Identity

Moving to a new city automatically changes your identity. 

In my old town, I was the girl who always brought really fabulous desserts to a party.  The girl people asked to take photos of their babies, their families, and even their corporate executive husbands.  I threw parties, and luncheons, and always made too much food.  I was the girl who texted everyone once a week to organize a girl's lunch out.  The girl who was known to stay the longest at get-togethers and laugh until I peed a little.  You could count on me to be the chubby friend you would gladly sit next to because my plate would be full and my smile always ready. 

I was confident in that identity.  

It was woven into the very fabric of my character, its threads strong and confident.  It was my heart and my soul.  It was who I am. 

Suddenly, I am not that girl here in Texas.  I find myself always in a room full of strangers, my heart pounding and insecurities coursing through my veins.  None of them know that I am a really good baker.  Or photographer.  Or laugher (and pee-er). 

None of them know just how desperately I love to host parties. 

And when I'm struggling to help my kids cope with the loneliness and heartache that comes with this crappy business of starting over, I put on a brave face and strap a pep talk to my belt.  Constantly pulling that pep talk out, telling them things I hardly believe myself, I keep moving blindly forward.   We are all struggling, and it's just plain hard.

I fall into bed at night, exhausted and emotionally wrought, and just pray. 

Pray that soon it will be easy and natural. 

Pray that it will feel like home. 

Pray that I will feel like me again.

Because I desperately miss that girl.  

Helpless

I heard the front door open and ran to meet him.  The knots in my stomach had been swirling all day until my insides felt like a tangled mess of anxiety and pain. 

The look on his face told me what I needed to know.   What I had feared the most.

The silent tears that spilled down his freckled cheeks broke my heart in half. 

Taking him in my arms, as I had not needed to for years, I embraced my oldest and cried with him.  I had no chance of being strong at this moment.  No hope of providing comfort.  No words to say, except choked sobs of I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.   

Never have I felt so helpless.   

Never have I been so helpless. 

I have no idea what it feels like to be him.  I did not move until the day I went to college.  And, even then, I went with my six best friends from high school as roommates.  I did not really learn how to make new friends until I was a married adult. 

I will never know what it feels like to be a sophomore in high school and sit alone at lunch.  I will never have to face class after class of stranger's faces or wander unfamiliar  hallways on my own. 

I will never know the courage it takes to do such things. 

When we moved here, we gave them all promises of happiness and new friendships.  Not knowing that 95 percent of our congregation at church would go to a different high school.  Not knowing that the handful of boys he would meet in his high school would all have different lunches than him.  Not remotely comprehending just how hard it would be.

It's been a week and two days, and I still can't talk about it without tears. 

My heart aches for what he's going through -- how exposed and alone he feels each day.  I see the vulnerability eating him raw, and I see the walls he puts up to protect himself.  I see anxiety and worry on his face.  This is not the boy I know.  

But, mercifully, every day, it seems we gain a little bit of new ground.  Really, even an inch will do.  A friendly conversation with someone at football practice plants a glimmer of hope inside him.  Finding someone to sit with at lunch has been huge.  Faces are becoming recognizable.  Days are melting into routine familiarity.  We are slowly pulling ourselves out of the lonely despair of that horrible first day.  Thanks, in large part, to an amazing family who moved here about a month ago themselves, and who have kids that match up exactly to ours.  

It's been so nice to know we're not alone.  To have someone to commiserate with.  To have a shoulder (for me) to cry on.  To know it's not just us.  We're in the trenches together, this mother and I, helping our kids cope with some really tough stuff.  Going through battles like this creates an instant bond.  I am so thankful for her.  

I know the answer to this problem lies in persistence and time. 

But I would give anything to take away all the pain from my boy.  To ease his heartache and make his sweet, kind soul whole again.   He is doing an amazing job and handling it with grace.  I am so proud of my boy.  

I know he is going to be all right. 

But would it be so terrible if he was all right sooner rather than later? 

