Sassafrass

This part of the divorce is done

Our unplugged weekend away was the calm before the fury. Before I headed back to court with the Almost Ex and before Lil E was sent spinning in the middle of the plans and arrangements of the parenting agreement his dad and I were trying to negotiate, to get settled and signed.

We had a pre-trial hearing to address the issues in our parenting agreement that we've been disputing. Although we never saw the judge, we spent hours in the hallway, our attorneys shuttling back and forth between us, attempting to resolve those points that were gaping open. The hope was that we would sew it all up to present to the judge so that she would not make the decisions for us. And as lovely as hope is, standing with my lawyer in front of the Almost Ex and his lawyer, defending the merits of daycamp and nap times made the wound feel deeper and even more raw.

Even with that wide open part of myself exposed where I am sure anyone in that hallway outside the courtroom could peer in and see my heart beating faster and fast, hear the blood rushing and notice where the old scars around it have been healing, I felt strong.

Of course, I felt worried. Was I sticking to the most important issues? Was I standing firm enough? Was I thinking clearly enough? Was I making wise decisions?

He wasn't the only one who was zonked

It was a weekend to wind down.

More precisely, it was a weekend to play in the lake for six hours (the boy), soak up the sun (the mama), eat plenty of confetti-iced angel food cake (the both) and then nap it all off.

He didn't move for two hours.

And this morning just a few minutes pre-swim, he took this one of me. I like think it evokes a certain je suis Jackie O. You don't have to tell me to work it, grrrl twice, even if it is just to shovel roads in the sand, shoo away giant blue dragonflies and ride on the pontoon boat for a few laps around the lake.

Maybe all that attitude came from laptop detox. Or maybe it was all the chips and Diet Coke I consumed all weekend. Maybe it was me gearing up for another court date on Monday. It was possibly the $40 in shipping I just dropped to ship my business cards for BlogHer (holla) that I procrastinated into...well, $40 rush shipping to order. Or perhaps it was me jonesing to hear this song (I'm not kidding, it is as under my skin as my sunburn).  Awww hell, let's be honest. All that attitude was just the result of a good dose of family, a great deal of sun and the intense desire to crawl back into bed.

It was all good, though. All much better than I even thought it would be or even realized I needed.

Un-planning the holiday

As the holiday weekend approached, I let down some of my planning, organizing guard and let the new, pink skin of just being unfold.

On my desk, I have a copy of the parenting agreement Lil E's dad and I have already invested several meetings, two progress hearings, hours and hours of mediation, countless text messages and burning conversations in not signing.

Although we we've had one little hour in dispute (a ridiculous reality but those sixty minutes are indicative of much bigger issues), the one thing we agreed on easily was the holiday schedule. So there it is in my calendar, laying across these limbo days between separation and divorce.

What a week

It feels like we've been through it all: Court, a viral cough, the end of co-op, a t-ball awards banquet, the last few episodes of The Hills finally showing up On Demand, the Great Fish Food Bowl Dump of 2008. It's been crazy.

And because of all these happenings, Lil E and I have not had enough sleep and the sleep we have had has been interrupted by coughing jags and crying, mama concern and doses of medicine. We had to rush through some of the fun stuff because of being too worn out or just needing cuddle time. I've missed a lunch with a friend and cancelled a dinner and a party I really hoped to go to. And then, of course, there was The Massive Fish Bowl Cleaning of 2008.

Today, though, things are somehow better. There was a med-free night of good sleep and we are headed to the lake for some time to be unplugged, in the water and away from all those stresses of the week.

There's lots more to talk about. But that will all save until Monday.

It was what it was: A court update

As it turns out, court is very good people watching. Of course, if you've ever been there, even for jury duty, you know this.

That was the distraction, sitting with my dad for what seemed like a long time but was really just an hour or so, since "only fifteen minutes" is a legal term that means "longer."

