...knock, knock...

Morning comes early here.

(A few years ago I asked most of the other moms I know what time their days start and end, and was surprised to find that even among moms whose children attend the same school as mine,  my schedule  was exceptional...and not in a good way!  I had rather imagined that we were all running on the same basic timeline based on bus pickup time.  The varied responses I got were proof enough that there is no normal, even when it comes to "The Mom Morning".)

So as I was saying, morning comes early.  Earlier than I'm ever prepared for.  And far earlier than my non-existent bedtime ever takes into account.  Early enough, every weekday morning, that all those "big plans" I made the night before seem so very not-worth-getting-up-for.  Listen, cinnamon pecan gluten free waffles sound wholly delicious and worthwhile at 2am.  Round about 4am though?  "What the hell was I thinking?  Why the hell am I toasting pecans?  What are we, too good for cereal?!?  Where's my coffee?!?!?"  Good times, folks, good times.  

 

But rise I do, before the sun and the son.  Out of bed...coffee prep...first sip...

Jumpstart!

Every morning has its schedule.  Every morning the clock dictates where we're at, what we're doing, even what we're saying.

It might be 4am: Mami rises.

Or 5:30: entertainment choice.

6:15:breakfast over, dishes to sink.

7:10: feed the cats.

7:15: Mami "Don't forget your tea!" Mister Man "I know, I know, you don't have to remind me!", as he walks out without it once more.

Every weekday morning, right after the clock hits 6:30, I hear the same exact sentence.  "Mami, can you do the 2 minute knocks?"  "Mmmhmm", I sigh (or maybe groan), as I put down my mug and get up from the chair where I had just, finally, sat down.  Breakfast was over, dishes already cleaned and in the rack. Lunch cooked, portioned and packed.  Lunchtime note written.  Meds measured.  Homework checked.  Logs signed.   Bookbag jammed .  Clothes laid out.  Etc...

And Mami, still running on the first sip, just sat down to relax with her cup of coffee, freshly hot from it's 4th or 5th reheat in the microwave.  

"Mmmhmm."

2 minute knocks it is.  I've no one but myself to blame.  It's those schedules again, you see.  The ones we ASD households can't live without.  This one get us through showers...2 minutes to drench, 2 minutes to lather, 2 minutes to rinse, 2 minutes to scrub, 2 minutes to soak...and so on.

2 minute knocks = limits.

2 minute knocks = motor planning.

2 minute knocks = sensory processing regulation. 

2 minute knocks = functional independence .

"Mmmhmmm", it is, and I'm up again.  He heads in to the bathroom.  I hear the water turn on.  I listen closely, waiting for the sound of the shower curtain...first the swish of it pulling open, then the clink clink of the rings along the rod as he pulls it shut.  I look at the clock, noting the time, walk away.  The next time I look up from whatever busywork I've found, 4 minutes have gone by.  I jump up, inevitably bruising my hip on the corner of the table or stubbing my pinky toe on the chair leg.  Over to the door, knuckles rap out 'Knock Knock' and I hear an aggrieved "All riiiight" or maybe an "Okaaaay", or on occasion, a "What do you want?".  I go back to whatever it was that I was doing.  Take a sip of coffee.  Wince.  Pop it back in the microwave.  Then back to the door.  'Knock Knock'.  Better this time...closer to that 2 minute mark.  8 minutes in now...then 10...15...20...  My eyes roll.  By now the hot water must surely be used up.  I see the schedule on the fridge door.  Look up at the clock.  Anxiety creeps in.  Now here I am again, rushing through his chores because he's way behind schedule...merrily oblivious to the passage of time as he soaks up the last remaining warm water.  I head back to the door, aggrieved now, and raise my hand.  'Knock Knock', just as the water shuts off and the sponge formerly known as my child yells back "I'm already done!".  

Chair time!  I can see it, just out of reach.  I grab my coffee, scalding now, as I may have over-zealously hit reheat instead of open.  My arm chair beckons, the plush blanket draped over the back promising me a soft hug.  All I want to do is sit, and sip, and yawn, and stretch.  

The bathroom door opens, and I freeze.  Stopped in my tracks by the notion that I've forgotten something.  What does he need?  What didn't I remember to do?  Did I lay out socks?  Was I supposed to print out something?  What day is it?!?  

