Two weeks ago

Two weeks ago, right now, I was trying to settle into my window-seat-bed in the ICU at St. Joseph's Hospital. I had endured the hardest day of my life. In my sight was Brian, quite sedated from all the anesthesia and trauma. He would occasionally awaken, and not let me forget that hockey started at 8. At 10 that night, he really came to, and we watched the last period of hockey and reflected on the day.

What a day. It started at 4:00, when we awakened, and prepared to head out to the hospital. We got there at 5:30, registered, and waited for Bri to be taken to pre-op. After they had him prepped, I got to go back to see him. My parents, and his, were there, too. My aunt was watching our girls, and sent us a video of them saying they loved Daddy. This was the last thing he watched before being sedated to have an arterial line inserted. Shortly after, he was wheeled back to the operating room, right at 8am. The nurse promised that I would get calls every 90 minutes or so, updating me on their progress. When my phone rang at 9:20, I was informed that the surgeon was preparing to insert the cannulas to start Brian on the heart lung machine. Then, his heart would be stopped.

I am sure that the medication injected into Brian's heart to make it stop beating was given at 9:40. I felt it. Like a weight in my chest. The part of the surgery that I most feared. I felt compelled to run through the hospital and find him, to be by his side. Everything I knew logically told me the work of his heart was being done by the bypass machine. But there was something innate, instinctual, in me that could not make peace with the idea that the heart in the chest where I have lain my head for nearly 20 years, was not beating...

I passed the time in the waiting area surrounded by our village. Our parents, my aunt, my Papa, a dear friend... all came to support Brian, and to help me stay strong. My next update came at 11:30, when I learned that Brian was still on the bypass, as the surgeon had to do extra work to get his aorta closed. The nurse assured me that this was not of concern. Finally, around 12:15, I learned that Brian was off the heart-lung bypass. Our village and I shed tears of relief.

Brian was taken immediately to the ICU after surgery, and I was allowed in with him shortly after. He was still intubated, but aware. It didn't take long for the tube to come out, and with a warm blanket and pain medication, he rested. The first time he spoke to me, he told me he dreamed of me.

And there we were. His heart was beating, all on its own. And over the next 5 days in the hospital Brian would face pain, discomfort, irregular heartbeats, hot flashes... all the things they told us he would experience. I spent 5 nights in the window-seat-bed. I held Bri's hand, watched him sleep, fed him soup. All the things I was so grateful to be able to do. I struggled between the strong desire to be there with him, and also to be with our girls- to reassure them, to help them feel secure in the fact that everything was okay. I went back and forth a lot. And, I had the support of many amazing people, so that all the most important people in my life were well cared for.

A week after being discharged from the hospital, Brian and I finally left Denver two days ago and returned home. Our girls had come home 6 days earlier, with Brian's parents. Our hearts ached without them, and we both got much needed rest. And they got back into their routine, with a few minor changes- like dessert before their meal. They were in such good hands.

Driving away from Denver, tears flowed. I thought about what the last two weeks had held. I felt victorious. But not the kind of victorious that comes from winning play off football. This was the kind of victory in which we endured one the most difficult challenges we'd ever faced. We overcame. Brian survived. We could go back home and not have this weight hanging over us. We could go back to living our simple lives.

Our reunions with the girls were beautiful. We picked Kinnie up from school. When she spotted us, she ran to us and I scooped her up, and we three embraced and cried. Then we got Ellie from daycare, where the scene repeated itself. It was one of the warmest experiences I've ever had.

Brian has a long way to go until he is fully recovered. We're told after 3 months, he'll be at 90%, and after a "full trip around the sun," as his surgeon said, he'll be back to "normal." I have never loved him more. This experience peeled away all the things that can get in the way of love. The annoyances, irritations, general disagreements. I wanted nothing more in the world for his heart to beat again. Everything else melted away.

And I can't say enough about our village. Since we found out, 3 months ago, that Brian needed this surgery, we have been held up by our loved ones, and by complete strangers. I wish I had a way to share the gratitude in my heart. There are not enough thanks in the world... But thank you, to anyone who prayed, or put out good vibes, or visited us, or held my hand, or gave us food, or watched our precious girls, or donated money. I truly believe that you got us through.

One week

One week from right now, I'll be at the hospital with Bri. They'll be prepping him for surgery- IVs, shaving his chest (I'm hoping to convince them to shave his armpits, too). We will be two hours away from surgery time. I hope that that morning, we can use our humor to get through. Surgery is this thing that we have been anticipating, worrying about, sometimes terrified of. The last two months have been some of the strangest of my life. I've know it was coming, and it's a reality that has weighed on both of us like nothing else ever has. While we were trying to come to terms with what it all means, we were trying to live life, work, take care of our girls, make Christmas magical. And through it all, there is this weight. A fear.

