Lately Annie has taken to saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, aaaaahhhhhhMEN” before meals. It’s her abridged version of the blessing my  parents offer when  we sit down to eat together. Somehow Annie, in her almost-two-year-old wisdom, was able to distill the prayer down  to its most important element, the radical and simple “thank you,” and she now says this prayer faithfully before every meal, peeking at us to make sure our eyes are closed. It’s hilarious and perfect, a new practice for us, and one that I hope sticks.

On Monday, I rejoin the working world after two years at home with Annie. They’ve been the sweetest two years of my life. They’ve also been the most challenging, humbling and rewarding. And sleepless. There have been days, especially during the winter, when I thought I would never make it out of this with my nerves intact. But there have been far more days when I look at her and know that I’ve landed the best job in the world. I never expected to be a stay-at-home mom, but between Annie’s medical needs and a rough job market it kind of just happened, and it’s been the best surprise gift I’ve ever received. We’ve had quite a time, us two.

A couple weeks ago we traveled to the hospital where Annie was born, where she had both surgeries, where she’ll have more, and where the doctors know not only her face but also her aorta, her single hardworking ventricle, the crazy route her veins take on their way back to her heart. She went in for a routine checkup, which happens every six months. I always get jittery before these appointments, wondering if she’s okay, or if things are terribly wrong and I’ve just been oblivious. The morning of her appointment I woke up at 4 am, unable to go back to sleep, staring at the ceiling of our friend’s guest room and wondering if that checkup would be the one where the other shoe would drop, where they’d tell us she needs to be admitted, that something isn’t right. But Annie was fine. She was more than fine. She sat still through her entire echocardiogram, eating cheddar bunnies and pointing at the Mickey Mouse cartoons that the nurse had the good sense to put on.  For more than three hours, the only tears she shed were when we pulled the EEG stickers off her belly, and then it was only for a minute. I was so proud. And then she slept the entire four hours home while I ate the rest of her cheddar bunnies and all the nervousness slowly dissipated. It will probably be back in six months, or maybe sooner, like when she gets sick, but for now we are back to our happy routine. Well, until tomorrow, when I have to step out of my elastic-waistband pants and fill out a W2.

It’s been two years since I had a steady, permanent job. And I’m glad to have one now. I’m  looking forward to using my brain in a new way, using my degree,earning a paycheck. And, it’s a new job, with all the swirly new-job feelings that come along for the ride. It’s going to be a huge transition for all of us, and it sort of kills me that Annie is going to be spending her days with someone who is Not Me. I would be lying if I said that my heart isn’t going to hurt on Monday morning, that it won’t crack in two, with half of it staying at home with that sweet kid of mine. I’m going to grieve, oh yes, I will. Because it’s been a magical two years, in all the hard and raw and real ways, and now everything is changing.Yesterday I got a massage, a Mother’s Day gift from my brother, who is one of the kindest people I know. As soon as the massage therapist dug her fingers into the knots in my back, I began to cry. Like, really cry, with my face smushed into that little donut pillow and tears dripping onto the floor. I had to ask her for a tissue and prayed that I wouldn’t get snot all over her nice table. The feelings pouring out of those knots were so real and big, and I had to drink a lot of water when it was over.

It’s way too easy to get stuck in a loop of loss, of mourning what I’m leaving as I drive off into the new-job sunset. These transitions, dammit, they’re so hard. And they haven’t stopped roaring at us, much faster than I’d prefer, and I guess it’s like that for all of us. But then some measure of grace taps me on the shoulder and reminds me of what a gift all of this is. That I’ve had these two years, when I only anticipated twelve weeks. That Annie is well enough to be left with another caregiver, one that doesn’t have to be a nurse. That I got a job and we may be able to breathe a little bit easier soon. That the universe is unfolding in ways that are so deep right now that I can’t help but feel a little lighter, a little better.

So I will grieve, and my heart with ache, and there will probably be days when I complain heartily to anyone who will listen. And I’ll come home each day to a bubbly tornado of a toddler who is going to love me anyway, who will yell, “Hey MAMA!” from the front porch, with whom morning snuggles will be a little shorter and a whole lot sweeter. Thank you, thank you, thank you, aaaaaaaahhhhhMEN.