Rambling

I've been staring at my computer screen for a long while now. I feel compelled to say something; I just can't figure out what. So scattered ramblings are on the menu.

Sometimes I can't believe that I'm a grown-up. I guess that sounds a little crazy given that I'm 35, but... I really can't. I can clearly remember being in high school and then in college. I remember having plans and hopes and dreams. I remember having perfect, wrinkle-free skin and knees that didn't snap, crackle and pop when I walked. I remember feeling like I knew everything.

And now... I'm 35. I've gotten married, bought two houses, driven multiple cars, given birth to four babies and said see you later to one. I've done a lot. But at the same time, I still feel like I'm fresh out of college. Unsure of what's next. Scared sometimes.

I guess the one big difference is that now, at 35, I'm painfully aware that I most certainly do not know everything. And I never will, at least not during this lifetime.

And I'm also aware that I can't derive a sense of self-worth from my successes and failures, though of course I do it anyway. I went to a college that placed a high value on success, defined on a narrow spectrum: gaining influence and earning money. Of course it was nice to be kind to others, but it wasn't a true priority for the real go-getters. No, the goal was to build the portfolio, network and generate cash.

Maybe that's cynical. After all, I loved college. It's where I met Adam. It's where I met a handful of lifelong friends. But it is, to a degree, the truth. And it's hard to not look at myself, as a product of that environment, and not feel like a failure. After all, I'm a writer who's never published a book. I have friends who are, by comparison, extremely successful. Me? I'm a mom. And I wasn't even mom-enough to save my own flesh and blood.

I guess that sounds pretty harsh, doesn't it? When I sit in the dark, sometimes I have dark thoughts. I suspect we all do; most of us just don't share them.

Anyway. Valentine's Day is about 20 minutes away. Last year, Adam and I spent our Valentine's Day looking at cemetery plots. It was surreal. That's the best word for it by leaps and bounds: surreal. I'm thankful that we've survived the first year.

But I miss him so.

Remembering to Breathe

In just a few short hours, it'll be February 11. The first anniversary of Logan's passage from this life to the next.

Lots of people have asked me what our plans are for commemorating the day. I still don't know for sure. We have bits and pieces to the puzzle, but the whole picture... it's not there yet. Adam and I are going to donate blood in the morning, and at some point during the day, we'll plant new flowers on Logan's grave to replace the ones that've fallen victim to our recent cold snap (and, based on some strategically located hoofprints, a deer or two).

But my primary goal is, very simply, to remember to breathe.

I worried, a year ago, that by the time tomorrow rolled around, I would've forgotten a lot of the nuances that made me love him so dearly; the things that made him my sunshine. I can say with great confidence that those fears were unfounded; I haven't forgotten much of anything. And when my memory feels like it may wane, I watch a video or two, and everything comes flooding back. That huge, beaming smile of his that Adam and I could never really understand, given our own serious collective demeanor. The moments of unbridled silliness. The freely given --and joyfully received-- unsolicited I Love Yous.

Yeah. I could try to be ambitious tomorrow. But I think I'll just remember to breathe.

Fifty-Two Weeks

Fifty-two weeks ago, my life was forever changed. In a way, it's a mercy that 2012 was a leap year, since it means we have an extra day to reflect --and prepare-- before the 11th arrives. THE date.

But today... it all happened 52 weeks ago today. A Saturday.

It's only late-morning, but my day has already been punctuated by fleeting flashbacks that shadowed my actions. Waking up tired... the drive to dance class... the quick trip through the McDonalds drive-thru on the way home... all of it.

Only now, of course, despite engaging in some of the same activities, things are... different. Instead of being at CHO, helplessly watching as Logan drifted off toward Heaven and the reward that awaited him there, I'm sitting in my family room. Writing. And the McDonalds bag isn't in the passenger side floor of my car, contents uneaten and getting colder by the second. No. They've been consumed and the trash stowed away in the bin. And in place of the rain-saturated clouds that loomed overhead 52 weeks ago are clear, beautifully blue skies. No tears in today's sky. No clouds to hold them in -- or let them fall.

I'm remembering just a fraction of how it felt to say good-bye... or maybe just see you later... I always have to remind myself that it was see you later and not good-bye... because I can't open the flood gates... yet. After all, there are still two more days. But the memories still come like little leaks in a dam. I could just jam my fingers into the holes, but there wouldn't be much of a point, would there?

And so the day continues.