I'd never fully understood the phrase "burst into tears" until this time. I'll be feeling okay, strong even. And then, an image will pop into my head- of seeing Bri wheeled back to surgery, or intubated in the ICU, or of Kinnie crying for him- and the tears come. I don't have control. I had to walk Ellie into daycare last week with tears in my eyes. The daycare provider noticed and asked "just life?" I suppose that's one way to put it.

The flipside of fear, anxiety, and worry, is gratitude, I think. The moments when we are present and aware of how lucky we are to have the things we have. When Bri is cuddled up with both girls. When we're all playing on the bed. When we can hold each other and help each other through this. When our family and friends offer to do anything they can to help us through this. When our jobs approve extended time off. When our community, including people we don't even know, raises $12,000 to help us with expenses during this time. That is definitely the flipside. The side that warms us from the inside, and reminds us that it will all be okay.

It will be okay. I anticipate that the four to five hours of surgery may be the longest in my life. But when I know that Bri's heart is beating again.... and when I can hold his hand... when I can bring our girls to see him. Those will be the best moments of my life.

My husband's heart

Anyone who knows Brian already knows what I'm going to write. He is an incredible person. His heart is of gold. He cares greatly, loves deeply, laughs heartily. There is nothing he wouldn't do for his family. He is an amazing father. He rubs my feet and makes ice cream runs anytime without batting an eye. He is my best friend, the first person outside of my family to whom I shared my soul, my safe place, my home.

The problem is that his heart is faulty. Literally. It has been so since he was born. And two days ago, we learned that it is time for him to have open-heart surgery to correct the problem. Replacing an aortic valve is an incredibly well practiced and safe surgery. But when we read that his heart would be stopped during the procedure, while he his hooked up to a heart-lung machine... well, that took my breath away.

My life partner is facing a huge challenge. In the end, it will be good. In the end, he may feel stronger than he has in years. But the process... it is huge.

I was talking to a dear friend yesterday, and told her I feel so sad about this news. In  her wise way, she asked if I am grieving. And I think that fits. Here we are, just settled into this new life in the mountains. We are comfortable, happy in our new home. Our girls are absolutely thriving. We are financially okay for the first time in our marriage. And for a while, all of this is going to be different. We will have to be away from home for weeks, possibly, while Brian has his surgery. His recovery will be long, and he will have to be out of work for 6 weeks. There are so many logistical questions.

The good, the blessing in all this, is our village. Already, our parents, family members, and friends are offering to do whatever they can to help. I am not surprised, but always reminded of how lucky I am. And, when it is all said and done, we will have many years before we have to worry about Brian's heart again.

And, there is nothing like facing a huge new adventure to remind me how thankful I am for my husband. Together we can get through anything.

Charlie

The fact that Charlie came into our lives was some kind of fate. After we lost our little Fifi in 2010, we decided it was time to expand our crazy lives with another pup. I headed to the Dumb Friends' League, just down the street from our house. As with most shelters, there were so many dogs, and I wanted to rescue them all. I made a list of those that called to me the most, and approached the main desk to find out who I could visit. As the volunteer made her way down my list, slowly but surely every dog that I had eyed was out of the running. This one did not get along with other dogs. That one didn't like kids. This one did not like kids or other dogs.

When every dog on my list had been eliminated as an adoption possibility for us, I asked a question: were there any dogs in the shelter that would both get along with other dogs AND be good with kids? The database was searched, and the result was just one dog. Charlie.

I decided to meet him. He was obese, and though they had bathed him he stunk. He was happy and eager to get close. I indicated my interest and went home to get Koda, Brian and Kinnie for a family meeting. It was a snowy day in February, and rather than have us gather in an outdoor run, the shelter allowed us to use their conference room for introductions. As the volunteer left Charlie there with us, she asked that we please just watch him, in case he seemed to need to go outside for a potty break. As soon as she left, Charlie promptly pooped on the floor.

Koda and Charlie were easy friends. They played from the moment they met, despite Koda's typical reaction to other dogs that indicated that she was way too good for them. We knew this meant good things. To us, Charlie seemed happy-go-lucky. We brought him home. As we got settled in, and all played on the floor, Charlie mounted Brian. Several times.

Charlie was an easy fit into our family. He didn't ask for much. He loved us, and he LOVED Koda. We came to realize that whatever happened in his life before us had scarred him. As much as he played, he was also insecure. It was as though he was never sure where he belonged. He was often under foot, despite being scolded to go lie down. When not playing, he could usually be found lying under a table or in a corner. Someone had not treated him well.

We first learned of Charlie's heart failure about a year after adopting him. We started medications- first one, then three, and finally four. We were told his time would be limited, but we didn't really know how. He continued to chase a ball like a maniac. And swim until he was shivering. And lick and lick and lick our faces, or our pants, until we had to turn away. He sprinted through the snow. There were some signs of decline along the way. His once voracious appetite slowed. But he was pretty much himself. Until 10 days ago.