And thank goodness for my dad, who occasionally patted my shoulder or grabbed my hand and listened patiently as I reviewed what I would say if I was asked when I stood before the judge.

As it turns out, though, the attorney for the other person in this matter, didn't show up. And without that attorney, we couldn't proceed. Without him, we got a continuance and we left exactly where we were when we got there. Just with less nerves.

I certainly don't want this to be dragged out. I certainly wasn't happy that my time and money were wasted for a few giggles over Creepy Guy who slid in right next to me on the bench.  But I did feel good about being there, being so supported by dad, being confident in how well-represented by my own attorney and in walking out of the courtroom knowing I've fulfilled my part (and so much more).

Everyday, I am trying to move this along, to move forward myself, to settle into my life of thriving and our lives of peace and sweetness and health and joy. It doesn't always work out that way, of course. Hell, it doesn't always work out our way. Some days just are what they are, and that's all they can be. Nothing bigger and shinier and wrapped up in ribbons, nothing less.

Pssst! All shoe notions confirmed with the very sassy red patent peep toes peeking out from my attorney's classic blue suit. I told you so.

It is what it is: Today we go to court

Months and months ago, when I received a court order for a progress hearing on June 2nd to examine the state of my divorce and resolve any of those detailed and seemingly-gigantic divorce issues, it felt like a lifetime away.

But then, for the last eight months out of survival and then sanity and then a need to just be and breathe, I have taken my life in much smaller increments than I did before my marriage crash-landed. For a while,  Wednesday felt like a lifetime a way. Then it was next week, then it expanded slowly from there. Still, though, what I can take on in my calendar comes in little boxes now, not in big grids or multi-month pages to be flipped every so often.

And actually, that is a good thing. It slows me down. It focuses my attention. It keeps me as present as I can possibly be when I'd otherwise have been consulting my calendar and Crackberry (who are we kidding, I haven't taken the time to figure that out yet?!) and looking four or ten or seventeen weeks ahead.

But all that being in the present means that sometimes, things like court dates sneak up and settle into your lap. And here mine is.

I feel good. I feel confident. I feel supported. I feel strong. And I am told I only have to feel that way for the fifteen minutes or so we are in front of the judge.  Then I am free to cry into my dad's chest or stare into a latte or just go back to work. I imagine, it will be -- and I will be -- just fine.

Or rather, I envision it will be just fine. When I leave the court room today, past the half-door separating the seating and the judge's stand, beyond security and back on to the el, I will be one step closer.

One step closer to being done. That could be a long way off or it could be next week. No matter. It's too much to take on regardless of how many days or hours it ends up being until this is finalized and I am free of everything it has been.

I'll just take on today's court date, and keep it right there, with as much as I have and as much as I can pull up. Nothing more, nothing less.



Pssst. As completely Donna Mills on Dallas as it sounds...yes, I will be wearing something fab on my feet. Smart, sassy power shoes (which, for me, do not match in any way the navy Republican suit I was required to wear in my former corporate life) totally impact litigated lady's confidence. I kid you not.

Tending to me (hey, it was a holiday)

Memorial Day weekend was a turning point in our house. Lil E was scheduled to have lots of time with his dad and grandparents. I had a big list of things I could do to fill the time and only a few friends around and in town to convince me to scratch all that. It was up to me to choose to have a weekend I needed rather than one I thought I should have.

You know what, though? I came through for myself. Usually, I am pretty good at the talk and then struggle when it comes to forgetting about the dishes and laundry and trips to the fruit market to just enjoy myself and wiggle around in the free time I am given. This time, I did it and good Lord, it felt right.

Instead of making lots of meals and catching up on chores, here's are four things I did to tend to myself this Memorial Day weekend. Nothing fancy, nothing too involved. Just what I needed:

When just relaxing requires a major renovation

After a few days of blerghy-dramatic dizziness and migraines, I took the weekend to do what I am always telling other people to do (sigh, why is that so challenging, to be as bossy to myself as I am to my grrrlfriends?). I relaxed.

