You.

When your house has sold, and the last bit of your belongings have been thrown into the back of your truck... call me, and let me hear your voice nearly a thousand miles away but familiar in my ear.

Call me and give me one weekend.

One weekend to say our peace, change our minds, remove my rose colored glasses, to place my hand on your chest and know what your heart says.

Call me.

Artificial Sweetener.

 Re-read, re-write, re-do, undo...

There's a lot of static in my head currently, but something empowering has been the realization that I'm so grateful. Like, overwhelmingly so, just regarding my life in general.

I can look in the mirror and see where my skin has stretched and pulled and begged for relief from three pregnancies. I remember before kids I'd gag at my "rolls" and make the ex-husband swear to put me out of my misery if I ever crossed over the 200 pound line. I gained 60 pounds with my first kid. I lost, gained, lost and gained some more and I'm still slightly over that line and you know what? I'm not miserable. I'm not so out of shape that I can't chase Little in heels across two yards, or that I can't channel my inner cheerleader wannabe self from 8th grade and do a high kick to freak my oldest out. I can still run, do yoga and shave my own legs without getting short of breath. 

I can tell you which stretch marks belong to which pregnancy. 

I can barely reach with the tips of my fingers, the scars that dot my back from skin cancer surgery from 5th grade. 

I can spot acne scars from a mirror across the room, but I also know that my incessant nervous picking during 10 years of being married to the wrong person didn't help that. 

I like to flex the muscles of my legs in awe that they carried myself and three big babies through 27 long months of pregnancy as well as two hands full of finish lines. 

These poor rough feet look amazing in heels, but tell a story of a woman who walks miles upon miles each day to provide for her children.

The small calloused hands also speak volumes of a woman who does things for herself before she'll ever ask for help.

The lines around my eyes tell of happy laughter, my arms the most welcoming hug, and this chest has been a resting spot for many babies and will be for more babies (hopefully grand babies, nieces and nephews) in the future.

This body is nothing short of miraculous, and I am so grateful for every inch of it.

If you could read my lab work you would see that I work hard to keep all my numbers in the right places. That despite my size, I'm probably healthier and more proactive about my health and the genetic issues that keep me up at night than your best friend or neighbor. I've got my vices, but I also make most decisions out of moderation and physical need.

It's not that I want to outlive all of you, it's that I want to live to see all of you, my children, their children, my partner if that ever happens again... I want to see you all live happy, healthy lives. I still have so much to experience and so much life to enjoy.

I know that if I were to pass tomorrow of some unforeseen tragedy, I know that I will have still lived a life worth writing about. I know that my kids will know how much I loved them. I know that there will be good stories to tell at my wake. I'm not ready for that yet. I still have so much love and life in me aching to come out.

Take care of yourselves. Look in the mirror and remember how amazing that reflection is, and be grateful that this body has worked so hard to get you to where you are today and how much life you still need it for. Take care of YOU. Love YOURSELF. You and your body will be stuck WITH you for the rest of YOUR life. Show it some compassion and gratitude for how far you've come.

Weekend Summary.

Friday night exploded with anticipation until the main event arrived. He was already taken. As in, they live together. He needed a "breath of fresh air." He enjoyed the excitement and flirtation. He was taken.

Saturday night was a reminder of everything I'd already experienced. The thrill of the chase, the awe of the other human and all of their adventuring and wanting the passion that made those adventures so intense, the exhaustion of being unable to catch up mentally... I pride myself on being literate, appreciating the arts and flexing my fingers at the keyboard. I'm not a master of any of these things, nor am I able to quote much of anything outside of music lyrics at the drop of a hat.

Both nights I was countered with great conversation and handsome companions. Both nights I enjoyed myself. Both nights took me way outside of my comfort zone.

I know that to "grow" and stretch ourselves as humans, we need to push past those comfort zones. However, for the first time in nearly 3 years I felt the itch to medicate because I was terribly nervous and borderline panicky. I don't think I'm ready for companions unless they're mutually frisky with no strings, no current partners (ahem), and just want to be friends. I need friends, maybe that's where the anxiety crept in. I didn't want to come off as desperate but I didn't want to come off as the most boring human in the world.

I lay things flat out on the table to scare the weaklings off. I have a kid with learning differences. I have a kid with a heart condition. I have a child genius who overthinks and sends themselves over the edge. A lot. I love me, flaws and all. I love my cats. I am OBSESSED with my kids in an almost unhealthy way (IF you were to ask them.) I loved traveling, but it will be a minute before that ever happens again. I love to write, but I'm not the greatest at staying on topic. Music speaks to my soul. God made no mistakes, and I believe he is very real. I can't look at my kids and NOT believe in God. I've spent the past 14 years raising kids, humor me. Flatter me. Be honest and kind with me.

Probably the most awkward moment of the entire weekend was not so much ripping the proverbial bandaid off in front of my ex-husband and his wife while disciplining the oldest for his grades, but having to give middle the run down of how my dates went... in front of the ex. She asked how my Friday date went and I told her he already had a girlfriend, "LIKE, HE WAS ALREADY DATING SOMEONE AND STILL MET UP WITH YOU??!?" Yes, child. Much like a scenario we've already explained REGARDING THE OTHER PRESENT ADULTS sitting ON THE COUCH watching us with big awkward eyes. Yes. Like that. But we're friends and I'm over it, because I mean... dammit. This is the story of my life. "Was Saturday better?" Yes! Infinitely as far as availability went. Only he too, like a recent love of mine, needs to be in the thick of all the things and constantly be on the go. His stories were incredible though. 