Charlie's final illness was dramatic. His light step turned heavy. The ball and the river no longer called to him. We had to beg him to eat people food- or anything else. It was so sad to see life slipping from him. He deserved more time. But today, we realized no amount of hope or medication could provide that, and we let him go.

Tonight, the house feels lonely. I keep expecting him to be under foot. I wish he was.

Charlie was our boy. He loved us so. And I loved him. As he left our world, I told him I hoped he'd be playing like a pup soon. That he wouldn't feel so tired, or in so much pain. That he would romp through the snow. That he could eat again.


I told him how grateful I was that he was a part of our family. I thanked him for looking out for all of us in his own way. I told him I'd miss him. And I do.

Rest in peace Charlie Boy. You will always be a part of my heart.

The village I don't even know

There is not a single daycare spot for a 17 month old in my new hometown. Not one. I've called every home daycare and preschool there is. If someone wants to move to Salida, the way to make a steady living is to open a daycare center for kids under 2. The demand is high.

So this has left me in an interesting spot. This week I started my new job. And fortunately for me, I have my village to help us out, with my mom here this week, and my in-laws next week. After that... who knows. My fingers are crossed that something will work out.

We have reached out to our local connections- people we've only just begun to get to know- to ask for help or suggestions. It dawned on me today just how much support we are getting- some from people we've never met. I emailed my new supervisor, who passed my question on to other people in my office. Even though I have yet to set foot in that building, I have received two messages with ideas for us. I met a new coworker today, and when I lamented about our situation, she immediately texted friends who have young children. Brian's coworkers are asking around, too. It's as if we have a whole team we inherited just because we live here. And I feel so lucky.

Kinnie is thriving in Kindergarten. She just started week 3, and is already a whole new kid. My shy girl is ordering her own ice cream, approaching friends in the grocery store, and responding when strangers ask her about her new toy. She used to hide behind my legs in all these situations- and this has truly all changed in 2 weeks. It's as though she realized that she can feel safe in the world around us, and she is blossoming. I feel so proud of her, and excited for her. The light I always get to see is being shone more and more.

And Ellie... Oh, Ellie. Turns out she's a feisty as her sister. We didn't get to experience it when she was an infant, but now that she's a full-fledged toddler, watch out. She is into everything. Lucky for her, and us, she is adorable, and gives the best hugs to make all okay. She learns new words every day. She loves the cows who live in the pastures nearby, and moos at them every time we bike to school. Just like her big sister, if she's outside, she's happy.

I miss my people, a lot. Which I was expecting. Some days are more difficult than others. Everything else about this place is amazing. It's quiet, and friendly, and fun. The sense of community is incredible. All of this moving business has been so challenging... and overall, worth it so far. I'm a grateful Mama.

The (proverbial and literal) other side of the fence

Today, Kinnie, Ellie and I rode bikes to Kinnie's new school- where she will begin kindergarten in two short weeks. It is a beautiful building, with super friendly staff. I alternate between being excited for this next step, and being devastated that my baby girl is growing up so quickly. I have had a few lose-your-breath kind of cries over it. There is something about not being able to just have her with me whenever I want... I will miss her so much.

That's where the proverbial other side of the fence comes in. I have been a stay-at-home mom for just over two months now. Granted one of those months was a time of complete chaos, and selling the house, and then selling it again, and then being "homeless" and making a major move. But I have been with my girls pretty non stop for the last 68 days. It is a blessing. And I'm exhausted.

I don't know how stay-at-home Moms do it. I feel constantly on demand. I laughed to myself this morning when in the span of a half hour I went back and forth to the kitchen at least 10 times. One of the girls would want something, so I'd get it, come back, and then the other would ask for something else. I played at least 4 games of Go Fish. I blew up the backyard pool, and then cleaned all the poop out of it after the naked baby had a "yucka." I watched the tricks Kinnie did on her new swing set. I played that I was a friend of Kinnie's, and that she came to visit me with her two new babies, and then I babysat them while she went to Africa. I chased Ellie and tickled her to delighted squeals. And, all I really wanted to do was nothing. I was so tired today. And my house was a mess. I can't seem to find the balance, if there is such a thing. I have this idea in my head that stay-at-home Moms keep their houses clean, meet their childrens' demands, and look pretty doing it. I started searching the internet to find proof that I'm wrong. But I swear, there are some people who can do it all. Having a "job" is WAAAAAY easier.

While we were out in the yard today, playing in the pool and on the swing set, two girls inched closer and closer to the fence. Our house backs to an apartment complex, and there is a simple chain link fence, and a few shrubs, between our yard and the property belonging to the apartments. Here's where the literal other side of the fence comes in.

As the girls inched closer, I smiled and said hi. We have several kids who come around and ask what we're going, or watch as my kids play. These girls, it turns out, were 6 and 7. Sisters with a 1 year old brother. A Dad who works three jobs in hotels and fast food. And a Mom who spanks them if they have an accident in their pants.