The door opens, and a cloud of damp rushes out, expelling a sodden imp.  He stands there, dripping on the tiles, having once again refused to dry himself while still in the shower.  He stands there, towel clutched round his waist and looks to the bedroom where his clothes are neatly laid out (yes, the socks too) next to his deodorant and lavender oil and brush.  I start to open my mouth, some reminder on the tip of my tongue.  

"I love you, Mami", he says and then disappears behind the door.  

I smile.  That warm cozy feeling filling me from toe to tip.  "Mmmhmmm", I sigh. 

"I love you more!"

~Leanna

 

...scheduled for demolition...

I made a mistake the other day.

(One of many, to be sure, as part of the rough and tumble of daily life.)

I made a mistake and went...off book...so to speak, deviating from the schedule that our household relies on so heavily, as I suspect most ASD households do.

Let's deviate right now, shall we?  Pick up a thread for a moment and unravel it a bit further?

Tangent time: Even before Mister Man's official ASD diagnosis, scheduling as a way of life was introduced to us.  The whole thing started with one of those early diagnoses...not ASD, but Speech-Delay, Motor Skills Delay, Communication Disorder, etc...  It started with Help Me Grow and early intervention and all those case managers and therapists and aides that paraded through my apartment.  The calendar was full...a scrawled on mess of gibberish with dozens of acronyms filling up each square, notations only I could decipher...and even I, only about 50% of the time.  I kept a copy on the fridge, and one by the door.  I meticulously wrote down each item in my day planner at the start of each week.  I'd review it, over coffee first thing in the morning, and with tea at the end of each night.  And still, I would forget.  I would forget an appointment, or which therapy was at which time.  I would forget to file a specific waiver, or return a phone call.  And at least once a week, I would realize we were on our way to the wrong location just in time to take the U-turn.  I was running on caffeine fumes and pure-adrenaline, battling insomnia and the ongoing stress of a broken marriage.  I was nothing but a cluster of nerves...reactive, reacting.  It was, as I remember ever so clearly, a time of reaction instead of action...just making it through another day.  

I was introduced to the concept of visual schedules early in the process.  One of the therapists took note when I spoke about Mister Man's gastric issues whenever we would leave the house, or have to make an unexpected stop.  At our next appointment, she supplied a long laminated strip of paper, separated into squares, each with a piece of Velcro stuck dead center.  Onto the wall it went, much to my dismay.  This giant white eyesore right in the middle of the livingroom.   A ziplock bag followed, a piece of masking tape temporarily holding it in place above the strip.  And there it was...the makings of our new way of life.  Little squares depicting every possible daily task.  Toothbrushing, toast eating, toileting and toilet papering...every little bit.  I got used to it quickly, setting up the morning routine before bed, the day during breakfast, the night while he napped.  And it was helpful.  Ever so.  Truly.  We could review it all day, every day.  I, murmuring the words as he watched my finger point at each picture.  First this...then that...then this...  Gradually, it became habit.  And as the days and weeks and months went by, those messy "issues" became fewer and far between as he knew what to expect next.  

The one strip grew longer, then doubled.  I found myself on the computer making a mini version of it to put on the back of the headrest in the car where he could see it.  In time, he helped me make a small flip book instead.  I carried a ziplock bag on me at all times, with the book and the pictures and a few blank squares and a pencil.  I planned for everything.  Going to the grocery store?  Images of each item on the list and the order we would get them in.  Heading to pre-school?  Clumsily drawn directions...first we pass the gate, then we turn at the big tree...  I planned for everything.  I scheduled everything.  I learned to set timers, both audible and visual.  I found apps for alerts on the phone.  I even carried around a tiny little stopwatch, so he could see the minutes counting down for each task, each item, each appointment.  