"You're a house cat, mom."

Yes child, I am.

Shorting Myself.

I made myself smaller for you.

Compartmentalizing every bit of "me" because I heard the words you used, laughing at others who are like me. The artists. The lovers. Those who would rather love themselves and spread their wings than be rooted to a passionless life.

I stopped dancing... singing... writing... dreaming.

I didn't want you to stop being you; I wanted to stop being the "me" you wanted me to be.

Big Distraction Pt. 1

We're reading on my loveseat. Our shoes a scattered heap beneath us and my feet are tucked in behind  you. My dress leaves my legs exposed and you periodically run your hands down my shins to warm them up. The sun has start to set behind the buildings leaving the sun room darker and darker until we can no longer stand to strain our eyes to see. Pushing my glasses up over my hairline, I place my book down beneath the arch of my legs and stop your hand as it slides down my shin again.

You place your book on the arm of the chair and turn towards me, both of your hands wrap behind my knees and pull me closer to you. Whispers of actions not yet passed leave your mouth and heat my ears as my telltale flush creeps down from my ears, cheeks and my chest. My hands rest on your lower back as  you lean into me.

Satchmo croons lightly in the background, the brash brassiness of the horns brings us back to the moment. You scoop me up into your arms, my legs around your waist. We sway some to "La Vie en Rose" before we land backwards back on the loveseat, we laugh as we untangled ourselves from the heap we'd created. You reaches over and push some of the hair back off my face back into my ponytail and pull my face towards yours.

Things that hurt my heart volume 1.

The sound of my son sobbing because he doesn’t agree with me about my views on violence/bullying. He feels that if he is getting pushed around he should react with more force than they are giving. I feel he should protect himself, yes, but that violence should NEVER beget violence. I believe he should protect himself and walk away wiser than when they began.

He believes that if he’s being mugged he should fight back with intention to harm. I believe he should hand over his wallet, strip naked if he has to, but to get out alive.

That’s all living is, getting out alive. I don’t want his heart to burn like coal angry and hot and ready to bleed. I want him to focus more on loving and living.

There’s never a good enough reason to harm or hurt. Ever. Protecting yourself to get out alive, yes. Protecting yourself but believing an eye for an eye? No. Never.

Karma sorts shit out and God is the ultimate judge.

The "Show Me" State of Mind.

I don't need you.

I want you.

I want your hands to remind me of what they used to do to me.

I want your mouth to tell mine everything you can't say out loud.

I want your eyes to read me like a book you can't put down.

I don't need you.

I want to watch your body change the minute you see me, like it remembers what it felt like when I would curl into it at night while my hand whispered secrets into yours.

I don't need you, but I want you to show me how much you want me.

I don't need you, but I want to fit like the missing puzzle piece of your heart.

Finding my Footing.

My feet have followed the same cobblestone paths as Winston Churchill. I have walked barefoot across the grass in Oxford. I have had tea and sandwiches in an actual rose garden in Oxfordshire. I have watched the sun rise and set from a sky rise hotel in Dubai. I have nestled myself among the branches of a Banyan tree in Honolulu and witnessed what felt like infinite hours of dusk in Anchorage. I have purchased cigarettes from a street corner vending machine in Frankfurt and hot green tea from a different machine in Akasaka. I've slept in holding barracks while pregnant in Abu Dhabi. I've fallen asleep in a tour bus watching the Italian countryside fly past me at 60 miles an hour traveling from Aviano to Venice. I have touched down at many other airports and military pit stops along the way from 21 to 26 that I can't list them all without forgetting others.

I was accepted to multiple colleges before I left academia behind. University of Southern California was up there on my list at the number one spot. I wanted to get as far away from "home" as possible without shipping my skin cross country. Gruesome and vivid, yes, but I didn't feel at "home" where I laid my head at night. I stepped out onto the tarmac and called the pressurized cabin at 35,000 feet hurtling 600+ miles per hour my home for the first half of my 20's.

Do I regret not getting a formal college education? No. No, I don't. Do I regret not hustling like my mother in her late 30's to get a formal college education? Again, no. NO I do not. My grandfather worked a full time job straight out of the Navy and went to school full time at Marshall University all while starting a family. My mother left school before she married my father, went back as a "continuing education student" around the time I started middle school while raising my sister and I, working 40+ hours a week and slowly untangling herself from her marriage to my father. I remember multiple trips to Clayton State before it became a university and shoving my nose in the thick books of it's library and finishing my homework alongside it's students while my mother took night classes. I applaud the sacrifice it took the both of them to obtain their degrees and the effects it had on their careers and personal lives. Do I sometimes still think about going and earning a simple business degree to keep in my back pocket? Honestly, not really.

I can barely fathom how stressed my mother was during those years; she had myself (an awkward middle schooler) and my sister who suffered from serious asthma complications. I know that I could not add the stress of school on top of my own children (each with their own unique special need or health issue), my job and being the only stable adult in their life. I can barely have dinner on the table by 7 as it is. I have always been the type to just GO and experience life, and I would much rather experience life than to sit in a classroom setting for months on end. 