This time, relaxing didn't include unpacking eighteen boxes or stopping at three grocery stores and Target in an effort to cram as much into my down time as possible. This time, relaxing included sleeping in the middle of the day, eating take-out, camping out on the floor to watch a movie, sleeping in and then topping it off with actually taking a nap while Lil E slept.

This weekend, I tried to listen to what my body was telling me: Too little sleep, too little food, too little time away from the laptop, too little fresh air, too little transition time between work and everything else is not good.

My body, as I have learned the hard way over the years and much more experience with blerghy-dramatic dizziness and migraines, screams out at me when it needs my attention.

Clearly, when my body's that worn, my spirit and mind are exhausted as well. In that place, the relaxing is not a luxury, it is a necessary repair. While thinking of my being as plumbing or ducts or some kind of dilapidated kitchen constructed in the (previous) avocado era isn't exactly pleasing or in line with that whole temple connotation, the sad truth is that I have been more likely to give my attention and energy to a spouting sink or blinking fluorescent light long before I would take a breather in the middle of my day or trash the to-do list for a weekend.

I know this isn't anything radical and that many mamas out there have the same struggles with self-care. How do we not only lose the time and inclination to take good care of ourselves, but the understanding of where to even start?

This weekend, I started with the basics. And this week, I am going to make those basics more of a habit.

You tell me: What do you do when your body is screaming for more self-care? How do take the time to tend to all that needs to be repaired in your being?

Remember Project: Life Change? Have any of those small changes made a big difference in how you are caring for yourself these days?

 

   

Postcards from the past few days

We're taking this weekend to settle in. While Lil E plays at "Daddy's park," I'll be hitting the blocks-long garage sales in the new neighborhood, making a Target run and spending time with people who don't (normally) engage in bathroom talk 80% of the conversation. Here are a few photos to catch you up on a wonderful and very full week of transition and adventures.

The potted flowering plant Lil E was so thrilled to give me bright and early on Mother's Day morning. He picked it out, he said, because it is "our favorite color!" You've got to adore a boy who can embrace pink so vivaciously.

Walking with Grandma and Grandma Alice through the halls of her nursing home to check in on some baby chicks who hatched a few weeks ago. Grandma Alice will be 100 this summer and although Lil E has never known the feisty, smart lady she is under the veil of Alzheimer's, they have always had an unspeakable, powerful, instinctual connection. You can feel it emanating between them as they hold hands, sing and smile at each other. 

(More pics after the jump)

How he spent the first day in our new place

There are new creaks and noises to get used to and many things to learn about our new place (note to self: do not run the dishwasher a) at night and #2) immediately before entering the shower). But the good news is, we woke up here in (relatively) good spirits after a (short but) good night's sleep.

Lil E is on the fence about whether this place is better than Grandma and Grandpa's house. OK, who am I kidding? He flat-out said, "Grandma and Grandpa's house is just so. much. more. fun." This was after asking how long we have to live here. And he was so deadpan, I knew he was as serious as naptime. Preschoolers -- they're a tough crowd, man. And the only response is laughter. It is seriously the only consistent thing that gets us through.

Lil E must think Grandma and Grandpa's house is a big party because there, he does a lot of cable TV watching and elbow pinching (shhht, it's his quirky thing) while sitting in the big leather armchair. Here, he apparently thinks he's living in some sort of sweatshop work camp. God help me if the underage permit people come around before all these boxes are unpacked.

It was like there was a list in his ever-cranking brain of things that must be done. I am pretty sure it was scrawled out in his mind like this:

(Lil E's list after the jump)

This is where we live now. And this is how we got here

And so, we have made the leap.

Seven months ago, I left my therapist's office, picked up Lil E from co-op, took him home for a nap and packed a big bag of clothes while he slept.

