The New Girl

Maybe I'm From Crazy World. Because It Sure Feels Like It Sometimes.

I can't BELIEVE that it's been, oh, over a MONTH since I've posted. So, so, SAD, isn't it? I think at this point, I've basically re-virginated myself, in the blog-publishing sense.

Hey look, everyone! It's a brand new blog!

I vacillate between, 'Yes! I need to post and keep chug-chug-chugging along, until I get to a point where I can/will/want to/could post more often!' and 'Oh, holy mother of Whatever, what is the fucking POINT of all this?'

Is that weird? I don't think there has to be any Meta-Point to it all, really. Blogging, I'm saying. I can/will/want to/could write what I write, to have it down and to get it out and to put it out there and people can read it or not read it and it's all Cool and The Gang so, wtf? Right?

I've had this blog for a little over 4 years now and I've loved it, hard. I came out of the gate strong, even with a difficult pregnancy and a [crazy ass] challenging infant. I worked on posts and loved putting them together and hitting publish. The feedback and community were a bonus. A fantastic bonus that made the two trips to BlogHer, like, Trips, as in, 'It was a TOTAL TRIP to see these people in person. To hug them and eat cupcakes with them,' and all that. I read blogs and commented on blogs and kept up with what you were doing and what was happening in your lives.

I don't know.

After my second baby, I had less time. And more overwhelm. It was harder to read and harder to write. And the Waxing of the business side of blogging makes me feel a little...small. To be completely honest, the business of blogging is beyond me. And I mean that openly and without guile. I don't really understand how it works and it is beyond my scope to participate in it. I don't know my PR from my HR or my Advertisers from a hole in the ground. And while that is perfectly okay and I am infatuated with those who do--I feel a little...out of my depth when the latest Big Deal has to do with things of which I know not. If you can feel me. (This is total derailment, right here, folks. Get out now. RUN WHILE YOU CAN.)

When I started to write here, there were so many other bloggers who were anonymous. Almost all of them. As I write this today, I can think of only a few. Not that it's any big deal in the scheme of things but I think it's an indication of how things continue to morph and change, especially online, right? I blog as a hobby.

I'm a Hobblogger.

A Bloggbby.

Something.

It used to feel like I was a blogger with a secret identity as a therapist. I felt like I belonged to both worlds. I like to write and I like to commune. I want to tell you stories and hear/read yours. Sometimes I look at the accomplishments of people in this community. And I'm floored. I'm proud and I'm impressed and I'm amazed and I'm jazzed for them. With almost all of my heart.

But I would be being less than honest if I didn't admit that I sometimes feel like a fish out of water. I feel like my life is small. Not in the diminutive, not worth anything sense...I mean in the insular, kind of isolated sense. I'm not going to write books or be on morning television. I am not becoming famous or connected to famous people. This blog isn't a jumping off point. I am fine with that, forreal-forreal, it has just been making me feel kind of out of step, is all. And inside, with that little prickly piece of my heart, I kind of feel like I don't belong. Like this is another world, far away from mine.

This makes no sense at all. I'm rambling and fumbling. Probably because I'm all re-virginated.

I don't have a well-honed way to express what I'm feeling.

What I'm not feeling, though, is inclined to be misconstrued, so don't get it twisted. The people who are writing books and who are on morning tv and who are famous or connected to famous people, all through their blogs, are some of the people I like best in the whole world. As in, even outside the computer.

So, therapist world, blogger world, mother world, menopausal women world--whatever. I don't really know where I belong.

But here's a small truth: I am pretty uncomfortable writing a post that is all *Meta* about blogging and at the same time I really wanted to write this post, that was all *Meta* about blogging.

That, in a therapist's world, could be called a 'Dialectic Tension'.

Which sounds a whole lot better than a big bunch of 'I Should Have Cleaned The Bathroom Instead of Hitting Publish.'

Flatlining.

I am searching for a pulse, here. Looking for the blog's corotid and trying to detect a trace of blood pumping through. Looking for a beating heart.

Is it...is it...dead?

There is no Blog 911. No emergency response team to resuscitate a blog. No code blue. No crash cart. No glooping mystery gel onto electro-charged paddles, charging up to whatever, --CLEAR-- BZZZZZT, regular sinus rythm, everyone breathing a sigh of relief.

There's just this vague feeling that the universe is organizing in a not-so-benevolent way. Organizing to create a vacuum, a black hole, into which all of my time and energy--creative and otherwise--is being sucked.

