Don't Break My Heart

"Don't break my heart."

We use this phrase pretty frequently in our household.  Before kids, Mike and I used to say it to each other when the other was sad.  When I had a bad day and I was feeling down, he would say, "E, don't break my heart."  Or if he was visibly troubled by something, I would say "Don't break my heart, M."

Of course we didn't know what it truly meant to experience a broken heart.  Our problems were fairly petty.  Fast forward 7 years and now we have two kids.  We still use that phrase but this time we can feel the fissures and cracks that a broken heart has.

When A began showing signs of allergies with open, weeping sores all over her body, we would look at her and say, "You're breaking our hearts." 

Then when she began having reaction after reaction after reaction and had to be hospitalized again and again, we thought, "Our hearts can't take it."

And when she went into anaphylactic shock right before my eyes, I thought, "A, my heart feels broken."

These are all poignant reminders of very sad times.  But, surprisingly, it's in the lighter moments of life that I think about this phrase and wonder if my heart can take it.

These are two such moments:

1)  Once, G and I were laughing and cooing at each other and I looked up and saw A hiding behind the closet looking out at us with wistful eyes and a shy smile on her lips.  She wanted to be a part of that moment, but instead she felt like an outsider looking in.  How hard it must be for her to share me.  How difficult for a 3 year old to understand that when a new baby arrives, mama's heart grows instead of replaces.  How scared she must feel that things around her are changing and she's helpless to resist it.

2)  A is so used to not being able to eat the "normal" things I take for granted every day.  So when I nonchalantly bite into a brownie or a piece of cake I sometimes catch her watching me eat.  Her eyes will eat whatever it is I'm having and I see her lost in her imagination as her little mouth, unknowingly, forms into a little "o" and then slowly licks her lips and gulps down the saliva that's pooled in her mouth.  And if she catches my eye, she asks, "Is that yummy?"  Of course I always lie and tell her it tastes like dirt.  But, still, I can't help but wish she could experience the taste of "dirt" and I think of what I would give for her to be able to realize her dreams of biting into whatever it is she's seeing someone eat that she can't have.

That split second when she takes an imaginary bite and then chews and swallows in sync with me except I have something delicious in my mouth and she has only her fantasy sliding down her throat, that moment right there, is when my heart does a little flop and I think it's broken beyond repair.  But, my brown-eyed girl looks at me and says, "I wish I could have that, " and then bounds away already letting go of the bitter taste of disappointment and I realize that she's mending my broken heart with the way her little old soul lives life: full of grace, full of acceptance, full of hope for better things to come.

She may be a heart breaker, but she also know just how to put the pieces back.