I'm not sure what was in that bag. Basics, I suppose. Undies, Pull-Ups, toothbrushes, jeans, sneakers, long-sleeved t-shirts, his favorite jammies, his babies. I packed a few things of my own, more random things like bras and yoga pants and hair clips. I focused on the boy but couldn't center when it came to myself.

My mom came by with her car and support and brave smile over her own heartache and worry and anger. When Lil E woke up we put on even happier faces and went to a birthday party. We tossed our overnight bags in and presents on top. We talked up the party and how his good friend would be so excited to be three too, so thrilled to see him there.

And then we never went home.

So this is what it looks like when you're off the grid

It has been quite a week. Scratch that -- quite a month. Make that -- quite a year. I suppose it was inevitable that, at some point, something I was clinging inside my clenched fist would fall out.

Three. Six.

Today, as my friends on Facebook know due to the strange genius and assumed intimacies of auto-alerts and as my so-not-accepting applications real friends know because they are my real friends who have stuck around and stood beside me through many years or even just these last transforming months, it is my birthday.

I'm like a six-year old when it comes to my birthday. I want balloons and cakes and of course, tiaras. I want a party, even if it is a drink or two at a bar with my grrrls, and I want to spend the day lounging and singing and doing whatever I want to do just because it's my birthday.

I clearly remember feeling this way when I turned six, leaping from my bed in an excited re-enactment of the cartoon girl on Sesame Street I'd wistfully seen a thousand times, singing, "I'm six! I'm six! I'm six years old today!" I was so happy it was finally my turn to sing that song.  Silly and sweet as it was, every year I think of that, feel that birthday bliss, and every year I find myself singing it in a quiet whisper to myself or through smiles with my mom who also remembers, no matter what number my age actually registers.

This year, I am thirty years beyond that bed-leaping morning. I am officially on the other side of mid-thirties and am not, as I have not for several years now, happy about the number I see before me. But here I am.

We've been talking about this number around the house a lot lately, not just because I am giddy at the celebration part of the day but because my boy is too. Last night, he said I was lucky because I'd get to spend my day playing with balloons and he couldn't wait to wake up early to start celebrating with me. I sighed at the sweetness and simplicity of it all. Homemade cake and candles and embracing that number like it's...well, six.

He asked me how old I was, or rather, what my number is and I threw the question back at him like all mommies say they will not but eventually do to avoid the age answer.

"88?" he asked seriously, looking into my eyes from only inches away.
   

Where I show up just in time for dinner with a full basket of dirty laundry and ask for twenty bucks, please

It has been one long week since I visited and I feel a bit like a college student who is weary from killer finals and post-killer finals keggers at the frat barn who has returned home for a break that she swears will be packed full of working for some family friend or another and spending QT with the fam but will really be spent sleeping in late and hoping her mother does her laundry.

Except, without all the overly foamy Milwaukee's Best (forgive me for this, but I am totally conditioned by attending a highly-competitive state school in Missouri to follow that brand mention with horned fingers in the air and yelling, "Bring on The Beeeeaaaaast").  Oh, and without the sleep.

We've been busy. I've been working a lot of hours (this is a good thing...right?) and squeezing in an exhaustive apartment search, games of Candy Land, co-op and daycare, energy-burner laps around the block and praying for spring to arrive for real this week into any and every free moment. 

Thankfully like the whole college spring break (well, my college spring breaks which never involved bikinis or clubs in Florida filled with foam and jello shots), my parents have been very involved. My mom took on this wonderful, wired-up role as apartment finder and with my dad, did drive-bys and internet research and Google map consulting for weeks and weeks.

My dad patiently finished and folded all the laundry I neglectfully left in the washing machine for days on end and did his crossword with Lil E snuggled in beside him in the big chair while I sat in front of my laptop for seemingly endless hours, scouted out more apartments and did and re-did and re-did my monthly budget.

And just like seeing that A arrive in mail in rubbed-off type on a tissue paper report card, there are shining moments when staying up studying and cramming and flexing the brain until 3 a.m. in boxers and t-shirts from said frat barn keggers all seems worth it.