I'm going regularly to the gym again. I am working to keep up with laundry, dinner, laundry, dinner, housework. My kids have been sick no fewer than four separate times since the beginning of December. My son is the worst kind of mobile--upwardly, that is, climbing onto every horizontal surface, without regard to height. He is like a mini-tornado, only with a breakable head and so in addition to everything else, keeping track of him has become an even fuller-time job.

It sounds like I'm making excuses. It's not intended to be that. I'm not rationalizing. I'm...I don't know what.

Grieving, a little, maybe.

Bending my head down, ear to my blog's mouth, listening hard for its breathing, while I wait and hold my own.

Sliding my hand a bit down and in and yes, there it is, I found it. A pulse. Sluggish and weak and fragile.

I think it's going to be touch and go for a while, so let's don't get our hopes up.

Let's just be Cautiously Optimistic.

Whatever the hell that is.

 

While My Blog Gently Exsanguinates.

That was a whole play on the "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," but I'm not too sure it came through. Remember when I used to blog ALL THE TIME? When, maybe, in the days before readers, you came here and there was New! Content! and you could spend some time reading and maybe laughing? Yeah. Me too.

Anyway.

I am in a mix and mush of time and space.  Whatever time I have is going to chasing my smaller child around, while he attempts to scale EVERY-SINGLE-SURFACE available.  He's mostly successful in the scaling but not entire successful in the descending and so, here I am, trying to prevent the [inevitable] konker-bonkers and the goose-eggs and the visits to the ER.

Sigh.

I didn't have this EXACT hell with my girl, as she was late to walking and even LATER to climbing (like, just this past year she's started wanting to go on the *big* slides) and so, I am WOEFULLY UNPREPARED to turn around after four seconds to this:

It is everyone's favorite thing to say that this is due to gender difference, and who am I to argue, really, what with the N = 2 and all? And while that may be so, I also think my two kids have different areas of relative strength and I'm seeing his. RELATIVELY SPEAKING (As I think DISMOUNTING is probably, you know, IMPORTANT.)

This post is going absolutely nowhere, obviously, and if you want to jump ship, I won't try to stop you.  I'm trying to figure out a balance, I suppose, and I'm finding that means that the house work gets done, my kids get taken care of, things stay clean and folded and generally running smoothly, I can get to the gym and can read some fiction or whatever but there isn't enough time for me to do all that and generate a decent post.

Or, at least that's how it feels right now.

It's easier, this second time around, to keep in mind the 'It's a phase' mentality. So, maybe when he's done with the 'What Goes Up Can't Exactly Come Down All That Well' phase, I'll have a second to get back to it.

Until then, there's this:

 

Hope you're having a great holiday season.

Unintentional Sabbatical.

I have been on a kind of Unintentional Blogging Sabbatical, I'd say.  For months, now, I've faded into the background, losing touch with my friends in the blogosphere (are we still calling it that?) and watching my own blog slowly exsanguinate readers.  I've had mixed feelings about it.

About three and a half years ago, I started this blog.  I'd been reading my BFF's blog for a while and I literally woke up one morning with an idea for a blog.  The name and the tag line. I started blogging that morning, excited and giddy with the potential of it.  I would be, of course, anonymous--for the sake of any patients (or parents) who might Google my name.  Who wants to know about the friends, extended families, birth stories and broken assholes of their therapists, really? No one, that's who.  And so, I would stay anonymous and blog about my life and my perspective as a mother and a therapist and a human being from there.

A lot has changed in a little over three years.  Three years is, how long in internet time, do you think? (Remember memes?  Blog awards? Half-Nekkid Thursdays? Blogrolls?)

I swear, when I started, there were lots of other anonymous bloggers. LOTS!  Most of them have come out of the closet, I think.  There used to be debate about ads. ADS! And now, for many, blogging has become a business.  Or a launch pad.  Or a marketing tool.

Not that I mind.  I really don't.  I'm not Making a Statement or Giving Critique to the business of blogging.  None of it matters or influences the reason I write a blog or read blogs.  For me, it always, always comes down to content.  If I can relate to the content, if I am amused or moved or inspired by the content, then I read it.

But who cares about any of that, really?

The point is that I have slowly been Ebbing more than Flowing in the content department here at The New Girl.  I'm not sure why that is, really, given that I have lots to talk about and am never at a loss for words.  As I've written before, I think it might be time-energy related.  Having an almost walking, cute-as-hell-but-curious-as-in-into-every-fucking-thing baby puts a damper on my creativity.  I have some time when the kids nap but I find myself kicking back to read or scrambling around the house to get it [just passable] neat enough. 

