Living in the moment makes me sad.
If I am "living in the moment," then I am conscious of the moment, and conscious also of its being just that, a moment. It will pass, no matter how hard I try to hold onto it. The happier the moment, the sadder it makes me.
Here's an example.
Last winter, when Mary was just was a couple of months old, we were having one of those really bad mornings at home. The kind of morning filled with whining and crying and endless frustration. The kind of morning that makes me Google "boarding school for babies and toddlers." We had recently had a snowstorm, and there was a foot of snow in the backyard. I knew David would have a great time out there, if only I could get him out the door. Since this was one of those bad mornings, he, of course, refused to go outside and insisted, instead, on clinging to me finding ever more things about which to whine. I needed a break.
So I set Mary down, which increased her crying by a few decibels, and forced David into his snow pants and boots. Putting snow pants and boots on a two-year-old is hard enough, let alone a two-year-old who does not want to wear them. I wrestled and struggled to put that kid in winter gear, with Mary howling in the background, and after ten minutes of grueling work I came off conqueror. Then I pushed (more like rolled) a bawling David out the back door into the snow. And shut the door. He stood out there in the cold crying and beating on the door. I vaguely wondered what the neighbors thought, but mostly I didn't care. I needed ten minutes to put Mary down for a nap, and five minutes to catch my breath. David could survive for fifteen minutes. In fact, his chances for survival were much better outside in the cold than inside with me.
After Mary was soundly asleep, I found that I only needed two minutes to catch my breath. It's amazing what two minutes of peace and quiet can do (though there was muffled crying coming from the backyard). I was ready to be a mom again. More specifically, I was ready to be David's mom again. With Mary asleep and out of my arms, David could be the only child for an hour or so. I rushed to find some winter clothes, threw them on, and ran outside. In the backyard was a foot of snow, a hill, and a little boy who didn't even know what sledding was. I knew what had to be done.
That was the beginning of one of my very happiest times with David. We didn't have a sled, so I used a cookie sheet. The snow wasn't quite right for sledding, so I had to push him down the hill. The pants I had on were too big, and they kept falling down, exposing my bare bum to the cold air. David and I laughed hysterically the whole time. It was so much fun! The kind of fun you have with a best friend. We would run up the hill, then I would push him down, and we would end up rolling down and buried in snow. I also tried pushing him down in a garbage bag, and that was even more hilarious. We laughed and laughed, and went down the hill again and again, as I tried to keep my pants up. In the middle of our hysterics, I thought, "I haven't had this much fun with David in months. Maybe ever. This is wonderful, and I'm so happy I'm enjoying the moment!" And then I was overcome with sadness...because I was so happy. I knew that no matter how I tried, the moment was going to end. We were only going to go down the hill so many times.
Soon enough, we simply had too much snow in our pants and socks and shirts, and David was uncomfortable, and I was too. The moment ended. We came inside, I put David in a warm bath, and then we made popcorn and hot chocolate. Already the sledding was a memory. Even now, when I look back on that morning, the crying and whining is vague, and I have to remind myself of how David and I ended up in the backyard. What remains vivid is the images of rolling through the snow with my son, laughing together. But the happy image has a shadow of sadness--I remember feeling sorrow that this time with David would become just a memory. That sadness is part of the memory. I still haven't found the right consolation to chase that shadow away. Because the moment was so happy, there is a sense of profound sadness associated with it, for me.
Why is sadness a side effect of happiness?
Right now, life is good. I love this moment in time, with two adorable small children and a husband who is home more than he is gone. I am happy. And that makes me sad. Because this is going to end. (As it should. It's not like I want to be frozen in time.) Greg will graduate, my children will grow, there may, one day, be more than two of them. Things change. Even though I know the future holds happiness, even greater happiness, still I will mourn the loss of this happiness.