Y'all. If you or I died tomorrow, I want my life to be filled with memories of doing and enjoying the three people who called my body home. I want to remember being kind to people and teaching my children to be kind as well. I want to remember the view from that sky rise in Dubai while minaret's haunted the city below with the morning call to prayer. I want to remember the peace as I sat on the banks of the river Windrush beneath willow trees and the scent of roses hung heavy around me. I want to remember the rich scent of my babies scalps as I buried my nose into them while the weight of them sleeping on me anchored into my heart. I want to remember the feeling of my grandmother's arms around my neck as I held her upright and whispered goodbye to her while my stepfather prepared to take her to the hospital. I want to remember these things because without hesitation, I can tell you that I never would have had these precious memories with the children I have and the trials/triumphs I experienced by NOT continuing my education past High School. I don't regret nor would I change any of it.

That being said, I do love hearing about other's experiences with College/Universities so I can live vicariously through them. I think the closest thing I had to the rowdy raunchiness of partying during my college years would be the time I worked a commuter jet into Indianapolis and after an excruciatingly long day, allowed myself to drink with the pilot and copilot knowing we didn't have a show time till after noon the following day. While we never left the hotel lobby, I barely remember going back to my room and changing into an old T-shirt to pass out on my bed. I did sober up, however, when I woke up to relieve myself in the middle of the night only to come to consciousness as the lock clicked and I realized I was NOT in the bathroom but outside of my hotel room. Nothing will sober you up faster than recognizing you have to pee and the only way to get back into your room is to ride the elevator in your t-shirt and undies and explain your plight to the front desk. And yes, after that I started packing pajama pants because NEVER AGAIN would I risk the world knowing what kind of undies I wore.

Smitten in the Kitchen

For a few years now I've been making a pasta dish at least once every few months to satisfy my soul. Only one of my kids tolerates mushrooms, while the other two GLADLY dig them out of their bowls and scoop them over into our bowls. This is a meal that is only slightly labor intensive and as a single mother of three kids this means I seriously can only make it on a Sunday when my stomach is begging me to make something cheesy, mushroomy and heavy on the carbs. I've been known to make it during beach week when myself, my mom and my sister scrape together our favorite recipes and indulge all week long. If you DO NOT double the serving and you're only feeding 4-5 people, at least one of you will be sorely disappointed in the lack of leftovers. ((Editors note, I always always ALWAYS double so I can eat on it on nights the youngest trumps everyone and requests THE blue box macaroni and cheese.))

I cannot tell you how I stumbled across this recipe, as I most certainly wasn't searching the internet for vegetarian Marsala options, and I definitely wasn't searching for mushroom heavy meals. The fabulous Deb from Smitten Kitchen wrote this up five years ago, and I hope it brings a great big smile to your face if you make it for yourself (just save me a plate!) 

 

Mushroom Marsala Pasta Bake

 

Prep time: 30 minutes, tops 

Cook time: 30 minutes, tops 

Servings: 4 really generous or 6 slightly more moderate ones. 

To serve a crowd: Double it in a 9×13-inch or lasagna pan  

 

• 1/2 pound pasta of you choice, I personally use penne
• 1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil 
• 3/4 pounds fresh mushroom, sliced
• 1 small-to-medium yellow onion, halved and sliced thin 
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste 
• 1/4 cup dry Marsala wine
• 3 tablespoons butter 
• 3 tablespoons all-purpose flour 
• 1 1/2 cups stock or broth (chicken, vegetable or mushroom) 
• 1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan cheese 
• 4 ounces mozzarella, cut into small cubes
• 3 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley  

Cook the pasta: Bring a pot of well-salted water to a boil. Add pasta and cook until al dente, about 1 to 2 minutes before perfect doneness. Drain and set aside.  Heat oven: To 400 degrees.  Make the sauce: Reheat your empty pasta pot over high heat. Add oil and once it is hot, add mushrooms and cook until they’ve begun to brown and glisten, but have not yet released their liquid. Reduce heat to medium-high, add onions, salt and pepper and saute together until the liquid the mushrooms give off is evaporated. Add Marsala and cook mixture, stirring, until it has almost or fully evaporated (depending on your preference). Add butter, stir until melted. Add flour, and stir until all has been dampened and absorbed. Add stock, a very small splash at a time, stirring the whole time with a spoon. Make sure each splash has been fully mixed into the butter/flour/mushroom mixture, scraping from the bottom of the pan and all around, before adding the next splash. Repeat until all stock has been added. Let mixture simmer together for 2 minutes, stirring frequently; the sauce will thicken. Remove pan from heat.  Assemble and bake dish: If you’re cooking in an oven safe dish, add cooked pasta and stir until combined. (If you’re not cooking in an oven safe dish, transfer this mixture to a 2-quart baking dish.) Stir in half the Parmesan, all of the mozzarella and two tablespoons of the parsley until evenly mixed. Sprinkle the top with remaining Parmesan. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes, until edges of pasta are golden brown and irresistible. Sprinkle with reserved parsley and serve hot.