So, instead of telling you about how my almost one-year-old's first word was, so help me, CHEESE, or how my big girl started preschool, or how my dad is settled in and doing better than I am, I just...don't.  I've dropped out, into the background, taken up my long-lost penchant to lurk.  I've become a mute observer. 

And, while I don't have the urge/compulsion to write to keep me sane, I have to say that I notice its absence.  Even though I wonder, sometimes, what this blogging is, I've never wanted to quit.  Even in these quiet times, I miss the connection, the opportunity to stretch the muscles required to write a post that has legs.  I miss the exercise itself. 

I miss you guys.

 

 

 

Either/Or.

It seems, these days, that it's either read or write.  It's either go out and do an activity with the kids or clean the house.  It's either grocery shop and return the library books or get the laundry started (it's never, ever, finished, am I right?)  Eat pudding out of the carton and watch an episode of The Wire or work out. Return phone calls and emails or spend 10 minutes on Twitter.  Chase my kids around or run the vacuum.  You get it, I'm sure.

Life these days is a never-ending string of reminders that my time and patience are finite and my skills at multi-tasking are abysmal.  I've got so much to do and yet so much of it seems...what's the word?  Repetitive.  Endless.  Ongoing and ongoing. Putting the toys away and vacuuming up the gross bits of rawhide today, only to have to do it again [whenever I can get to it again] tomorrow.  Washing. Drying. Folding. Washing. Drying. Folding. Washing and forgetting it's in the washer because omfg HOW CAN THERE BE MORE LAUNDRY?!  Scrubbing the toilet but foregoing the sink and tub because here comes the baby with an eye for the spray nozzle.

And so, when I look around, I see failure.  It's never as clean as it could be--or feels like it should be after working on it.  I'm losing tons of readers because I don't post regularly (and, then, you know--post THIS kind of crap.)  My car is a mess, my house is a mess, my bills are disorganized and I am still sporting extra poundage.

I'm caught up on The Wire, though, and in case you were wondering: It's Kick-Fucking-Ass.

We all have choices, this I know. I'm up to my ass in teaching this very thing to my now-preschooler.  Any dissatisfaction I have with the way things are is a direct result of my own decisions, and maybe even more so, my allowing my focus to fall where it does.  How I am perceiving things right this minute.  Seeing the fail, instead of seeing the progress.  Peering too long into negative spaces isn't healthy for me.

That's an Either/Or, too.

Right?

The other day, I painted my little girl's fingernails and toenails with a bright pink nail polish that she got me for my birthday.  I painted my toenails the same color, at her request. I am acutely aware those days are so very, very fleeting.  I already see in her face the shadow of a first-grader.  A middle schooler.  A pre-teen.  I see the long limbs and the training bras and the rolling eyes that are sooner rather than later headed my way. 

So, it might do to try and wrench my gaze from the negative space and focus on what's actually in the picture.  Toys on the floor, for sure.  Gross bits of rawhide, too.

But, man, those little pink fingernails could kill you from the cute.  And who's looking at my carpets anyway?

 

 

 

I Should Just Title This Post: Can't Skate On Any Of These Ponds Cause These Bitches Ain't Frozen Yet. Or, Alternately: If You Follow Me On Twitter, You Prolly Know All This Shit Already.

I feel wrung out. 

Like over the past two weeks, I've been full to bursting and then squeezed empty and then refilled and then squeezed again.  It's hard to imagine that only a short time ago, I was in NYC, staying at the Hilton and communing with some of the funniest, smartest, prettiest women (plus, like, two guys) on the planet.  There were lots of highlights for me, too many to link when I'm feeling so bleary-eyed and do you really want to read The Internet's Most-Delayed BlogHer Recap?  Honestly, in Internet Time, BlogHer was like, 10 years ago. So, it's like I'm sitting behind my word-processor, suited up in my Member's Only jacket, writing about something that happened before you were BORN.

I'll say that I got to see so many of my good friends and introduce myself and express my [writer's crushes] genuine affection for the work of most everyone on my 'I want to meet them and gush about their work' list.  I got to talk about things that really matter with a few awesome women.  I got to meet lots of people that I have wanted to meet. Plus, if you follow me on Twitter, you undoubtedly saw the CUPCAKE that I got to eat because I CRASHED the birthday celebration of a very sweet, tutu-making maven.

Of course there are 70 quadrillion people that I forgot to link and so, just know if it was you I forgot to link, I already understand that I suck. Prophylactically. 

