I was watching Isaac and his teammates on the field when I glanced briefly to the right and saw K. So I got up, walked over, gave her a hug, and said hi. It was a very brief interaction because she was there in coach-mode, but those few minutes were just what my heart needed.
It's just hard to get through the days leading up to the anniversary. It's like I lose my filter entirely and repeatedly stick both feet in my mouth, and then I feel terrible and have to muster the emotional energy to apologize while quietly feeling like the worst person ever for not being able to keep it together. Because it's been almost six years. Shouldn't I have it together by now? I don't know. Part of me thinks I should and part of me feels like a failure because I can't just say "enough. I'm going to stop being so emotional now." Like somehow, I'm getting the God-part of living with loss profoundly wrong. So for better or worse, that's where I am.
But today had its bright spots, and my coffee with Christina was one of them. I met her almost 10 years ago when she was Abby's preschool teacher. She went on to have Logan, Isaac, and Brady in her class, which gives her the distinction of being the only person who will ever teach all four of them. That alone makes her special to me.
But she's also special because she knows what it's like to have to let go of a child. Our circumstances are completely different, but the end result --the absence of someone we expected to nurture through childhood and walk alongside during adulthood-- is the same. As we talked, I nodded along with so much of what she said, and though I wish I could change her situation, it was comforting to know that someone understands my feelings on a deep, soul-level; that someone I know can relate to so many of the emotions --that searing sense of loss and brokenness and dissonance and anger and emptiness-- with which I struggle.
I always need those connections, but this time of year in particular, they're invaluable. So as this hard day comes to a close, I'm deeply thankful to be able to count her as a friend.
As I scanned all 400-plus clips, my eyes were drawn to those that featured Logan in all of his states of life. I watched him go from baby to toddler to preschooler to cancer patient. I even watched the very last video I have with him, as I sat with him and sang to him shortly before he passed on. That one was so hard to watch that I almost had to stop several times, but I pushed through because I needed to get to the end. I needed to see myself give him that kiss.
But my favorites of them all --the ones that make me laugh and cry simultaneously-- are the ones that feature him living: smiling, dancing, jumping on the couch, singing, and being that wackadoole kid I carried in my womb and then loved so, so much for the five and a half years I got to be his mom on earth.
This time of year breaks me. It makes me testy and impatient and irrational and even more emotional than I usually am. But I'm deeply thankful to have these snippets of the past available to me so I can take the time to just remember what was, and more importantly, what will be once again some day.
We enjoyed a walk by the ocean, lots of window shopping, a stop at a toy store I really like (because "40" doesn't mean "too old to love puzzles and Pusheen"), and lots of pausing to admire cute cottages all along the way. (We both, as we realized, most appreciate the ones that look like they were plucked from a trolls-and-fairies fantasy land.)
Although there were plenty of fun moments to recall, one of my favorites was quite literally a simple stitch in time. As we passed a shop --and I have no idea which one it was-- we saw a little girl standing on the sidewalk, staring up at a window display. When I glanced over to see what had captured her attention, I saw a giant painting of Marilyn Monroe blowing a bubble. A second later, the little girl --whose eyes were still fixed on that image-- started to laugh. It was a sweet, lilting laugh that made me giggle, too.
There's something just so precious about moments like that; when something completely random and unexpected catches the eye and tickles a funny bone. It was a lovely reminder that though there are many aspects of this life that are hard and painful and difficult, there are also opportunities for merriment, and those split-second experiences can often be a day's most notable hour.
A stop at my favorite shell and rock hunting cove, where I was once again wowed by the incredible variety of color and texture carried to the shore by the ocean. A succession of butterflies that flitted in and out of our path. Snippets of conversation. Watching the sky melt into oranges and yellows and caramels as the sun dipped into the ocean. Sharing dinner and dessert at Bistro Giovanni. The after-dark stroll back to our home-away-from-home. And a few episodes of "Fixer Upper" on HGTV.
A bunch of little moments, all unique and different and memorable for different reasons. It's good, I think, to step away from reality now and again and just be. So for this opportunity to just be for a few days with my other --and quite often better-- half, I'm thankful.
Once we finally hit the road it was an uneventful drive that featured plenty of bumper to bumper traffic and a few impassioned choruses of popular '80s songs. We eventually checked into our lovely suite --the exact same one we stayed in back in November of 2015, as it happens-- and then headed out to dinner.
We initially planned to have dinner where we had it on arrival night in 2015, but when we got there, we found that the restaurant had closed. So we had to make a quick game-time decision on an alternate destination, and wound up at the very close-by Cultura. We sat in a corner by a pair of windows, and enjoyed chit-chatting and watching patrons repeatedly attempt to enter the restaurant where there wasn't actually a door. (It was funnier in person.)
And then the food came, and I was completely flummoxed by my "chicken enchiladas", which seemed to feature a plate of cheese and random veggies and nothing that really resembled chicken. I had a few bites, laughed when Adam suggested I ask for a map, and finally gave up after I accepted that I just didn't like it at all.
The server was awesome: she apologized profusely, whisked it away, insisted on bringing me a pair of chicken tacos instead, and then didn't charge us for any of my food. I told her --repeatedly-- that all was well and that different people have different palates and I was fine, but she really went out of her way to make sure I had a good experience.
Anyway, it was great to have some time to spend with just Adam since we so rarely get away together and I'm looking forward to the rest of the weekend. But what I want to say here relates back to grace. I saw a flash of panic in the server's eyes when I told her I didn't like the food. For a split second she even flinched, as if she thought I might say something harsh. I didn't, of course, because that's not the right thing to do and it wasn't her fault anyway, but it says quite a lot about society that I could see that momentary hold-your-breath-and-brace-yourself response pass over her face. It often takes very little effort or personal sacrifice to offer someone else an ounce of grace. So the next time someone else --be it your spouse or your kid or a friend or a complete stranger-- does something that grates against your sensibilities, give 'em some. It's free to give and you'll probably never know how much it's appreciated.
Yep, that's a bowl of cereal, and it served as my dinner tonight. (I had a meeting and didn't get to eat beforehand, and by the time I got home I just didn't feel like doing anything complicated.) I --like my own kids, who polished off an entire box today-- ate quite a lot of cereal as a kid, so it takes me back to a different time when life was a bit less complicated. So for the memory of that simplicity, I'm thankful.