I can tell that they and the other kids who come to the fence wish to be invited over. I see in their eyes the looks of envy. And I imagine their hearts, knowing they don't even have their own bedrooms, and watching my girls with their swingset, pool, slip 'n slide, and a million toys. The older of the girls asked how many bedrooms we had and proceeded to tell me that she, her parents, and two siblings live in a two bedroom apartment. She quickly explained that there is also a furnace room, that they use as a bedroom.

My privilege is thrown in my face, not in a malicious way, but in a very real way, when I talk to these kids. I'm middle of the road, but to these kids, hanging on the fence and wishing they had all we do, it must look so amazing. My heart aches for them, and I want to be able to provide them with more. But then, I realize I'm barely keeping up with what I have to for my own kids.

I suppose it is all about perspective. Perspective that I'm doing a good job caring for my kids, even if the floor REALLY needs to be mopped. Perspective that we have so much. Perspective that I can't bring all the hurting children home with me, but perhaps I can offer some kind of connection, compassion.

I'm still trying to find the balance. But I'm so grateful, even when balance isn't there.

A new beginning

Last night was the third night we spent in our new house. Everything worked out, and I think we are right where we are supposed to be. Before moving in here, we spent 4 nights in a vacation rental. So I guess I can say I've lived in Salida for a week. A few of the highlights:

- Last night, I called out to the cul-de-sac to get my family into the house for dinner. As soon as she finished, Kinnie went right back out to scooter with two girls who live 3 and 4 doors down.
- I did my first big grocery shopping trip yesterday afternoon, and given that it was a Friday, I figured the store would be packed with residents and tourists alike. The parking lot was full, but the store itself felt about as busy as my usual grocery shopping stop in Denver on a Wednesday afternoon.
-Speaking of grocery store, it appears to be a great meeting place. There were at least three conversations occurring in various aisles between friends who just happened to run into each other there.
- Our next door neighbor brought a fantastic cinnamon loaf from the farmer's market as a welcome gift.
- Our neighbor two doors down provided me with enough free plants to officially start my vegetable garden.
-Our neighborhood is so quiet that I can let Kinnie out to play without worrying too much. I already know that everyone is looking out for her, along with the rest of the kids.
- I'm sitting on my couch, in my living room, typing this. Out the window to my left is a stunning view of the Collegiates.
- Every morning so far, the air is crisp. Even though it is July.

On day 3 of being here, I had to take the pups to the vet for what turned out to be kennel cough. The man working the front desk there told me he had come from the metro area, but now "develops a rash" if he gets within 15 miles of I-25. He went on to say that the only time there will be traffic in Salida is when two trailers are moseying down highway 50 side by side at 30 miles per hour. He noted, though, that it doesn't really bother people here.

It's too early to know how this will feel in the long run. And there are parts that are hard- particularly being far from family and friends. But, so far, it is exactly what I hoped for.

The last night- part two

I am about to go to bed in my little townhouse for the last time. I cannot begin to fathom not living here. It has been my home for much of my adult life. I was 23 years old when we bought it and moved in. Remember Trading Spaces? I was a huge fan, and allowed it to influence me to paint my walls a rainbow of colors. I was most excited because owning my own place meant I could adopt my own puppy. Koda came into our lives two months after we moved in. Thank goodness she's with us to move on to the next adventure.

We had some great parties here. There are great memories of friends laughing hysterically in this house. At one such event, I remember Eric rolling on the floor in fits of giggles. It is an especially precious memory.

This is the home where I brought my two precious newborns. Where I went from an insecure young woman to a thirty-something finding her way. Where my marriage grew from the status of newlyweds to that of being an old married couple. This place is where I studied to get my master's degree. It is where I have hosted family dinners, and learned to really cook. I have had some of my most fantastic moments here, and some of my most painful.

When I walk out the door tomorrow, for the last time, I'm not sure how I'll feel. We still don't know for sure that we have a house to move into. We are packing a truck and driving to Salida, with our destination as of yet unknown. We hope that it will be the house we have wanted all along. But right now, there is no guarantee.

Today, I had the opportunity to spend time with some of my dearest friends. I walked away from those meetings wondering why I made the choice to leave. So much of my life is here. But I think what I figured out is that the city leaves me too busy to live this life. I felt stretched thin much of the time, and wishing for more hours to spend on the things that matter the most.

I think, though I will be farther away, I will be more at peace. And I will have more time and energy to devote to connecting to those I love- both near and far. Let the next step begin.

The last night

Tonight is supposed to be the last night that our little family of 4 is separated. Tomorrow, Brian comes home, and Sunday we are scheduled to load up the truck and drive to Salida. The weeks of being apart from my partner are supposed to be done. Of course, what is supposed to be, and what actually is, may differ a bit.