And, if you are the ball-less motherfucker who stole the bag I got for [air-quote] running [air-quote] the Tutus-for-Tanner 5K? You know, the one with the autographed, sure-it's-awesome Dread Crew in it? YOU CAN SUCK IT. (I hope you liked the book, though, even though it WASN'T ADDRESSED TO YOU.)

Anyway.

I got home and it was official that The Boy was weaned.  Fully weaned at 10.5 months.  Hard to describe how I feel about it, really.  The fact that I went without nursing for 4 days and never ONCE leaked or felt full/tingly led me to believe that he hadn't been getting that much anyway.  My production was a challenge for months and months and man.  I really just don't want to totally get into it.

A couple days later, I had to turn around and leave my kids for ANOTHER four days to go to my childhood home to pack up my dad's stuff and move him close to The Little Sister and I.  It's hard for me to articulate what that experience was like but I'm sure that you can imagine it.  On Twitter I posted all the reeeeediculous things that we unearthed there (plus, the world's WORST EVER wallpaper which NO ONE commented on because by the time it made an appearance, they were all immersed in the crazy and didn't EVEN NOTICE,) partly because it was funny as hell and partly because I deal with the not-funny by turning it into the funny.

Then I came back to two kids who were crazy out of their minds, testing like motherfuckers, trying to adjust to Mommy being away-coming back-being away. Not to mention that they both had some bug that manifested in horrible napalm-poo explosions of the 'Requires A Morning Bath' kind.  When those cleared up, there came a baby who refused to sleep at all (AT ALL!) confusing the shit out of us before it became apparent that he was suffering from a cold, that he gave to his sister.

So, I had my first Total-Without-Sleep night since my son was 2 months old.  It was as sucky as I remember.

Anyway. So, now you're caught up.

Geezuz.

What's new with you?

Technically, It's Not About BlogHer.

Hey there!

Long time no posting. As per what appears to be my new(ish) usual. *sigh* I'm trying to post more but it appears to be only manifesting in my mind.  Much like I'm trying to lose 30 pounds. That's also manifesting in my mind (even though it shows on my ass) and so, there you have it.

Anyway.

I have an urge to complain-slash-explore-slash-panic about going to BlogHer and about all the shit I have to do before going to BlogHer but who really wants to hear all that, am I right?  The way I figure it, is, if you're going, you have the same shit to think about for your own self and if you're not going but want to go, the last thing you probably want to hear is some horse's ass bitching-slash-exploring-slash-panicking about it and if you're not going and you don't want to, then, well, you've probably already clicked out.

So let me just say these things: I have been shopping [for BlogHer] and I got a haircut [for BlogHer] and nothing has quite the pick-me-up effect as realizing that you 1) have to buy Giant Pants and 2) your new haircut is the shape of a bell.  I swear.  It's like newscaster hair. Only less cool.  I'm hoping it doesn't qualify as Midwestern Hair but I think it might be a close scrape.

*sigh*

I don't mind telling you that the week after BlogHer, I am going to my hometown (with my BIL and my dad) to get my dad's shit together to move here.  He settled on a house last week and now, we've got to go and get the stuff he needs to move in.  I am not looking forward to it, really.  A long trip with shit-loads of work involved.  A quick turn-around time. And another four days without my kids.  Which, on this end of it, with the day I've had so far, doesn't sound all that bad. I know enough, though, to know that two trips on two consecutive weeks is going to be hard. Ish. Maybe. Probably.

No, it will.  I know it will.

Speaking of my kids...

I just had the weirdest interaction at the library.  For this summer reading thingie, the kids have to do an activity each week and then bring in this sheet of paper to show the librarian (to collect a toxic-plastic prize).  One of the tasks for kids 2-4 was that they learn and tell a joke. 

It was TLNG's first time learning an ACTUAL joke to tell and we've been practicing that son-of-a-bitch for two weeks (since we missed going last week), so she was excited to go and tell her joke today.

And here was the interaction:

TLNG: 'I have a joke to tell you!'

Librarian: ??

TLNG: 'What kind of alley do I run from?'

[Note: It is supposed to be, 'What kind of alley do you run from?' but that use of the pronoun eludes her. She's 3.]

Librarian: 'What kind?'

TLNG: 'An Alley-GATOR!!'

Librarian: [straight-face. NO laugh. At all.] 'Okaaaay, then.'

WTF?