We got an apartment. An apartment (feel free to say that as shrill as needed...I do)! A lovely place that I could immediately picture us in. It is bright and safe and feels happy, even without our things inside. It is close to the apartment where we used to live, even closer to my parents and closer still to a big park that I've always loved. We will not be far from our old friends and we will be in a new place where I know there will be new neighbors to meet.

We have a lot of work to do before we settle in to our new home. There will be more late nights, more stress, more juggling of childcare and schedules and expectations. But once the books are closed, the lights are out and we are tucked into our own beds in our own home, I think there will be that sigh of relief that only comes when you've accomplished something big.

Sometimes, I guess, those accomplishments are academic, sometimes professional and often familial. They are always emotional, though, aren't they? And almost always solved by just getting home.

Linkety Dinkety Doo: Oh, dang

Oh, Madge. False alarm. It's all good. You can still come to my finalizing fete.

Oh, Dooce. I knew you were listening in between doggie pics and antique pilfering. I just had a feeling you've been reading my little itty bitty baby blog. And I suspected we had similar tastes in crap TV.

Oh, honey. O, honey. It's just fine with me if you have a little air of superiority about your gold stars.  As long as the gold stars keep on coming (yes, those gold stars), who really cares how they (ahem) fall into your lap?

Oh, hell naw. See? I told you living with retired folk can be crazy. Thank the goddesses of small domesticated creatures my parents didn't read this article when poor little Corky kicked it last summer. Seriously, people. There's animal-loving and then there's that point when you may need to stop thinking about heirloom preservation fur crafts and start considering adding a few more hours to your Home Depot greeter schedule. (Thanks for building the dog hair awareness, Jenn.)

Madonna and I finally have something in common

I mean, other than these rockin' bodies and countless hit singles. Of course, Madonna, being the apparent planner and PR-machine that she is, is planning her divorce (get this) a year-and-a-half in advance.

A year-and-a-half!? Seriously? I hope she writes some a song explaining all this shit, like she did when all that went down with Sean Penn and the world was like, "WHAT THE --??!!" and then heard her song and was like, "Ohhhhh, now we get it.  Now we feel you, friend." You know people will be pointing the finger at their complicated adoption of baby David, which is exactly what I am completely uninterested in hearing. I mean, do we really need the agony of another marriage gone down the drains because a kid was brought into the picture story (not that I'm bitter)? Anyway, I vote for Madonna to give us some sort of poppy, rhymey perspective on the end of her marriage instead.

Let's hope for that. And then let's hope the explanation doesn't come in the form of a children's book or with a half-assed British accent. If she has 18 months to finalize the paperwork, she clearly has plenty of opportunity to sit down at the keyboard with a yellow steno pad and hammer out a few verses, right?

I know she does all kinds of charitable work and has to choreograph the next big tour no one will talk about but, a year-and-a-half?! I cannot get over that.

Suddenly, standing nakey on a street corner to pose for a coffee table book and ending it with Warren Beatty isn't looking so crazy. Unless she's got this all worked out as a way to tighten the screws on her Guy. If that's the case, I happen to have memorized the number of another (ahem) person's certain almost-ex that she is welcome to strategize slow-dripping dissolution techniques on when she gets bored of torturing her own hubs.

Maybe this is a sign for me that I need to take up Pilates and Kaballah. Or record the dance remix of a flagging mid-90s hit that will appeal to all the adorable Project Runway-committed boys just now coming up in the clubs. Or maybe it is just the universe telling me that I should go a little blonder the next time I spend four days and a gajillion dollars getting my hair did by Silvia at the salon.

Whatever it is, I hear you, Madge. For the first time since Justify My Love, I am really, really hearing you.

H-E-double hockey sticks-P

I have a hard time asking for help.