Collections

A neighbor of mine is an elderly lady, with no family close to her distance wise. She has a life alert, but if she falls outside of the room the call box is located in they can’t hear her answer. So every once in a while I’ll be contacted that they can’t reach her and I will run over to see if she’s ok before they send the emergency personnel to her.

In the time I’ve known her, she has lost two sons and decades before she lost her husband. Just like my grandfather, she is outliving all those she loves.

Today, while visiting her, I helped her up off the ground and she called me by another person’s name. Which wasn’t uncommon as I don’t really feel I look like the name I’ve been given. I am often called by anyone’s name but my own. She fussed at me about a utility bill that she had on her countertop, telling me it was scheduled to be turned off today because I hadn’t sent anything in. Mind you, she was still calling me by another name. When I took the bill from her, I realized it was over two months late AND she’d been charged almost four times the amount I pay with a house full of people. In investigating the bill, I realized that she’d given all of this info maybe to her daughter who lived across the state to handle but who is also handling her 94 year old aunt.

I mentally stepped back and scanned her for any other issues she may be having when I noticed the blood spots on her back. They were dried meaning she’d been on the ground a while. She also looped her stories a few time so that I was hearing the same thing two or three times.

When I got her settled and took care of her “to do” list of easy maintenance issues, I gathered my things in preparation for leaving to take care of her utility bills. She thanked me and called me by my correct name stating that she barely recognized me without my glasses and that was looking real good, “you’re gonna get you a boyfriend if you keep up looking so good!” I thanked her and laughed saying I’d resigned myself to being a spinster with the hope of collecting a few lovers in the meantime. She laughed in response and said she remembered her hoe days well. I think we both peed a little we laughed so hard.

Give and Take

In the past six years I’ve learned a lot about conversation from therapies that weren’t even my own. The give and take of language and how our minds process the information given to us. I don’t know that I ever learned the giving part properly. I’ll take all your words and digest them, but my own responses come out flippant and meaningless.

I want to be able to hold intelligent conversation, as I know it’s incredibly possible given the thoughts screaming inside of me. I joke that I’m forever 17 mentally, but worry that I won’t be able to hold up my end of the conversations.

This weekend I’m going out with friends and I’m terrified that they’ll see me as uninterested in what they’re saying or that I don’t have anything to add to the subject.

Liquid courage should help, but I know that with my own history I shouldn’t rely on false promises.

Rituals

Fall has this ridiculous way of intoxicating me, bringing out my inner voice so I can hear my wants and needs more clearly. With the windows flung open across my home, I can feel the breeze curling it's way into our bedrooms and other most sacred places. The sage starts to glow from within and the flame heightens with white smoke billowing from the top as I purse my lips and blow softly to quiet the flame. I can see the smoke following the breeze and I start from the farthest room and work my way towards the front door.

There are still boxes piled up in the living room, but not nearly as many as this time a week ago. It's starting to look and feel more like home; our scents are mingled into the carpet fibers now and the newness is fading. The floor hums with each footfall, accepting my path as I invite the sage smoke into every crevice and corner. I hesitate while standing in the middle of the sun room. Something still doesn't feel right about the set up with the desk, loveseat and play table, but it's the only room that can allow room for all three items and still have room to maneuver. The cats like the set up as my youngest doesn't see them lying on the window sills soaking up rays while the loveseat hides them from view.

I haven't reached out to really talk to the ex to see how he's doing, see how his arrangements are working out for him. Part of me knows that it's better for him to not hear from me right now, and the other part mourns for my friend. Little has brought his name up in some nonsensical play, but I think middle and big are still processing the shift in their own ways as well. I don't hate him, I never did. 

I'm bringing attention and intention to our space. I want nothing more than to fill it with laughter and peace after all that's happened to us these past 5 years. I am living my life for me and my kids and I'm no longer allowing negativity or toxic behavior into our home/lives.

I finalize my walk around my room, circling my bed and welcoming the smoke to rest over my bed and out the window. The sage comes to rest on my bedside table between the bed and window to burn out peacefully.

Hot Rollers and Hairspray

2020 was supposed to be a year of "doing" instead of another day filled with "Groundhog Days." I even kicked off 40x40 GUNG HO READY TO GO! I put my blinders on and plowed head first into what I thought was going to be the best year ever as I'm sure so many other people did. I took the initiative and threw all caution to the wind and moved myself, my father, my kids and the then boyfriend into a massive big beautiful house. We bought tickets to various events and venues. We celebrated birthdays and holidays. Everything tinted with COVID in the forefront of our minds.

My ADHD brain can't stay on topic; lets work up a list.

Things 2020 took from me but with a twist!

