Welcome back.

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, or at your life as a whole, or at a snapshot of your day, and thought, What the EFF is happening here?!

The internal dialogue goes something like this: Who is that old lady staring back at me? How did I get here? Who are those grumpy teenagers in my house and why are they constantly hungry?

And then as we look around, the thoughts transition into: Who stuffed their thighs into my tights (because I know those can’t be my legs)? Who put expired Subway coupons on the refrigerator? Why do I walk past the dog hair on the floor as if someone else might sweep today? Are those my un-pedicured toes? Where is my coffee cup? Is that laundry going to fold itself? Is this my life?

Seems like as we fold ourselves up to fit into the molds we are given – wife, mother, employee, chauffeur, housekeeper – we inevitably get smaller. And the more love and effort we pour into the people around us, the emptier we are. Unless we fill ourselves back up. And oh my God with all the filling and pouring we’re already doing, who has energy for more filling, even if it’s for our own selves?

In a short-lived burst of research and development for this post, I texted Chicago and asked her if she does anything strictly for herself these days. She chuckled (no LOL needed, I know this girl) and typed “I have a dermatologist appointment now…does that count?”

My thought? Maybe it does.

I don’t know. I mean, we’re generally enjoying quiet time while a doctor picks our face or tells us to settle into the stirrups and scoot down just a bit more*…alas, is this really quality time with ourselves? It produces healthy areas of our bodies, which is a positive, but is it as restorative and bucket-filling as say, a guilt-free hour with hot tea and a good book? Or a long, meditative walk along the coast?

*After all these years, why can’t we figure out as soon as we lean back just how far down the table we need to place our hips? Let’s face it. We know how much to bend our knees and we resist anyway. Granted, the undercarriage isn't exposed to the breeze (or blinding light) very often. Maybe we're being coy. Is it an effort to be nonchalant? Are we trying to look casual, as if we’re comfortably reclined and waiting for a latte, and not sitting with our bare asses sticking to the paper napkin we’ve tried desperately – and somewhat unsuccessfully – to wrap all the way around our hips?

These are the mysteries that distract me nowadays. There are other mysteries too, some that I will remember to write about here, and others that I will remember 24 hours after I meant to, much like the Costco-sized amount of chicken I baked the other night in an effort to get ahead of the game, then promptly forgot about and left in the oven until the middle of the following day. Maybe Thirteen and Eleven are right: there IS nothing good to eat (and I know why).

My bucket is empty. Dry as a bone not yet slobbered on by the 165-pound Berner in my house (see: dog hair comment above).

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t trade my crazy life (or my grouchy people) for the world, because they are my world. In general, my bucket overflows. Good health, good vibes, good kids, good man, food, clothing, shelter. And instead of Worry, my middle name should be Grateful because I know the shit show life can be. But all that stuff is good partly because of my incessant filling and pouring, right? How do we find time to pour into our own cup? (Not that one. That cup is for the wine. It’s the other one, to the right. There you go.)

So let me publicly suggest something to myself, and to you, my busy comrades. How about this year instead of just stuffing ourselves into the folding chair at soccer/volleyball/dance/various waiting rooms, we also – unapologetically – fold ourselves up onto the couch with that stack of magazines we’ve been longing to read for six weeks? Let’s finally make time to see an old friend sans kids, men, phones, or agenda. Remember that weird lady staring at you in the mirror? Her neck is drooping and you know it. Get her some quality cream and use it (instead of whatever lotion you can find on your daughter's bathroom counter amongst the bracelets, retainers [wait, aren’t those supposed to be in Thirteen’s mouth right now?], and tubes of toothpaste).

Let’s flip the script and take a little time to do unto ourselves as we constantly and exhaustively do unto others.

I’ll give it a shot (if I can remember to). Will you?

Rain, rain, go away.

If any of you are moon babies, or whatever you have to be in order to understand the pull of the universe and tides and astrology or whatever it is that's causing me to be a colossal bitch this week, could you message me? My panties are perpetually bunched up and it’s chafing my chi. And the people closest to me are the biggest triggers, which in turn makes them the biggest targets, too.

(Except, of course, Chicago. She knows I can be mad as hell but somehow never at her. It’s the best. Everyone should have a Chicago. Not MY Chicago, though. Go find your own. See? I’m back to being a bitch. Am I blowing your mind yet?)

I knew this week was going to catch up with me. I had a great birthday weekend, full of friends and good wishes. But as the week has progressed, I’ve become a little more pensive and a little more cranky. I’ve yelled at my kids (to be fair, they kind of deserved it), I’ve snarled at the husband (he may have deserved it too), and I’ve just been seething in general.

I think part of it is because the harder I try to stand tall and brave, the harder I have to try to stand tall and brave. And you know what? All the trying combined with all the end-of-year school assignments, and all the keeping the house clean and all the laundry and all the work and all the whatnot, leaves me wishing I was somewhere warm, drinking something cold, completely alone. (Chicago can come.)