I cannot think of a time in my life during which I have had such constant stress. The ups and downs are frequent. One minute you've sold your townhouse and have purchased the home of your dreams, and the next, it may not happen at all. And then I think, we chose this. We chose to put ourselves through this. What the hell were we thinking?

When I dove into this journey, I thought I had to face 5 weeks of single parenting. Now I am nearing the end of week 7. I did not believe I could do it. Yet, I have done it. And while doing it, I survived the sale of my house falling through, relisting and reselling it.

The really beautiful thing is that I have not been alone. Time after time, my village shows up to hold me up and help me through. When we had to put our house back on the market, my house was full of helpers, getting it back into show shape. My mom and I cleaned for 16 hours that day. And it paid off, when we were back under contract in a matter of days.

Now, we are facing another possible setback. And the outpouring of support is incredible. Tonight, my Nana said, "there is always a solution." And I think there is. It will all be alright. We have enough people who are here for us, who believe in us, that we will get through any bump in the road.

As far as my time with my girls these last seven weeks, adventure is the name of the game. We still haven't figured out a good bedtime routine without Daddy around, so they are often up later than they should be. But, Kinnie Lin has learned to sleep in until 7! This is a miracle in itself. We have been to the pool a lot. And we took our little road trip. We've had a sleep over at Ninnie and Pops'. And visited the zoo. We have snuggled, and we have wrestled. We've taken a lot of long walks, and when we first started this process, I struggled to lift Ellie Claire onto my back in the backpack- now, it's no problem.

I am stronger, in a lot of different ways. I know that I can face what life brings. With a little help, of course.

Lessons

I turned a 7.5 hour drive into a 10.5 hour drive today. My girls and I meandered through the hills of Utah and Wyoming before cruising into Denver. I've never done a road trip quite in that fashion. But it was a beautiful day, and as I reflected on the loss of Eric, I was reminded of what is truly important in life.

During the beginning of the drive, I swear Eric had control of the mix my ipod was playing. From songs we used to dance to in the bar, to bands we saw and loved, song after song reminded me of him. And I was reminded that it's time to slow down. So the girls and I stopped at a park in Rock Springs. But its playground was inferior, so we went searching for a better one. We found a park with a playground and sprayground, so I pulled the luggage out of the car, got the girls changed into swimsuits, and played in the water. We didn't have a towel to dry off after, but that didn't seem to matter. Three hours later, we did it all again in Laramie. My girls were happy, and the kind of wonderful tired that comes from fun in the sun. And my heart was full.

See, all the things that we hurry for, all the things that we think are so important, aren't really. Whatever the reason for my rush the day I didn't stop to give Eric a hug can't have ultimately mattered at all. But I get caught up. I think most of us do. And it is times like these when I remember that all that really matters to me are my people- my family, both blood related and chosen.

I miss Eric a lot. There is a void in this city. But to have known him... well, that was a blessing.

My friend, Eric

My friend Eric died yesterday. His death was so unexpected. I would have never guessed that the last time I gave him a hug would be the last time. 

He worked at the animal hospital where I spent 6 years of my twenties. I remember that he was a bit shy, at first, but soon his true colors shone through. He had headphones on as often as he could, and it turned out we shared a love of rock music. When a show would come through town, we'd make plans to go, or I'd envy him as he decided to go, even if the tickets had to go on a credit card. We would trudge through the long workdays together, along with the rest of the Belcaro family. His laugh was fantastic, and is still so clear in my mind. 

A group of us began to spend more and more time together outside of work, and Eric was always there. I remember going out to Benny's Mexican for a birthday, and after one margarita, Eric fell asleep at the table. I laughed so hard. He was always a lightweight, and always game to party. 

Whenever I was sad, or struggling, I knew Eric felt my struggle, too. He'd give hugs, and try to be there in any way he could. He provided candy galore, and I know that on more than one occasion, I helped myself to his work drawer that was full of snacks. He always said he didn't mind. Because that's the kind of person he was.

As my time to move on from Belcaro came, Eric remained a part of my life. We spent birthdays together, and came up with lots of other reasons to celebrate. Of course, I saw Eric every time I took one of my dogs in to Belcaro, which was frequent. Always, he had a hug for me, and an update about his life. He lived some great adventures in his 40 years.

The last time I was at Belcaro, picking up meds for my dogs, I saw Eric on the lawn walking a dog. I thought about stopping to say hi, to give a hug, and to wish him well. But, I had my two fussing girls with me, and a million things to do. So I didn't turn the corner to go see him, but just went on my way. I figured there would be a million other chances. How I wish I had not taken that moment for granted.

I think Eric had no idea how loved he was. How cherished. He was nonjudgmental, loyal, genuine, heartfelt, funny. He was the best kind of friend. He was accepting, and overlooked my faults. He was a beautiful person. I hope that wherever he is now is as amazing as he is. I wish I could tell him. I wish I could give just one more hug.