• For Christmas last year, we received season passes to Six Flags. I have yet to activate them (sorry mom!) as every time I think to do it, the COVID numbers spike and yeah no. In losing the ability to hit the park with the kids, I gained the ability to spend more quality time with them. When Middle and Big wanted to do their own things (not spend time with their mother and baby brother because EW GROSS), we blew up a big inflatable pool and enjoyed some sunshine.
• Alanis, Liz Phair and Garbage were doing a tour together and the then boyfriend snatched up tickets right before they sold out. 2020 took my chance at seeing Liz Phair live away from me (I mean, I was there for Alanis and Garbage too, but Liz has my HEART.) What it gave me? The opportunity to introduce the kids to her music.
• Ben Folds life with the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. THIS one made me super bitter. This? Was my version of Metallica's S&M -- also a great album. I used to wear out a radio recording (on tape no less) of Ben live at Eddie's Attic in Atlanta during the 90's. I can't tell you how many copies of Ben Folds Live I had before I was able to upload onto my phone/iPod. I remember hearing stories of how he would wear out a piano the way some rock stars would smash guitars on stage. Every time they changed the dates (before inevitably cancelling altogether) my sister and I would rearrange our calendars because we were NOT going to miss this opportunity. While the glimmer of hope in THIS "taken by 2020" is extremely small, like a sliver more than a glimmer honestly (don't ask me how to measure the two, it just sounds better in my noggin), there's still the light in knowing I always have my sister as a concert buddy.
• The boyfriend/best friend. Yup. 2020 took my status as "taken" away, but that is OK! IT'S LITERALLY A GOOD THING!! He is/was not a bad human, anything but. He's human. We all make mistakes and make bad decisions and have our own opinions and beliefs and this doesn't make us terrible people. 2020 gave me the ability to recognize and come to terms with some people make better friends, no matter how much you love someone. And I did love him very much, but it took me the last few months of our relationship to realize that I loved him as the friend he's always been to me. However, no amount of love made us "right." I don't know how to say it other than that honestly. We didn't mesh in that yin and yang sort of way or just "flow." And if there's anything I've learned this year, it's that if you have to force something it's better to let it just be. Plus, if you refer back to my first 40x40 post, I wanted to survive somewhere just me and the kids and forcing us together in that big beautiful house was the very opposite.
  

All of this is really just brain static, the noise in my head as I tried to find some way ANY way to make my hair look natural this morning while also wielding hot rollers to my head and suffocating myself with hair spray. No amount of any hair "magic" was fixing it. The daughter even came down the hall, looked at me and said, "did you do something to your hair? Because it looks like you didn't." Thanks kid... at this point, it's better to just leave 2020 be and set our intentions and eyes on 2021.

Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah?

Seen and not heard.

Something that has stuck with me since childhood has been my father's voice telling me that I should be seen and not heard.

Let that sink in for a second.

I'd like to think that this has molded me into a person that is observant, but recent revelations have very obviously enlightened me that not everyone was raised this way nor does my silence warrant observance. Instead, the overflow of words deafen me until I can't hear anything else. It has created a way of thinking that what I have to say is not important and that actions are the only way to be believed.

In doing the work on myself, I'm so sorry to every person that my lack of spoken communication has effected. Please know that I'm trying so hard to express and untangle the mess in my head. I'm trying. The hardest part for me personally is having others ask for input or try and drive home how important communication is and inform me of how I'm a total failure at it  and then totally dismiss what I have to say or talk over me (because believe me, THEY DO). My personal favorite is when they READ a text/email/social media post and then question why I can't speak up like this in the moment. Because my brain doesn't communicate to my mouth to open and let the words fall out. If I'm going to word vomit or elaborate on anything, my brain says, "DO NOT DO THAT, DON'T. JUST STOP."

Seen and not heard.

I want to see people in action so I'm not alone in my own actions. Can we speak with body language? Smoke signals? THE WRITTEN WORD? If you love me, meet me in the middle. You don't know the struggle of silencing my brain just to open my mouth for you. And I'm not a foreigner, we don't have to speak louder to me in an effort to make me understand your language. All that does at the end of the day is send me into sensory overdrive and my emotions say, "Cue waterworks! Bring the tears! Dehydrate the bitch so she'll have to shut her mouth around a water bottle instead of letting the words fall where the tears lie." See what I did there? Not even I can discern whether I meant the act of lying or the location of my tears.

Seen and not heard.

It's apparent that I'm in survival mode as a parent. *Ba Dum TING!* With three excruciatingly different children and only one of me, shit is bound to hit the fan more often than not. I pride myself in maintaining the shit show to a minimum of once every 3 weeks... today was that day for the cycle to begin anew. It started with "Little" screaming in frustration, "Big" reacting with his own frustration and in a bizarre twist of events physical altercation with "Little." Once I started raising my voice, "Middle" lost HER shit and we were all crying and screaming. Nothing says totally winning at this parenting thing like everyone in the community hearing your mom voice for the first time because you were OVER. ALL. OF. IT. The absolute cherry on top? Getting "Little" successfully out of the truck with no screaming from him, until he and I both realized simultaneously that we had FORGOTTEN HIS BACKPACK during the scuffle and then returned with forgotten backpack realizing I'd left ALL of my masks in MY lunchbox which also? Conveniently still inside our apartment. I legit opened the door, placed the backpack inside the door, flagged the first person to greet me with a "YOU CANNOT COME IN HERE WITHOUT A MASK" with "I'M TOTALLY AWARE AND A MESS, THIS IS FOR THE ONLY ONE OF MY CHILDREN WITH <<INSERT LAST NAME HERE>> FOR A LAST NAME IN THIS SCHOOL BYEEEEE!" #fuckingdone I ugly cried for two solid hours (and am still periodically getting overwhelmed two hours after the last tear dried.)