And if you know me (even a little bit), this is not news. If you know me really well (or even more than that), this has made you roll your eyes many, many times -- at Thanksgiving dinners with a child sweaty and sound asleep in a sling on my chest when I couldn't scoop my own mashed potatoes but tried desperately to do it myself thanks very much anyway, and in college when I sobbed into the echoey stall because I couldn't wash my own hair with a cast on my broken arm until my roommate forced her way into the shower with me and told me to breathe while she shampooed and conditioned and later blow-dried and brushed my hair for me, and when I've sputtered into paralyzing panic attacks over mice in the (shiver) apartment and into humor-masked rages over jackass men and when the little unattended girl in the restaurant where I waited tables in grad school jumped up and under the tray I was holding full of Mother's Day mimosas and champagne and Old Fashioneds and sodas and hit the tray, spilling the drinks all over me and the tables around me and thank the goddesses, shards of glass narrowly missing her but not the concrete floor and I just needed someone to smile at my customers for a moment while I gasped after I cleaned it all up and before I returned to my tables soaked through with orange juice and bubbly and red wine. So yes, you all are aware. I am fiercely independent.

It has served me well often. It has moved me through and helped me rise above. It has helped me survive, persevere, buck up, pack up, walk away, come home. As often as it has helped, however, it has also hurt.

Independence doesn't have to, but often does, I've have learned through many dollars in therapy co-pays, precluded reaching out for help. Knowing when to ask for help, especially when it is hardest, is as important for me as knowing when I really can go it alone.

Slowly, surely, with practice and some wincing, I am trying to reach out. I am trying to tune in to what I do need and when it is OK to ask for it. When my friends and family say they want to be there, I am really trying to say OK rather than nod politely and note-to-self that I will never take them up on their generous offers.

So today -- and this is small and significant, which is how I like my lessons these days -- I asked a friend who loves music like I love music to please send me a mellowish and nice song. A feel-good song. A song that would speak to where I am today. A song that would help me move into tomorrow peacefully, calmly after some real turbulence in the days behind me. I asked for a Song of the Day, please, in the spirit of a little help from my friends.

And this is the song I got. How did I miss this song on the Oscars? It is so lovely, so perfect for right now, it is speaking so much to me, that I have had it on repeat for almost an hour.

And considering my last post, I love the congruity of the image of the boat. That wasn't planned. Just a little bit of that daily divinity I so adore, so appreciate and so welcome. The best part is, it came my way when I asked for a little help.

I am learning. Slowly. And tonight, I am listening.  Serenely.

My funny, small and frosted Valentine

A lot of people who love me have asked me if I am worried about Valentine's Day and if I am sad not to spend it as I may have expected. The answer is not at all. I am perfectly happy this Valentine's Day.

I don't needed too much to celebrate. My mom makes a big deal of it and I love the pomp and circumstance of balloons and heart-shaped pizzas or pink pancakes and cutesy panties gift-wrapped in metallic red packages. All of these little, personal and quirky touches are more fun to me than roses or big cards decorated with velveteen flowers and calligraphied poems my brother rolls his eyes at and says defiantly, "Too much to read!" I'll pass on the inflated-prixe dinner out or the pressure for an overdone romantic present for something small and sweet.

This year, part of my perfect happiness is that my Valentine is my smallest and my sweetest. Sure, he threw a tantrum in the grocery store today because I wouldn't let him open the gallon of juice right then and there in the aisle to drink without a sippy cup or even just out of his little sticky cupped hands.

Locked up. Or at least out.

My roommates are on vacation. My roommates, who also are known in this crowded house as my counsel, our generous benefactors of invaluable advice and unlimited microwaveable mac & cheese, my early morning co-parents and mid-afternoon co-op picker-uppers, our landlords, my confidants and reality checkers...oh, and my parents. Those guys are on their way to somewhere sunny and sandy and where the grating song from Dragon Tales cannot be heard.