Rest in peace, my friend. You will be remembered fondly for as long as I live. I love you.

The first step

This adventure, of leaving the city and moving toward small town life, began with B finding a job. Which he did, spectacularly, quickly. It starts tomorrow. And we're not set to live in Salida for another month. Which means he goes, and the girls and I stay.

He just walked out the door. He'll be back for weekends- about 48 hours per week. That means that (let me get the calculator)... 120 hours per week, for the next 4 weeks, I get to play the role of single mom. I have no idea what I'm in for. Two little girls, two hungry dogs. And me.

I have long believed myself strong. I can get through anything- not always tear free, but I can get through. But there are so many aspects of my life for which I have come to depend on my partner. Meals, bedtimes, packing lunches, taking out the trash, walking the dogs, dishes. And what's this about getting my own coffee going??? Not to mention, the company, the comfort, the support, the laughter... And I'm sure there are a million little things that I'm not even thinking about, that I'll realize I have taken for granted all these years.

This is a unique time in my life. A time to appreciate the chance to bond with my girls in whole new ways. An opportunity to be grateful for all that B does. Another way to show myself that I'm strong.

I can't wait till you get home, B.

Bought and sold.

Or, sold and bought, as the case may be.

Last Thursday, we listed our Denver townhouse. Before anyone ever stepped foot through the door, we had an offer. For 7% over our list price. I thought it was a joke. In fact, I called Brian a choice name when, at 6:15 am, he came to tell me. But it was real. And the offers kept coming. By Friday afternoon, our choice was clear, and we signed the contract.

Fifteen hours later, we were on the beat in Salida, looking for our home there. We went to seven different places. And after the fifth, I began to despair. Perhaps we would not find the home of our dreams. There was the place that reeked of cigarettes. And two with slanted floors. And one with wiring so archaic, it looked as though it might burst into flames.

Then, we stepped into the sixth. And as of 6am this morning, we are under contract to buy it. I knew, the minute I walked through the door, that this place was special. Beautiful, open, natural. Lots of room to love and play, indoors and out. A yard for the kids and dogs. An amazing kitchen to make feasts. A little park across the street, and a beautiful trail leading to downtown. A porch where I'll sit and drink coffee, and watch my girls grow. A deck where we'll grill meals and enjoy a beer. Views that are unbelievable. A place that is quiet. And yet so full of life.

When we came back to Denver last night, and walked into our townhome, I encountered a shred of grief. This place has seen so much. The early years of my marriage. My first, second, third and fourth dogs. The parties. The naps. The babies. That incredible room for my girls. There are so many memories. And when I consider that one day soon, I'll walk out the door for the last time, sadness weighs on my heart.

This next month will be full. Packing, inspections, packing, wrapping up at work, closing this house, closing that house, unpacking. I think, I pray, that this will be a beautiful adventure. Because all I really want is more time with the ones I love; a little simplicity.

But first, the craziness.

Just a little change...

So, for the last 12.5 years, I have prided myself as a city girl. I love the culture, diversity, liberal vibe, shopping, connection to others. If you had suggested that I would be a small town girl, EVER, I might have laughed in your face. How could I move out of this comfort zone? The city feel so alive.

Only, now, I am the Mama of two amazing girls- one preparing to start kindergarten, and the other toddling across the floor as I write. As they have come into my life, as our family has grown, things have changed. Slowly. The problem with the city is that it is... busy. The pace is so fast that I don't have the time to connect- with my girl, my friends, my family. These connections are the MOST important thing in my life. While I have an amazing network of people, I don't have a sense of community. I love where we live, but when Kinnie takes her scooter out for a ride, I don't know that anyone else is watching out for her. Not that they should have to, but just because it would be NICE- you know, if we were all looking out for one another?

That's the thing.

Brian and I have been thinking on this for years. That we want community. That we want more time to be together, and less time commuting. That we want to be able to savor every fleeting moment of our girls' childhoods, without feeling pressed for time.

And so we decided. We're leaving the city. We're headed for small town life.  Denver, I will miss you. You have been a great landing spot for a young couple starting life together. You have helped us grow. It's just time to part ways. We'll be back to visit, because in and around you are our favorite people. I'm sure I'll miss you. I'll miss having three Targets and ten million Starbucks in a three mile radius. I know I'll miss your culture. But it's time.

Salida, here we come.

Ownership

Today, I am struggling with anxiety. I have had depression for 15 plus years, and since I became a Mom, anxiety has been a part of my mental illness. When my first was an infant, the anxiety came naturally, as I was a new mom, and she was a sensitive, colicky baby. Only, the anxiety didn't go away as she overcame her colic. Some days were better, and some worse. I attended therapy, and learned a lot about myself, and my triggers. Now, with another new baby, I have days that feel saturated with anxiety. And this baby is as laid back as they come.