I'd also looooooooove to add that commenting that maybe my nerves are shot would be an understatement. I ripped those bitches open when I sliced open my leg and they are ANGRY. Shot? No. Alive and reminding me that I'm a graceful idiot, yes. Tylenol is not touching angry nerve pain.

Seen and not heard.

So moral of the story? If you see me crying, please wait till after I get off my shift to ask me if I'm ok. In attempting to verbalize aloud for everyone else to hear my words, it's become increasingly apparent that I will become overtly emotional and probably become incoherent with everything that's built up behind the flood gate.

Or you could just read my word vomit and be done.

May the odds be ever in your favor.

Word Vomit

I sliced my leg open and couldn’t think of who else to panic call and honestly didn’t think you’d answer the phone. I’m so glad you did.

It was wild seeing your face, you haven’t changed. You say you have, but you’re still YOU. You’re still behind your 39 year old eyes that have seen all the things and between your eyes and the things you said I wanted more.

I went in hungry and came out starving.

I didn’t want to hang up, I wanted to drink you in. I wanted your mouth and the words inside it. I wanted the moon you took me outside to see at midnight your time in the dark of your porch.

3 and a half hours.

You used to call me like clockwork, every Thursday at 8 EST. I would turn the radio down in my car to listen for the phone at 7:59. You had me trained and always left me wanting more.

How do you do your magic? How do you change me from strong independent woman to tethered to your heart doing tricks like a puppy begging for your attention and devotion.

I want to upend my life and unfold for you.

But I remember how the story ended last time.

Is this a sequel or spinoff?

Are you thinking of me when you pick up your paintbrush that I harassed you jokingly over? I saw you absentmindedly cleaning it when you turned the camera wrong. I saw you see yourself as others do, but not like I see you. I saw you concerned that I wouldn’t see you in the right light.

You live in a light that is your own.

Let it shine.

Let me bask in it.

The Shift

 I don't know when it happened. I can't give you a season, time of day, what I was wearing... but something shifted.

I changed mentally, my outlook on life moved one foot to the right and maybe an inch higher up on the wall. Something cracked open my heart and love, like a fire, ignited me from within. Not love for another human, or even love in the "rose colored glasses" perspective. It's like I woke up and all the negative input and darkness from my past just fell away from me.

I'm seeing my children and their precious selves and wanting to cultivate the good in them too. I see so much hurt in my oldest. I see it in the way he seeks validation through his ever changing hobbies and conversation. I see it in the way he reaches for my mom and not for me, and while there was a bit of jealousy and anger in watching him leave me for her, I know that it's so important for his mental health to know that he has my support and that he knows he has ME when he needs me most. He feels safe with her. He feels safe with me as well, but he knows that Grandma will give him that one on one he craves that I cannot give him when I'm the only adult in the house and I have three little people to answer to. 

I see myself in my middle. I see the awkward discomfort of living in her own skin and the mental power struggle of wanting to be herself and wanting to fit in. I hear the distress in her voice when she's doing all she can to keep herself together instead of exploding and bouncing all over the place mentally. My youngest? 

My bud? He's calming down and has become more open to receiving our new routine in the new home. He's shed his anxieties and distrust of the "newness" of new schedules, new home. I hear him vocalizing his discomfort and frustration more often, but with that I also see that he too is shifting. He knows the words are there in his mind, he can feel them on his tongue, but nothing comes out. I can resonate and understand this 1000x over as I too have issues getting my words outside of my head verbally.

I see the people I love that I WANT to surround myself with as who they are, imperfectly perfect. They are who they are and at the end of the day I can't expect them to be anyone BUT themselves. What I can control though? Is the amount of interaction I have with them. Even if I love them down to their bones, it doesn't mean I have to allow myself to participate in their toxic or negative behaviors/activities. I can love them safely from a distance and appreciate our differences from afar. It doesn't mean I condone or tolerate them, even though I know sometimes my silence may feel differently to them.

This past weekend I indulged myself with simple tasks that soothe my obsessive brain and maybe having more time to do this is making me a better person both for myself and for my loved ones. I folded ALL the clean laundry; the neat clean piles sorted, stacked and disbursed between our rooms made things seem more orderly. I built an over the toilet storage cabinet. Sure, I cursed incessantly as I assembled it, BECAUSE WHY WERE THE DIRECTIONS IN PORTUGUESE? I managed to survive all in one piece without any new wounds (which we'll discuss here shortly). I bought myself some pretty fall/winter flowers and hung my hanging planter hanger at the front door assembling my collection so they spilled out with color plus rosemary for height/scent as a centerpiece. I'm obviously VERY PROUD and also VERY out of potting mix. Looks like another excuse to go back to the nursery.

