I'm Here.

I lay down next to Tuck sometimes as he's falling asleep.  Nighttime gets the best of him sometimes... of both of us, really.

He closes his eyes, almost asleep.  Then he opens them slowly, pulling himself awake again, just to make sure I am still here.

I am still here.

He wants to go to sleep; he is so very tired.  But his imagination mocks him, telling him that if I am out of sight, then he has lost a second parent. 

He starts to roll over with his back to me. 

"Mommy, when I say your name, and then I don't say anything else, can you just say you are here?"

"I can do that, buddy."

He rolls over.  He tests me.  "Mommy?"

And then nothing else.  That's my cue.

"I'm here, Tuck."

"Always?"

"Always."

All Exhaustion Is Not Equal

Yesterday was a rough go.  So many things went wrong.  And by wrong, I mean they changed unexpectedly.  I can vary from a plan, but I like a little notice.

For starters, Tyler didn't have school.  I thought he did.  This was nearly catastrophic for me, on the emotional realm.  All you show-offs who read every bit of paperwork that comes home?  This is your moment to shine.  I will hide in your shadow. 

So, I took them out for coffee.  Or, in their case, juice smoothies.  I really thought I was going to get some work done, except I forfeited my laptop so they could stream Netflix and I could have a few minutes of silence.

Then I thought we would give Monkey Bizness a try.  The one for big kids, the one my boys have been asking for with deep longing.  Except we got there and they herded us into this waiting room and put us on their wait list, since the play area was full.  I get this, if there is indeed an end to the wait.  Forty minutes later, we were still waiting with no movement on said list, I was out of snacks, and we had watched nearly all of The Happy Elf, streamed through Netflix on my phone.

(My Netflix subscription is nearly worth the same to me as my anti-anxiety prescription.  They serve different purposes, and yet much the same.  Hooray for mobilized technology.)

We went to the mall for lunch.  We went to the Lego store for ideas.  We went to Apple for the kid Macs.  We went to Barnes and Noble for the Lego and train table.  Enter stores with kid displays for my children to explore and enjoy endlessly?  Guilty as charged.

By the end of the afternoon, I begged my mom to take them to her house for dinner.  Please.  I'll provide the food, beverages and children, if I can just have a bit of time today.  A bit of time to catch my breath.

She said yes.  Hours later, she brought them back, fed and in their jammies.   'Cause she's so cool like that.  If I am ever a grandmother, I will do many things as she does them.

(While they were gone, I fixed my double chocolate cherry cookies (and by fixed, I mean repaired), I made grilled asparagus for a party of one, and I mapped out my post-graduate course plan.  Path for the next three years: Check. 

It wasn't exactly wasted time.

There's a reason why I write about all this: to describe the kind of exhaustion.

It was single mom exhaustion.  It wasn't widow exhaustion.  And there is a difference.

I felt the kind of tired I would have felt if Robb were in the middle of a long business trip and I were on my own for a long, harried day.  The kind of tired that would have prompted me to send him some snide text about how great his traveling business life must be, and please bring me something great for managing the homefront in your absence.

But I did not feel the kind of heart weariness that comes from thinking through fog, from wearing the wet blanket of depression, from crying without explanation, from tying a scarf around me just to hold myself together.  It wasn't that kind.

I am thankful others can see this difference and speak it into my life. 
I am thankful they see victory, when all I can see is tired.

There's a difference.  I can feel it.

Linchpins

The smallest things matter most.

Small signs of friendliness can create so much joy,
while small interpersonal tiffs can cause so much distress.

My friend Henri said, "The great events of the day, the newspaper headlines, the things happening across the world, these things rarely touch me as deeply as the smallest gestures that create my world.  An unexpected note from a friend or the passing remark from a neighbor can make or break my day emotionally."

What is easier than writing a thank you note,
sending a card to say hello,
or shooting an email to see how things have been?

Still, every time someone says,
"Thanks for writing that, Tricia,"
"Your words helped me today,"
"Let me tell you something I remember about your husband,"
"I appreciate you,"
it seems that I can feel the sun shining directly onto my broken heart, mending my seams.

How amazing that, in God's grandeur,
he still created the smallest things in life to change my heart so much.

The path to the heart is quiet and gentle, sacred and precious.  These are the linchpins of life. 

Good morning, 2012.

I think New Year's Eve is overrated.  It's my least favorite holiday.  It's possible that I have written about this before in the archives of this blog's five years, but I don't really feel like checking.  I just feel like saying I don't like New Year's Eve.

It's so high pressure.

First there's the dating scene.  If you're married or with someone, then you're supposed to have some fine, exquisite plan to ring in the new year, something memorable and remarkable.  Something to tuck away so you can later say, "Remember New Year's Eve 2007?"  And you can knowingly smile and nod.

Then there's the resolution scene.  What do you wish you could do better?  What do you wish you would do more of, less of, and ultimately what might make you a better person?  If you're not the type of person to ask yourself these questions on a daily basis, then really, why wait until it's time to buy a new calendar?

I woke up somewhat cynical this morning.  Perhaps you can read it in my tone.

Dear 2011:
You have taught me much.  I had no idea how strong I could be, how complete I truly am.  I didn't know a heartbreak could last so long, that joy could mean so much.  I didn't know.  You taught me.  Together we learned.

Of all of my years, behind and before, I am confident I will never, ever forget you.  Even though now, I barely remember you.  I think your pieces will come together in my mind.  On the timeline of my life, your numbers will be thick and bold.  Remember that year?  It was thick and bold.

I finish your last page, but I don't really close your book, because you seamlessly spill into today, a new year.  (Plus, I went to bed at 8:15, long before your official farewell.)

And that brings me to you, 2012.  Twenty-twelve.  Look at you, already with the two names.

I imagine you have a thing or two to teach me.  Please don't give me a bulleted, itemized list.  No syllabus.  It's better if I don't know.  Just, please, be kind.  And most of all, be patient.

Let's try a million recipes this year.  Let's become good friends with Betty Crocker.  Let's see what else there is out there besides chicken.

This will be my year of the baked goods.  I already have the ingredients for double chocolate chip cookies (with dried cherries in them - how about that?  We'll see.), a strawberry pie, and a coconut cream pie.  Let's bake.  And let's love people with what comes out of the oven.

Maybe we'll write a book together this year, you and me, 2012.  I've gotta tell you: 2011 and I have a solid start.  But I welcome your insights.

January 1, 2012.  Let's do this thing.