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[SIDE NOTE:  In an effort to document monumental family experiences, I am writing about this personal experience.  I do so not to elicit pity or praise, but merely to help us remember the hard things that allow us to grow.  This is an intensely personal post for me, as it exposes one of my children's vulnerabilities in ways I am not accustomed to.  My vulnerability?  Up for grabs and there for the mocking.  But my kids are off-limits.  Please remember this and be kind.  There is a real person behind this post and he's struggling in an extremely real, and very huge, way. ]

Last Guest Post

Wrapping up my fabulous week as a guest poster at Nest & Launch.  Click over to read about the change of perspective I am thankful to have received.  This one is all about realizing what's important and what's not.  You won't be sorry.   

Apple Bars that will change your life

Want to learn how to make these? 

You know you do.  Pop over to Nest & Launch to see my midweek post.  While you're there, give my friend Annie a great, big internet hug.  She sent her baby girl into the MTC today and won't see her for 18 long months. 

Pretty sure she's going to need some love.  

Sending you elsewhere

Hi there. 

I am posting elsewhere today.  Please click over to www.nestandlaunch.com to read my wise words on how to survive a move.

If you've not been to that site already, you are going to thank me.  It is run by my long-time BFF Annie and her friend, Sarah.  They are brilliant, funny, creative women who have put together a blog for those of us parents in the "mid-stage," i.e., not raising babies anymore, but not quite done yet either.  There are all kinds of how-tos, recipes, links, and amazing wit and wisdom.  If I could pick one friend to be just like?  It would be Annie.  She is the bomb.  I love her to pieces and miss her every day.

I'll be posting there all week.  Honored and slightly terrified.  Go read and see. 

Sucking the marrow from life, or something like that

The other day, I was doing my best to suck the sweet, delicious marrow from our summer life. 

I.e., I was attempting to sleep in until at least ten o'clock.

Pulling me suddenly from that blissful REM-land, I heard an urgent ringing of our doorbell.  Throwing on my glasses, and nothing else, I ran for the door.  Noting the time as I passed by the clock, I grumbled. 

It was not even eight in the morning yet. 

I threw open the door to find our chubby, mustached pool guy and, HOLY MOTHER OF JUDAS, the house alarm started beeping angrily. 

Grumbling out loud, I ran to shut it off. 

As my frazzled fingers tried to punch in our code, I heard the pitter patter of startled feet tearing down the stairs.  "Mom!!  What's going on??  ARE WE GETTING ROBBED?" they all asked in sleepy terror. 

I begged them to go back to bed, and took my bra-less, bed-headed self back to the front door to see what the pool guy wanted. 

Apparently, he just wanted to shoot the breeze. 

Which meant that I wanted to shoot him. 

Fortunately for me, the phone started ringing and I made my escape.   

I answered to a panicked Husband, "Hey!  Are you guys okay?  I just got a call from the alarm company and they said the house was being broken into." 

Yawning, I assured him that all was well. 

As I plodded back to my bedroom in the hopes of salvaging my lazy summer morning, the phone rang again. 

It was my mother-in-law who lives in Utah.  "I just got a call!  Are you guys being robbed???"   

Apparently, we had put her down as an emergency contact. 

Knowing full well that she was startled from sleep in an earlier time zone, I apologized profusely and assured her we were all safe. 

Just as I hung up the phone, the doorbell rings again.

I fling it open wide, ready to snap at whoever is on the other side. 

Thankfully, I didn't. 

For standing at my front door was one of Frisco City's Finest.  The FREAKING POLICE. 

Apparently, after calling the Husband and his mother (both in other states at the time where they would be very useful in stopping any burglaries, I'm sure), the alarm company figured it might be wise to send the police out to check on us. 

Apologizing for what felt like the hundredth time in about a 15-minute time period, I assured the officer that all was well.  Arms crossed over my chest awkwardly, I thanked him for the response and wished for the second time in one day that I slept in a bra.

And then, I went back to bed.  Where I laid there wide awake and listened to the Spanish radio station from the workers outside my window.  And then heard the pounding of whatever rocks they were smashing together.  Then I threw a pillow over my ears at the sound of my children fighting upstairs over the Minecraft.  And my fat stomach growled.  And a fly buzzed by my ear before landing on my face.

I am thinking the marrow from this summer life tastes a bit like an onion.

And I HATE onions.