The following story could have gone a complete different direction, however I reacted more with love than irritation and I AM SO PROUD of myself for this. This past Friday night I was stepping out onto the patio and I thought to myself, "let's not announce that this single white female is alone late at night on her patio." And so I never turned the light on to see what I was walking into. I have two colorful plastic Adirondack on our patio and as I went to sit down I realized that something was NOT right around the same time that I heard the crunch of plastic shattering. I went THROUGH the chair and as I did, a jagged piece of the chair sliced the outside of my thigh (right under my left butt cheek...) I knew my leg and pajama shorts FELT wet, but brushed myself off and sat on the other chair contemplating what the fuck just happened. I stared and cursed inwardly at the chair, embarrassed and oh so grateful I didn't turn the light on so no one could bear witness to my literal downfall. At this point, it didn't sting or hurt, but my shorts became soaked with blood and the backs of my arms ached with promise of bruising. I slightly panicked once inside when I saw how much blood was running down my leg. I sprayed the wound down with peroxide, wiped away the evidence to reveal a gnarly cut. I instantly remembered a few days prior discovering my youngest opening as many band-aids as he could to use as adhesive to hold his pictures up on the wall (I can't make this up) and so I hid the first aid kit from both himself and of course myself. I tore the apartment apart looking for that damn kit and finally, when I realized there was no point in looking anymore because I had to cover the wound, I reached out to my neighbor (friend from my HS years who's a cop) who could also pass for one one of those hot TikTok cops. (Insert awkward wave here in the case he reads this.) The panic and embarrassment crept up through me as I shot him a text to see if he was awake, had any first aid experience, and could help me patch myself up as my t-rex arms didn't quite reach and with it being in such an awkward location I was unsure just how bad things were down there. He responded that he had a medic kit and to come over and so I hobbled to the apartment behind mine, his gut reaction, "JESUS, what did you do??" I ruined my pants, that's what I did. The entire time he was eye level with my butt, the only thing I could pray was that his girlfriend was somewhere watching so she could see that I wasn't trying to make any moves while my backside was exposed. I am NOT that kind of woman, although if he has any friends... And this is exactly what I mean by remaining positive through this terrible accident. Not once did I curse at the fact that NOBODY brought up the broken chair even though at least two people knew. Not once did I break down and get overwhelmed at the fact that I was in an unplanned predicament (even though planned predicaments can't always get great responses either.)

So "high five," me! Way to survive an incredibly could have gone WAY farther south weekend and keeping my eyes on the prize of just getting through it with the best attitude possible. ((And my leg didn't need stitches YAY! and is healing nicely from what I can tell.))

Now to survive tomorrow's long list of doctor's appointments (tetanus shot, flu shot, full blood panel, full physical exam, lady doctor exam, 3 different therapy appointments...) and all I'm truly itching to do is unbox ALL my books and get them on their appropriate bookshelves. #priorities #bitcheslovebooks #POSITIVITY

Pt. 4 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

I woke up tucked into him; my back to his front. I rolled over into him. Tilting my head up, I breathed him in; my lips brushing his neck. I could feel his chest rise and fall against mine, his heart steady under my hand.

How could this be real? How many years did I wait for this moment?

My oldest, at 13, is only 2 years younger than I was when I fell in love with this now man. My eyes scanned his face as my fingers rubbed the rough of his beard. Everything he’s been through, all that he’s seen... The faint reddish brown of his hair surrendered to waves of silver down to the scruff on his chin and the curls that danced across his chest.

All that we’d survived in this past decade had brought us to this point. If we hadn’t lost each other once, we wouldn’t be here in this bed.

Months earlier, I’d taught him to video chat. His face filled my screen and I couldn’t breathe. My soul awoke and the sparkle in his eyes came alive. “You are still so beautiful,” he said as he finally smiled wide for me after months of sharing pictures. We talked for three hours that night; it felt the same as the late night calls from our teenage years.

I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead to his chest as he blindly reached over and pulled me closer into him. In my mind, I could remember the way I felt in his arms as I awaited my flight on the freezing December morning in Montana. I remember my voice cracking and giving way to full blown sobs by the time I reached the gate. This time would be no different, only he’ll be the one leaving me to go back to tie up his life out west. In my half sleep, I snuggled deeper into him and whispered, “I don’t want to ever wake up.”

And then, I opened my eyes. It was all a dream.

Pt. 3 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

It was close to 2 am by the time we pulled up to my home. We sat holding hands in the dark of the front seats; the rain scarring our faces as they dripped down the front window. I just wanted to pause this borrowed time.

We made our way up the stairs, my hand fumbling at the door as I felt him grow closer to me. He swept my hair away off the back of my dress and his beard tickled the nape of my exposed neck. We couldn’t get inside fast enough.

This was really happening.

We barely made it through the door before bags were flung on the floor and he laid me back on the couch. Kneeling before me he placed his head in my lap. I rubbed my fingers over the fine soft fuzz of his shaved head. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly into my dress, “I’m so very sorry.”

Rubbing the back of his neck,“Why are you sorry? You’re HERE.”

He lifted his face up to mine, grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down off the couch onto the floor with him. “Because,” he whispered, “I should have shown up. Every time I came to town hoping to cross paths, I should have just SHOWN UP.”

His hands reached behind my back and untied my dress, hands shaking as they did 20 years ago when he couldn’t get my bra off fast enough. He leaned into me, kissing my collarbone, my neck. His lips took mine and we were hungry all over again. Hungry for each other and for the time we’d missed while living two separate lives.

I could hear our hearts galloping towards each other; feel the heat burning in my ears, my flushed cheeks and chest.

There would never be enough time to say everything our bodies had been deprived of.

Pt. 2 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

Given the state of the world's security and pandemic situations, there was zero opportunity for anything more than the worlds quickest hug and maneuvering bags into the back of my vehicle. We slid into our seats, looked at each other taking one another in and laughed. 