I go through my anxious days trying to determine the source of my anxiety- specifically. Maybe it's that my oldest  is challenging everything I say. Maybe it's that my infant daughter has had health concerns, or that it was a late night last night with her. But as I pondered these questions today, I found myself wondering if I was focusing on the wrong things. Because if those things are causing me to be anxious, I don't have control over them anyway.

I love my non-anxious days. The days when I feel present, and free, and happy.  And something tells me that I have more control than I realize. Anxiety is such a pit, and it is so easy to dig deeper and deeper, rather than just lifting myself out. Not that that is so easy, because if it was, I probably wouldn't be writing this.

Being a Mom is so vulnerable. I strive to do the best for my girls. In fact, my therapist once pointed out that I don't know what good enough is, so I just keep pushing. But they are their own people. And the best laid plans don't always work out. And if Ellie fusses all afternoon, there may be nothing I can do to change that. That's why I realize that it is within me. It is within me to know that each challenge will pass. It is within me to know that I do all I can for my girls, and that this is more than enough. It is within me to accept the things I can't change, and to be present for the great moments and the tough ones. Because the moments do pass quickly.

I think this will likely be a longtime process for me, with good days and bad. And when I googled "mom anxiety," one suggestion in particular was to give up caffeine, which is NOT going to happen. Certainly, there is more that I can do to help myself. Gratitude. Deep breaths. Getting outside. Talking with loved ones. Engaging in play. Reminding myself of the absolute, complete wonder, of watching my two beautiful girls grow. Even with anxiety, I am so blessed.

The Mama of Two

It is Mother's Day. My first as a Mom of two baby girls. Well, one baby. The other insists that she is a big girl. Regardless of how big she is, she will always be my baby.

This day is supposed to be about celebrating moms. I want to celebrate Motherhood. This crazy adventure fills me up.

Before I was surprised by my first pregnancy, I thought I'd probably have kids. But I wasn't convinced. I was having fun living my life. I was pretty fulfilled and I didn't think anything was missing. Then, I got pregnant. I was excited, and scared, and unsure. But the moment my baby was born, I knew: this was my purpose.

Being a Mama is powerful. As far as I know, there is no other experience that can compare. The profound love for my girls rules every moment of my existence. Most of the time, it is a complete joy. Sometimes, the power of that love causes incredible pain. When my child hurts, sometimes I think I feel the pain more deeply than she does.

Purpose. My girls give my life purpose. And when I talk to other Mamas, they feel the same about their kids. Raising beautiful souls from the moment they are conceived leads me to believe there is no greater task. Protecting them, teaching them, guiding them, playing with them, holding them, loving them with all my being- that is my purpose.

So on Mother's Day, when they celebrate me, I celebrate them. I am blessed and grateful. They will never know the power of my love for them, unless, someday, they have children of their own.

An end, A beginning

I have been doing a lot of reflecting these past few days. I suppose ringing in the new year brings this out in all of us. All that has happened, and all that I hope for, motivated me to write- for the first time in a long time.

When it first dawned on me that the New Year was near, I felt relief. 2013 has not been easy. I wanted to label it a bad year, and be done with it. Family has struggled. I have struggled. And not just in the every day type of way. There was an intensity with which 2013 presented its challenges.

For better or worse, I am a thinker. As I continued to ponder 2013, I reflected on who I was on January 1, 2013, versus who I am today. And it is amazing to say that at age 33, I have changed SO much in one year. Some of the change has come from having to face life's circumstances. Some of it came about because I chose to face my own struggles, and to heal. The culmination of all this is powerful beyond words. I feel I have gained wisdom and insight that some might not be fortunate enough to find in their entire lives. I feel humble, and grateful, and tired.

So even though 2013 could have been labeled a "bad year," I think I cannot view this kind of growth in a negative light. And despite all the challenges of the year, I have incredible people with whom I am more connected. Including to my little girl.

In 2014, I hope for fortitude. It will bring the birth of my second daughter, the fourth birthday of my first daughter, my twelfth wedding anniversary. It will bring more opportunities and challenges and changes. But if I can stay in this space, I think I can face them better than ever before. There is no greater gift. Thank you, 2013.

Happy New Year to all.

The therapist's heart

Had a bit of a sleepless night. And that was only partly due to my almost three-year-old who awakened twice and attempted to refuse to go back to bed. It's not often that my work interrupts my sleep, but when it does, my brain just won't be quiet.

The kids and families I work with are a part of my heart. I dedicate a lot of thought to how to help them achieve their goals, whatever those may be. Sometimes even at 3am. And when they aren't getting better, or when things have been better, and they slide backwards, it's really tough. Especially when there is real risk to the kids, or families, of bigger consequences. And sometimes I have to make judgments about what to do next that weigh on me.

