanently lose my voice (I didn’t).

It took so much for me, that last time, to have the courage to say “I am deliriously happy.” It took a lot, and then THAT happened. And the time before that, when I held my daughter and thought, “I am deliriously happy,” we lost her…that kind of paradigm shift has consequences. I thought I had healed from that, but I guess not.

So now, when I find myself wanting to say that I am “deliriously happy,” I can’t.

I can’t do it.

Not yet.

I’m not mad at God.  I’m hurt, but I’m not mad…I’m questioning…I’m curious…I trust that He has a plan…I know He loves me…but I’m confused.

And I’m afraid to fall…

More than that, I’m afraid the ground will come out from under me, and there I’ll be, flat on my back like a broken mess, yet again…I’m not ready to be broken again, so soon, and I guess I feel like that goes hand-in-hand with happiness, like I can’t have one without the other?

Last night, I WAS deliriously happy.  There, I said it. But it was so cautious…I told my husband I was afraid to feel it, afraid to accept that yes, this is happening: This is a happy moment, with no pressure, no bad news, no judgment, no fighting, and no bill. THIS IS A HAPPY MOMENT, CASSIDY. LOVE IT.

Why is that so hard for me to embrace?

My son makes me stop and hold him…I grab him up, I feel his arms wrap around my neck, and he squeezes for all he’s worth. I breathe in his hair and kiss his forehead. I celebrate every single hug, because I know some day he won’t think it’s cool to hug Mommy anymore. I get all of the hugs I can get, not just because he is mine, but because every hug reassures my faith that happiness IS ALLOWED. We can BE HAPPY in this life, even though the world tells us it’s impossible. 

He says, “Are you happy, Mommy?” “Yes, baby, I’m happy. You are my happy.” He has no idea of the ledge he has pulled me off of, nor will he ever know, because that is too much pressure for anyone (ask David, Senior Ledge Puller). When the questions outsize the answers, my boys are my reminder that Jesus is the Answer, and He carries us all…

I am happy. I really am. And someday (soon, I’m sure) I will allow myself to throw my head back and laugh, and be as carefree as I used to be—as carefree as my beautiful son is—and I will re-embrace the joy that can only be found in dropping the baggage brought on by fear and disappointment. Someday, carefree will come easily to me.

Until then, I will watch it be a lifestyle for my son, and I will do everything in my power to ensure that he stays in that carefree lifestyle as long as possible…

Even if that means looking like a spastic Michelin Man in my living room.