This was really happening.

I threw the truck in gear and drove as far as I could, leaving the airport behind us until I could pull over into a well lit parking lot. "What are you doing?" he asked. Coming to a full stop, I threw the truck in park, smashed the emergency brake and flung my door open. He came out of his seat and met me in the headlights as I flung my arms around him and buried my face into his neck. He slipped his hands around my waist grasping at my dress at the small of my back and pulled me harder into him. I hadn't felt this complete, this seen, in almost 20 years. I whispered into the tickles of his beard, "Don't let me go this time."

I don't even know how long we stood there. I don't know how long his thumb stroked my spine through the opening in the back of my dress. I don't know how I was able to breathe with his other arm wrapped around me holding me so tight to him. I don't even know if we said anything else out loud again in that moment. The night's drizzle kissed our shoulders as his lips brushed my jaw line and the space beneath my exposed ear. I just wanted to breathe him in and stay there watching the heavy mist glitter across the pavement around us.

He slid his hand into mine and motioned towards the truck, "lets grab something to eat on our way home, we've got time to come back to this." I wanted so badly to believe we had all the time in the world, but I had already started counting down the seconds till we had to slip back into reality. I eased the truck back out onto the road leading us home; playing with the screen of the truck's media display, he scrolled through my music library and settled on something that took me back to music festivals and late summer nights in limbo between our neighborhoods. Trails through the woods where our feet beat paths leading back to one another, we would spend stolen hours in the darkness making out under pine tree canopies; stars winking at us through their branches. His fingers hooked through mine across the console, bringing me back to the present. He pulled my hand up to his lips, kissing my knuckles. 

The last thing on my mind was food, but I obligingly pulled up to a 24 hour breakfast place where our once teen-aged bones would sit for hours drinking terrible coffee and smoking cigarettes bought from vending machines in the back of the cafe. Staring at each other from across the booth, we laughed again at the insanity of being here in this place 20 years later. I thrust my feet beside him on his bench, boots crossing over at the ankle. His hand rubbed my calf beneath the table as he flipped the menu card over on the table. We ate and bitched and moaned about airports and traveling in general, sharing our experiences over endless cups of terrible coffee.

Everything about sitting across from him felt so surreal as so much had changed and yet, everything was the same. It was comfortable and cozy and was this really happening? This was really happening.

Pt. 1 - It was all a dream. Seriously.

The setting sun was dancing across my fingers as they itched across the steering wheel; something that felt like love, might be lust, might be butterflies, nerves, the carrots I had at lunch threatened to explode outside of my body. I hadn't been to this part of the airport since I worked for the airlines. Humming in my brain were the directions I gave him to get to me from the train exit.

It was happening. 

I can't tell you what I said to him when his brother gave me his phone number two years back. I'm sure it was along the lines of "Happy Birthday," or, "You can't hide from me, BITCH." There were deep discussions of where we'd been and what we'd experienced in the years that we'd lost. There was tension of every kind imaginable, apologies, revelations, pandemics... and then there was a familial loss and lifted travel restrictions. Plans made. Tickets purchased.

I wiped the sweat from my hands; palms down smoothing the black sweater dress I impulse purchased not even a month before. I instantly hated my hair, my aged face, my saggy baggy all the things. What were we doing? As Ron Burgundy would exclaim, "That escalated QUICKLY." And boy howdy, DID IT EVER. I could see him rounding the corner and my forever 17 year old inner voice squealed in my head. HE IS HERE HE IS HERE HE IS HERE!! 

I had only just had a conversation with him about how I'd come to him in Montana, a woman on a mission, to figure out where we stood 15 years previous and that it was his turn. He revealed that he did come back for me; the first of many times he came back was the only time we made contact. He had walked up to my door while my then Husband was at work for the local fire department and I had been feeding my now oldest who was only 9 months old at the time. The tension then was more surreal. We both knew that in that moment we were saying goodbye, that my life had taken such a significant turn we couldn't go back. But he came back. He came back so many times for me, for another chance, but allowed me the opportunity to be happy in the life I had.

I know this is terribly Tarantino-ish, but lets take it back further to something that still haunts me. During the breakup to top all breakups, the only time I was ever THE belligerent crazy girlfriend... Between sobs and choking back tears I remember him holding me, I remember the feeling of being so drunk I couldn't tell if I was cold or hot or sick. I could feel my knuckles ache from the grip I had on his shirt. I told him I'd leave anyone for him, my husband, my partner... that I could never love another man the way I had loved him.

I wasn't necessarily wrong. But I don't know if that's because it KILLS me to be wrong and I'm too stubborn to make a liar out of myself or if I just couldn't love anyone that much because I knew how hard my heart hurt when he ended us. I couldn't hear his voice or see him without dying inside. I'd run down the driveway of my grandfather's house when his parents would come over the horizon, walking the neighborhood together hand in hand. I needed to know, was he happy? Was he eating enough? Where is he now? I never ever asked if he missed me. I never asked for his number. I never ever broke my vows. Every day I would have moments of feeling like I'd lost my keys, knowing full well it was the pang of knowing my high school sweetheart, my almost everything was out there and I needed to know he was ok.