Seriously, Librarian? SERIOUSLY?  It was her first joke, for fuck's sake and I gotta tell you, she had some damn good comedic timing (for a 3 year old.) I mean, I KNOW it ain't Chris Rock but she's still a little young to be dropping N-words and F-bombs for her summer reading library jokes. 

Who knew there was such a tough crowd at the public library? Fucking A.

A much more receptive audience for her comedic skills. AKA: He laughs at EVERYTHING SHE DOES.

.

.

 

Most of the time.

 
[Edited to add: THE JOKE!]

On Shaping Up What's Been Forged.

For my whole life, I have described myself (among other things) as 'Inconsistent.'  I've done it here, probably lots of times.  I've done it on the [temporary] [inconsistently written] Fitness/Health Kick(ish) blog that I started and stopped and started and for which I never fucking write a post.

Ahem.

But recently, I've started to see it a little differently.  Through the ongoing process of self-awareness, I've have a few AHA Moments, recently and now, I'm wondering whether, along with (or, perhaps, in lieu of) being Inconsistent, I am also Undisciplined.  Just.  I don't know.  Lacking in whatever fundamental internal structure people have that facilitates and makes it easier for a person to remain consistent and linear in thought, attention and action toward whatever goal.

I'm not totally lacking in the fundamental structure, obviously.  I mean, I have a house and a job and close relationships and all that.  But in certain cases, it feels/seems almost impossible for me to do what I have to do to change my behavior for the long term.

As an aside: Part of my world view is that we are each born into this world with a temperamental style with various 'set points' for things like Approaching New Stimuli or a Threshold of Tolerance for things, etc. I think that certain personal traits are born-in, in other words, and work as we might, there's only a certain amount of elasticity that we're going to get in the way of behavior change in those areas.  Or, rather, there's a range of expression for certain traits--and anything outside the range is going to be more of a challenge to maintain.  Not saying impossible. I'm certainly not arguing that people can't change their behaviors.

I'm a therapist for fuck's sake.

What I am wondering, though, is how much of my inconsistency is really that I lack discipline in certain areas, as a kind of character trait, thus giving me a [fucking headache] hard time when it comes to adapting certain behaviors?

Each person has his or her own Issues to Wrestle, I'm aware of that. (For example,  I believe that an introvert can work on becoming more comfortable socially but I also believe that it may feel effort-filled for that person.  Almost all the time, especially at first.  Whereas for me, the quintessential extrovert, social interactions are usually not only stress-free but Enjoyable.)  So, I'm thinking that for me to maintain a consistently disciplined life in my Troublesome Areas may require a more or less continuous effort be applied to my will--to bend it and shape it into something a little different. Or, maybe, I can adjust my expectations and work toward realistic change in life-long patterns of behavior.  Somehow, viewing it differently makes change seem more do-able instead of just wishing I was different or trying to figure out why being consistent is just so hard for me when it seems to be so easy for everyone else.

I don't know. I'm just thinking out loud here. (Are you thinking that perhaaaaps, I should work this shit out ALL THE WAY before sharing?)

Me too.

Anyway.

Here's a list of areas that require more discipline than I typically posses to be/feel what I consider to be successful:

1) House Work.  I am not the messiest person around.  Largely 'Clean As You Go' kind of person but I am start/stop in this area and there is no denying that when I try to stay on top of it, it seems to take up ALL my free time and after a few weeks, I lapse into 'Not Noticing' until it gets, um, Embarrassing.

2) Weight Management. Oh, hell. Up. Down. Up. Down. You know. I'm up now.  So it's a thing.

3) Vehicle/House Maintenance. I have been known to let my oil changes and inspections go until the State Troopers and Oil Lube Employees knock on my door, asking me to PLEASE, PLEASE pay attention. (And you know how often THAT happens.) (One time, I got pulled over on my own block for a lapsed inspection sticker.  I pulled into my own driveway and confused the hell out of the nice policeman who just gave me a warning. TFS.)

4) Financial/Paperwork. Same as above.  Only, I think that people to whom you owe money actually WILL knock on your door, so I always get around to it in time but I let it linger. And avoid.

5) Bookkeeping.  In my job, I have records to keep and compile.  I am METICULOUS at keeping the actual records and ABYSMAL at compiling them.  You try to figure it out. I'm an enigma.

6) Physical/Medical Maintenance.  I've gone years. YEARS! Without seeing a dentist. Or a gynecologist. Or...you get the picture.  I'm back on the wagon with both, so, don't worry. 

7) Artistic Production. I don't write these days.  I don't do any real artwork, either (unless you're counting the 'crafts' I whip up for TLNG. And, uh, I wouldn't).  I don't post as often as I'd like.