Any place will do, as long as I’m not required to speak and nobody needs a snack, a signature, or a foot massage.

I want to sit in the sun and let it warm me. I want to wear a long sundress, and let my hair blow in the breeze. I want to feel relaxed and happy and carefree. I want to laugh really hard, all day. I want to be mischievous and spontaneous. I want my brow to be unfurrowed and I want a smile to be my default expression.

I want to turn away from the driving rain that hit last year, look at the horizon and meditate myself into happy oblivion. But even though I’m not facing it head on anymore, I can hear the rain falling, whispering sadly about everything that’s gone, trying to pull me away from everything that’s still here…everything I’m trying so hard to focus on.

Every drop that comes down is like a gentle, cold tap on the shoulder. A reminder. Tap. Tap tap. And though I’m trying (there’s that exhausting word again) to be quiet and still and warm, soon I’m drenched again and shivering.

Maybe the sadness flood is also the fuel for my bitch fire. I’ve turned away and it’s still all up on me. Is fighting to get away from whatever makes us sad unnatural? Should we just live in the sadness, and feel whatever it wants us to feel until one day we realize that without even trying we don’t feel that way anymore?

I obviously have no answers, people. I mean, I started this post off by asking you for help. I guess the one bad thing about designating a blog as therapy is that your therapist is perpetually silent. That and the whole admitting-to-everyone-who-reads-it that-I’m-a-huge-bitch thing.

Then again, most of you who read this probably know me and know what I’m capable of already.

Oddly comforting, really. Because that means there are a handful of therapists reading who will have a dry shirt ready for me when the rain hits. I also know a couple of shrinks who would gladly offer a dry Chardonnay instead (which more often than not, I’ll take over a t-shirt, thank you very much).

Even more reassuring is that in less than one week, I’ll be in actual Chicago. With my girl, Chicago. It’s the best therapy one half-wet, half-dry girl could ask for – like a new shirt and a cold drink all wrapped up in a warm, fuzzy, Midwestern bow.

In summary: You are my therapy and Chicago is my kryptonite, except she's good for me (and also she's not green).

I suppose that makes me SuperBitch, which means you’re off the hook no matter who you’ve snapped at this week.

You’re welcome.

Lost and found.

It’s been almost exactly one year since I last wrote here. And in that year, my life has changed a whole lot. Some for the good and some for the not-so-good. I’ve learned some very hard lessons during the last year, a couple of which I could have happily done without.

I decided not to write anymore. And then, months later, I decided I needed to write, but could no longer find my voice.

Over time, the fog has begun to clear, and I think I am starting to hear my voice again, so I’ll begin here.

It will be my group therapy, except that I’m not paying for it, it’s by no means private, and I can’t see anyone else sitting in the circle with me, nodding their heads as I tell my side of the story.

But I know you’re there. I can feel you. Okay, I can’t feel you, but the site tracks visitors, so I’m pretty sure you’re out there somewhere.

Here’s some of what I’ve lost, and what I’ve found, over the last 365 days:

I found that moving your family to Southern California during a 7-week bout of walking pneumonia is hard work.
 

I found that kids are as resilient as people tell you they are, but that doesn’t make starting over at a new school easy. It’s like putting a puzzle together in the dark, every day, for months on end. Every so often there’s a bright spot, but it’s more like being at the eye doctor than it is dancing under a disco ball.

I lost my Mom. It is the very reason the axis my world spins on has tilted forevermore, and why possibly my voice has changed like a warbley teenager’s. Everything has just gone deep. Many a post will come on and around this very sad subject.

I lost myself on the way to losing my Mom. I knew I was getting lost, I could feel that I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t recognize myself, and I wasn’t genuinely connecting with some very important people in my life. I was there but I was not present. But I couldn’t stop it from happening and I couldn’t find my way back until Chicago gently helped me see that not only was I losing my Mom, and not only was I losing my way, but that those very important people around me were losing too. They too were losing my Mom and they were losing me. They were losing times two. And that realization is what helped me fight my way back home.

I found out how liberating it feels to cut ties with someone who has proven herself unworthy of holding the other end of my heartstrings.

I found that I could save a young life with my bare hands.

I lost a few pounds. Just kidding. I gained a few. More than a few. I blame the comfort foods and the sadness. It’s hard to burn carbs when you have to remind yourself to breathe.

I found that friends who love you and know your heart instinctively do the right thing when they hear/feel/see it breaking. The right thing looks like texts, emails, calls and cards. It looks like your favorite flowers showing up unexpectedly. It looks like local friends who innately know that I will say no to lunch and a visit, so they don’t ask if it’s okay, they just show up with chopped salads and gentle smiles. And it turns out the right thing looks like a hand-written letter and a pair of leopard print wedge heels. Who knew?