It's not that I feel guilt, or blame myself for the suffering, the struggling. It is that I want so badly to help. Because I don't want the Mom who lost one son to lose another. I don't want to send a girl into harm's way. I don't want the boy whose heart is good to get swallowed up in his pain and anger.

So that's why I'm up thinking. What interventions should come next? What haven't we tried? What are we missing?

This is a beautiful job, in so many ways. And the rewards are amazing, when real progress is made, when a mother hugs me and thanks me for all your help. But the reality is that, at least in my practice, that those moments have to feed me through a lot.

And in the meantime, these kids become "my" kids. Because I choose to let them in, and choose to be one more person to try to help them on their path. I have hope for every single one.

It has been a while...

Interesting that my blog posts slowed significantly once I returned to grad school. I suppose I write more than enough for my course in PTSD. Still, writing about my life, and the light of my life, feels so much more important. It's just so hard, sometimes, to find the time.

I met a sweet old lady in the grocery store yesterday. I had picked up a Hello Kitty stuffed animal, and she looked at it longingly, and shook her head. I smiled and said something about how cute it was, and how tempting. That was all it took. A twenty-five minute conversation ensued. I learned that Georgia is 87. She has 8 great-grandchildren, including a nine-year-old who has Georgia wrapped around her little finger. She married her high school sweetheart after graduating in 1944, and he served in World War II after being drafted. They had two, maybe three, children. Georgia's own parents died at relatively young ages. Georgia and her beloved Leroy lost their oldest daughter 12 years ago to cancer. She was 54. Within two years of her death, Leroy passed away, too. Georgia was tearful as she recalled watching her daughter fight her disease, and as she spoke of how much she still misses Leroy. She admitted that she sometimes feels depressed, and does not know why she is still here. Then she shared more about her 9-year-old great-granddaughter, who is actually her step great-granddaughter, but does not know the difference. The 9-year-old lives nearby, and stays with Georgia on occasion. Georgia said that her great-granddaughter holds Georgia's face in her hands and tells her she doesn't know what she would do without her. I said, "Well that's why you're here." Georgia has some health problems, including a pace maker and a replaced knee. She said she doesn't have much money, but keeps busy anyway. She was picking out Easter eggs, and said she tapes dollar bills to some of them as an extra surprise for the kids.

Georgia apologized for taking my time, and thanked me for giving it. I told her I had lots of time, and was grateful to have met her. She said that despite everything, she had had a blessed life. She said that all that really matters are the children and being kind. We parted ways so that she could get a Starbucks, and then had one more goodbye when she walked back from Starbucks, disappointed that they had closed at 6, and it was now 6:10. I went to pick out a Rotisserie chicken, only to discover that the store had run out, and I would have to go somewhere else to get our dinner.

I think this chance meeting was something more than that. It was a reminder that life will pass by. And who knows what my story will be, if I am lucky enough to get to 87 years old. And there will never be a happy ending, but there will be many beautiful moments. And also some that are incredibly painful. But the point is the process. It is about being kind, and about taking care of our kids. Georgia was right. If we are those two things, somehow I think we come through it all with grace. There are no guarantees, other than this moment.

So, I'm going to go now, and embrace my two-and-a-half-year-old, who is decked out from head to toe in princess and ballerina gear, and has been since 4:30 am. And that's okay. Because even that early, there are beautiful moments.

tragedy and gratitude

Today has been heartbreaking. There is no other way to describe the brutal mass murder that occurred in Connecticut. The loss of 26 lives, 20 of those so young. And innocent. And in their loss, we lost our innocence, too.

It is as if nothing is sacred. There is no place we can send our children that is protected enough- churches, school, work, malls. Today is especially awful. These were babies. And their parents, and all who love them, did not get enough time with them. To die such a violent death... I know of no words to describe the feeling in my gut, in my heart. It is pain. It is anguish. It makes me feel sick.

I got home today after a long day at work, and cried. I held my baby and I cried. I looked at her face, and imagined what I would do if she were ripped from my life. I don't know what I would do, how I would survive. And I think of the innumerable parents, and grandparents, and aunt and uncles, and brothers and sisters, who are facing that exact thing at this very moment.

It does not make sense. It hasn't in the past. And it does not today.

For a moment, I thought, "I don't want to live in a world like this." That thought entered my mind as my baby girl was sitting on me, eating a big handful of green beans, and watching a favorite movie. And then I realized something. And I felt gratitude.

I feet gratitude that I have this day. And that I have had all the days before. And that no matter what happens tomorrow, I have today. And so today, I will hold her. And I will pray for those families. And I will do whatever I can to show those who I love how much they mean. And I will do something good for the world. As much as my heart aches, I am lucky enough to have this moment.

It's not that gratitude will heal all grief. Loss is loss and tragedy is tragedy. It's that if I have the strength to be present in this moment, and aware of all the beautiful things, I can be sure that I have not taken a moment for granted. Because we don't know what tomorrow will bring. But today, we are here.