They're retired and they've been housing us for nearly four months, so they deserve to listen to the waves lapping against the white sand just beyond their rental condo patio. Even though a snow drift is steadily covering the front steps here and the temperatures have dropped to the point that I'm considering pulling on wool socks under my clicky clicky boots, I am happy for their travels south.

They will be snowbirds and we will be shoveling snow. It is also an opportunity for Lil E and I to go it alone and to see how we do together.  I've been focusing on this -- on the opportunity of this break -- on how I want to work things without grandpa to handle breakfast while I hop in the shower or grandma to take-over nap time resistance while I finish one last post.  And this is what I was centering on yesterday, Day One of Operation Fingers Crossed.

It started off great with Lil E playing quietly while I showered and then having a triumphant day of pretend fire-fighting and napping and snacking at daycare.

The it was off to a friends house for dinner (for us all), Thomas the Train playing (for the kids) and a big glass of merlot (for the parents). I purposely planned that pizza night playdate to fill up our evening with enough distraction and melted cheese so we wouldn't think about the quiet house waiting for us. And it worked like a charm. The boys played and we all pizzaed and we left for home tired and tummies full and happy.

On the ride home, Lil E and I decided he'd kick off his layers of winter wear and the snow from his boots, have one more cookie and then take a nice, warm bath. We talked about making another pizza night playdate for next week and as I yawned, I caught him in the rear view mirror doing the same.

And that's where the magic ended.

Minutes later, I slid the key into the bolt on the front door, gave it a little push to the stubborn lock that sticks even when it isn't 42-below-zero (or whatever the dial was teetering as it got dark last night). When it didn't open, I took a breath, remembering that it sometimes needs a little release and finesse to open.  So...inhale, exhale, key in, turn, key out. Oh wait. Key out...WITH THE ENTIRE CYLINDER OF THE LOCK.

Fuuuuuuuuuuck.

Short and sweet

It was a weekend filled with family, with my brother and his bride in town and lots of meals around the dining room table, church and planning our eventual, belated Christmas together. All this and Lil E's time with his daddy made for busyness and back and forth, a changing cast of characters every few hours.

After a daddy dinner out and then an hour of entertaining his best audience with reenactments of the clips playing on America's Funniest Home Videos (or, according to our host, America's Home Funniesss Biddeooohhhs), it was nearly time for Lil E's show to end for the night. It was also time for my brother and I to do a little last minute (ahem) holiday shopping (nothing like preparation). My mom stood by with Lil E's jammies and PullUp and plans for which books to read before bedtime while I gave him a few final snuggles and smooches before heading out.

I pulled that boy into my arms tightly, peppering his cheeks and forehead with kisses.

I told him what I tell him every night before bed, "I love you the most, beautiful boy."

He nodded silently then added that he loves me too.

"And I will miss you but I will come in and kiss you when I get home."

Even when I need need need to get away, I mean this missing sincerely. Even if I would never disturb the quiet of his sleep to kiss him, the reassurance is worth the little whiteness of it.

"And mommy," he asked with this sage sweetness that adhered to the deepest part of me, "will you carry that missing around in your heart while you are gone?"

Ohhh. Oh yes, of course.

I know that moments like these are about months, not just a brief good-bye before bedtime.  And I thank God for this kid who asks those articulate questions, who is working it all out in his head and still, like every struggling-to-do-it-all-by-myself-MOMMY! preschooler with serious teddy-bear-woobie-soothing instincts, needs his mama.

Sure, a few weeks ago, he peed on the daycare lady's couch (twice) after being potty trained for months and months. Yes, he's fired up the tantrums that put two-year olds and some celebs (not to mention the husbands of some people I know) to shame.  Clearly, we have a lot...a lot... to cope with in the days and weeks and years and lifetime ahead. A lot of it isn't pretty. But there, kneeling in the front hallway with my boy in my arms and this little voice asking me to hold his heart in mine as soon as I stepped out the door, reassured me as much as I think it soothed him.

There it was -- simple, sweet, sad and lovely -- in one little sentence. One little sentence that got me completely.