I found that in a sincere (if highly misguided) effort to Be Super Mom While Sitting At The Bedside Of My Own Dying Mother, ordering one hundred poinsettia stamps does not in fact ensure the mailing of Christmas cards. Secondarily, I found that sticking said poinsettia stamps on bills in February is sort of depressing.

I found that the puppy still wants a walk even when it’s the last thing I want to do, and that taking him is good for us both because it forces me to inhale and outhale at a time when holding my breath and clenching my jaw seem to be more the norm.

I found that Nine and Eleven are hungry, and have homework, and want to laugh with me, and that the traveling husband needs me in more ways than one, and that cooking, helping, giggling and connecting are all better than worrying and crying and staring off into the distance.

It’s not a short list, and it’s not a complete list, but there it is. It’s a start. A step forward, which for me at this point is a pretty big deal.

I’ll be back, as there is a lot more to write. After all, it’s not every day that free therapy lands in your lap. And when you’ve spent the better part of a year getting lost and you realize you’re finally somewhat found again, you should probably take advantage of any therapy you can get.

I think I can feel you nodding your collective head.

See you soon.

xo

Seventeen.

It's been longer than five minutes and my husband is still in town.

Granted, he leaves again Sunday, maybe Monday, but for the moment he is here, so he's finally cleared some mind space, and read the whole blog. His comments about it crystallized the differences between men and women. He liked it and was very complimentary. He even said he laughed out loud at one part, although he couldn't recall what it was. He said, You know, it was something about the four of us doing something. I was all, Super specific, thanks.

But he said something else that I thought was so interesting. And by "interesting" I mean I shared it with Chicago right away to get her perspective, because she's the kind of best friend where if something happens in my life or hers, it didn't really happen until we can share it with each other. So I wrote to her and she emailed back and instantly made me feel uncrazy, as she tends to do. 

So, he said, I don't know, it just sort of seems like you're sad. And I was like, Sad? I'm not sad. Well, sometimes I'm sad, but I'm not writing because I'm sad. He said that he's just not the type of person to throw his life out there for people to read or see. You know, he's a man. I explained to my sweet, unassuming, confused man that this is what women do. We feel something, and then we feel around to see if anyone else feels it too, and then when we discover they do indeed feel it too, we all feel better.

It's a lot of feelings for a man to wrap his man-brain around, I get it. But I've been thinking about what he said ever since, because I like to dwell.

What I've come up with is that women are just different from men. We love the feeling of feeling connected. Even as little girls we joyfully hold hands, and to catch a glimpse of little girls holding hands is to catch that sweet, innocent, burgeoning female connection in its infancy. Eventually, we hold the (clammy) hands of our first boyfriends, and our next. It makes us feel giddy and breathless. We hold the hands of our husbands or partners. It makes us feel adult and exclusive and publicly devoted. We hold the hands of our children. It makes us (and them) feel guided and safe and in control. We hold the hands of our parents when we are all adults. It makes us feel thankful and full of remembrance and less out of control.

Women need to hold hands with others, even if it's virtually. For me, reaching out and connecting helps keep the Good Ship Amy balanced as it creaks and sways and navigates through life.

Men like to stand solitary on the bow, feet spread, hands on their own hips, steady as they go. I think it makes them feel stronger to manage the course alone.

But women's hands are never just on our own hips (without grocery bags and infants and backpacks, I mean), and we learn early that steering alone doesn't make you stronger or braver or more capable. It just makes you alone. Women's hands are forever wringing, washing, carrying, clasping, patting, soothing, making, cradling. Our hands are exhausted. We feel less tired when we feel warmth. Solidarity. Support. We need to feel another woman saying, I've walked in your shoes, and my callouses are right where yours are - do you feel them? You aren't alone, I am with you - do you hear me? I will stand by you and walk with you and listen to you and feel for you. I will squeeze your hand to remind you that I am cradling your heart while you cradle that baby through another sleepless night. I will brush the hair off of your pretty forehead as you cry out of sheer exhaustion or frustration or anger or heartbreak. 

Or, I will read your musings and I will write you back and tell you that your journey is my journey. And that your kids sound like they act like my kids. And that your life seems wonderful and crazy and you're a lunatic (but I say that with love) and you made me laugh today and also? We. Are. One.

Women love that shit. Men, not so much. And that's okay. Because I can feel something, and throw it out there thinking, Man, am I the only one who feels like this? And someone writes back and says, Me too. And then I know it's not just me, because I have proof. Someone else said it out loud too, and that means it's not just in my head. See? Uncrazy.

But that's only part of why I'm writing. One side of it is that it gets all these ramblings out of my head. The other side is the side that connects me to you. So I will use the hands that I use to hold my babies, to make dinner, to love my husband and to care for the house-eating puppy, to do this too. To write away. And as I clickety-click it all out there, I will feel your hands holding mine. Just holding and squeezing and outhaling through it all, every time.

Sad? No. Exactly the opposite, actually.

:)))