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

Thirty-six

I was at Starbucks the other day, and I hate to go off on a tangent already, especially since you've obviously been waiting a month for a new post from me, but listen. If you're an indie coffee house person, don't judge me. I don't discriminate against any place that will give me my morning caffeine fix. But the last time I went to the indie coffee shop in my town, I sat at a table near another table where a man sat and very methodically took African carved statue after African carved statue out of a plastic shopping bag (I know, I can't believe Crazy wasn't carting his treasures around town in a reusable bag either...the nerve), placing them carefully on the table, then rearranging them slowly, thoughtfully, again and again, until they were in just the right position to watch him sip his coffee. I texted a photo of him (What? I was super 007 about capturing the moment.) to the traveling husband and his response was "You need to get out of there.".

So.

I was at Starbucks the other day, and as I waited for my cup, I took stock of the situation. You know, I was people-watching. I looked at the girl in front of me in line and as I pondered her toes, which were visible to me because she had flip flops on, I thought, WTF lady? Your toes are in bad shape. I don't want to see this pre-coffee. Get a pedicure, or do like I do, which is go with a closed toe shoe. 

And that got me thinking about my toes, which are in fact, not as pedicured as they probably should be, and yet how many times have I thrown on my flips and rushed out of the house to run around town and do whatever it is I have to do? And how many other people have looked down at my toes and thought, Jesus lady, cover those dry little sausages up? I caught a glimpse of my own toes in a mirror in the shoe section of a store I was in recently and I gave my own self the same scolding. 

Which then got me thinking, how am I seen? What do people think of me when they look at me, my kids, my car, my clothes? How am I perceived by what I put out there every day? Are strangers and friends alike thinking, Not that outfit again? Or, Seriously, would some time with the flat iron kill her? Or, Does she honestly think that long sweater hides the circumference of that ass? Or worse, Does she really think that her smile hides the fact that she's a scribbly ball of stress?

I can't tell you how many days I've wrangled my curly hair back into a messy bun - I don't even have to think about it anymore, I just do it. And I sort of tell myself it looks stylish, like one of those pretty, it-looks-half-thought-about-but-it's-very-intentional messy buns you see on Pinterest or on the red carpet. But really, I fear it just makes me look as harried as I feel. Don't get me wrong, if I left my curly hair down for all to see, I would either look like Tim Lincecum or Charlize Theron's character in Monster, but with brown hair. So I don't have much of a choice at this time.

And speaking of colors of hair, Lord have mercy but the husband plucked FOUR gray hairs out of my head the other day. We both nearly shed a tear. I've avoided the gray up until now and been quite happy about it. So now I'm an OLD and quite possibly heavier version of Charlize Theron's character in Monster? Fabulous.

Back to the subject at hand. It feels like life zips by so fast. I can't believe it's already almost October and I barely got to savor September. Not one apple cider has been had yet. Nary a pumpkin bought. I need some cinnamon spice candles, pronto. I wake up each day, and am aware instantly of my brain being so full of what's on tap for that day, or whether the tap water is safe to drink from the old pipes in this old, old house, or who is tapping their toes, tap, tap, TAP, waiting for me to take them to school, or fill his bowl with fresh water, or fold the laundry so he can go on his next business trip, that I spend my days in a fog, just roaming from one calendar reminder to the next.

It barely occurs to me that while I feel the way I always have, I'm not 23 anymore. Not even close. And that I should probably take care with what I put out into the visual universe every day, apart from the mandatory, which is making sure the last thing my kids see before they scamper off to class is a smile on their mama's face. I admire those put together ladies who are in their smart skinny jeans, with their stylish flats, darling handbags, and perfectly draped sweaters over fitted tanks (all perched on a fit body, accessorized with glittering diamond rings and shiny hair). I don't quite remember the last time I cleaned my wedding rings, or looked at my hair and thought, perfect, just like silk.

I do, however, draw the line at flip flops in the office. I could be freshly pedicured and I would still close the toes up for work. I recently worked with a ridiculous woman who spent her day raving about how fabulous she is, and she did this while wearing flip flops, which fully exposed her hammer toes. Her feet are JACKED and she's kind of an asshole and while I might not be on the glam edge of the spectrum, I don't want to be on the she-shouldn't-wear-flip-flops-in-public side either.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope I put good - if not always stylish - juju out into the universe. I hope I'm seen for who I am and what I stand for, and not as a story that begins with what I've thrown on my body that day. I hope I'm respected as a strong woman who's body has borne two healthy girls, rather than one who should drop two healthy sizes.

I'm far from an insecure middle school girl and I realize I can't control what people think when they see me. I'm healthy and strong and loved and important. And because I do have control over my Lincecum hairdo, I think I'm going to be a little less absentminded when it comes to what I throw out into the universe every day, because hammer toes can hijack anyone's good time.

You'll still see my hair pulled back, and my girls will still see a smile before the bell rings, because that's how I do, but the next time you go to the indie coffee shop, look for a girl who opted for lip gloss over Chapstick and give her some mad props.

PS: As I was proofreading this post, Nine ran over to me grinning and handed me a note. Know what it said? "Mommy, you're as lovely as a heart.". Maybe she was inspired by the fact that I'm not wearing flip flops, or maybe she's seen me in these tights so many times, she thinks it's my Mom uniform and the familiarity feels good to her. Either way, suddenly the day is filled with very good juju. Outhale.