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I got the title for this post from an Indigo Girls song.  The full line is: I measure to what degree I can shape up what's been forged in me.  I love the imagery of that line and like almost all their lyrics, I think that it's poetry set to music.

Giveaway! The New Girl Style! AKA: Getting Rid Of Some Of My Shit That You Might Want.

Whether due to Primarily Catholic Upbringing or being the child of a book collector, I am UTTERLY INCAPABLE of tossing books and/or other perfectly good things that I don't want/have room for.

As in: I. Can't. Do it.

So!  Here it is:

Are you newly pregnant?  Do you know someone who is newly pregnant?  If you do, leave a comment on this post and I'll pick a winner at random to receive [a box full of shit that I can't bear to throw away, due to aforementioned Mental Glitch] some great Newly Pregnant Person stuff.  Mostly bookish type things.  Good stuff, though, not junky.  You can leave a comment and win even if you're NOT newly pregnant, it's totally up to you.  A few of the things, though, are geared toward and will get the most use from someone who is...you got it...NEWLY PREGNANT.

omg.

I need my afternoon caffeine.

The comment can be about anything but let's see...what am I curious about today?

How about telling me about a really, really great gift that you were given.  How's that?

Edited to add: The random number generator picked Jess! Whooop! Better get knocked up quick, Newlywed!

Experiment. Or, If You Like, Practice.

So, the feedback on the last post was Pleasant! And surprising! And Pleasant!

It's nice to have internet friends who don't judge you or get sick of you saying the same shit over and over (or so you say NOW, heh) and so I'm going to try an experiment.  I'm just going to...you know...write.

My usual method of writing posts (believe it or not) is (generally) to have a more or less, fully formed idea and then to sit at the computer and write it, shape it and polish it up before I hit publish.  If you read me in a reader [you're like, 'what is her fucking DEAL?'] you may often see multiple 'publishes' on a lot of my posts. That..happens to me.  Still shaping after it's published.  (The internet equivalent of re-re-re-FUCKINGRE-recording voice mails before I'm satisfied. It's a Mental Glitch of the first order.)

So.

Today, I figured, let's try something [crazy] new and do a [rambling post with no purpose] stream of consciousness writing.

....

..

?

Um.

//

\\

/\/\/\/\////\

Welp. Let's call me a beginner.

I am taking my dad to the doctor today. He's doing pretty well, actually. (My dad, you know, not the doctor.) (Well, the doctor's probably doing well too, but WHATEVER.) I think that he may have found a house that he likes (!!) The heaviness and difficulty that will accompany the readying and selling of my childhood home is balanced (at least right now, when the paint rollers and dumpsters and hours upon hours of back breaking work are only in my IMAGINATION) by the floaty feeling I get from thinking of my dad living so close by that he can come for dinner, or trick-or-treating, or Thanksgiving AND Christmas morning AND whenever [all without his dog] and then go back to his own house, where he will (eventually) be comfortable.

I'm optimistic, as he's starting to look around at the street signs and try to figure out where things are in relation to other things (and lo, I have discovered from whence my ABYSMAL sense of direction hails) and he said, 'Well, I can just come down here and go do my shopping at ACME, eh?'  And I'm like, 'Dad. I can come and get you. And we can go together. And then I can drop you off at home with your groceries.' And he nodded, kind of surprised. And said, 'Save me on gas.'

It's hard for him, and in a collective sense, all of us, sometimes, to imagine the good things that will come out of the difficulties, I suppose.  The harder things are more evident to him.  Partly because they are so, So, SO challenging. Big-Ass Life Changers.  But too, I think, because they are all up front.  On the front end is the buying and the cleaning and shedding and organizing and moving and all that.  It's only after he's here, I think, and a little more comfortable that it will dawn on him the amazing opportunity he has to engage and be a real part of this family for which he worked so, so hard for so, so long.

And I hope to remember this feeling that I have. The feeling of so badly wanting him to be close to us, knowing that no parent wants to be a *burden* to his children.  But for me, moving him closer isn't the burden.  The REAL burden is the worry that I feel when he's that far away, well outside the reach of my [evil clutches] loving care.  Or the uprooting, driving, uprooting, driving, uprooting that we have to do when the inevitable bad things start happening.

I understand how he feels, I do.  But I also hope to remember how *I* am feeling now--in case I'm lucky enough to live that long--because one day, my kids might feel this same way.  

And I don't ever want to be a burden to them.