He grew...up and out and all around.  And so did the schedules.  Soon enough, the strip came down.  A rescued and recovered chalkboard took over one whole wall instead.  I used white-out to draw the calendar boxes, and chalked in each day.  He scribbled happily all along the bottom half.  Paint thinner took off the white-out a year or so later.  The minute by minute plans replaced by general images...school, home, park, bed.  He drew in between them.  Smiley faces next to the park.  Angry faces next to the bed.  He'd cross out school, scribbling right across it and circle home over and over.  Time passed, he grew.  Every age, every stage, a new iteration would develop.  School started for real...kindergarten.  Graphic organizers in his bag, in his pocket.  Schedules on every surface: bedroom wall, fridge, bathroom mirror.  3rd grade-folding up each day's schedule into a square small enough to fit in his pencil case.  5th grade-setting up a google doc on his chromebook.  6th grade-new planners, and then newer ones to replace the inefficient, ineffective school-provided one.  Now...calendar on the fridge.  Color coordinated.   Google calendar on the chromebook, the laptop, the ipad, the phone.  Planner in my bag.   Prompting alerts throughout the day.  Emails while he's a school...reminders of after school clubs and books to bring home, therapies and activities and rehearsal and dinner plans.  A school day chart smack dab in the middle of the fridge...every minute, every hour accounted for.  Each day broken up into segments.  Each box filled with tasks.  The schedule that makes daily life during the school week logical and sensible and acceptable.  

I made a mistake, the other day, and deviated from the schedule.  He was on "free time/entertainment choice" and I was washing dishes, my mind blank.  I asked, innocently enough, about the school day...interrupting his schedule.  It wasn't the right time to ask.  First "free time/entertainment choice", then "snack and review".  I deviated.  I asked about the school day and he answered, sort of.  Short, clipped answer. "It was ok."  Clueless Mami, party of one, hardly satisfied...asked again...be more specific... "How was Spanish?  How was Language Arts?  Anything new you learned? How was

gym?  What did you play?" 

"Ugh.  Fine.  Okay.  We played Prison Ball."

"What's that?"

"The game."

"Yes, I know...but what is it?  What kind of game?"

"The game we played."

"Ok, how do you play it? What kind of ball do you use?"

"You know."

"No, I don't.  I've never heard of it.  Is it like dodgeball?"

"No. Yes. It's fine."

Silence.

I sighed, audibly and physically...overly dramatic rise and fall of shoulders as I snarked inside my head...frustrated.  I finished rinsing the last dish, placed it in the drainer and dried my hands.  Mopped up the water on the counter.

He stood up.  Walked over.  Blocking my exit from the kitchen.

"Mami, is there something that scares you?" he asked.

"Huh?", my reply.

"What makes you panic?" he asked.

"Umm...thunderstorms?  Bees?  Definitely bees.  Remember the time I got stung by all those wasps?  Thank goodness I wasn't allergic to them.  But bees.  I'm allergic to bee stings.  I definitely panic when I see them." I answer.

"I know." He says.  "I remember.  I get that way when I have to talk.  Or when I have to explain things.  Trying to explain something that I get to someone who doesn't get it makes me all frazzled up inside.  Trying to remember the details too soon makes me nervous.  Talking about my day makes me feel hot and stressed. "

Silence.

Again.

I stood there, hearing him...really hearing him.  In the silence, I heard the tick tock of the kitchen clock and looked up, noting the time.  I had made a mistake.  Deviated from the schedule.

He was frustrated.  Tense.

I had interrupted his recovery time.

I had also, I realized, expected a response that he was incapable of giving.  I had, in some way, forgotten his limitations.  Or ignored them in my own empty-headed asking as though he were typical and conversations about the day a commonplace occurrence.

"Whoops." I said.  Just like that.  "Whoops.  Sorry about that.  How's the papercraft?"

"It's good" he said, and headed back to the table.

I grabbed a towel and picked up a dish and started to dry. One plate, one bowl, one mug.  Over and again. As my mind raced.  Internally kicking myself for the mistake.  Heart bleeding a bit as the words really sank in and I understood the feeling.

There's a  school day chart smack dab in the middle of the fridge...every minute, every hour accounted for.  There's a spot on it...five spots really...Monday through Friday, for "snack and review". A time to ask specific questions and get general answers.  A time to tease out all those important little bits that I can follow up with teachers and therapists and aides about.  A time to check in and carefully, cautiously make sure that he's ok.  Make sure the day didn't break him apart too much.  Make sure he's still mostly intact.  Make sure that I know what pieces to fix.  

Stick to the schedule, Mami.  Stick to the schedule and we'll be fine.

~Leanna

...echoes...

He sits across from me.  He and I, laptops open, screens drawing us in.  I hear the steady click of his fingers on the keys as he types.  I wonder if he hears my fingers doing the same.  He is whistling.  Some ongoing tune stuck in his head that just had to get out.  

Math homework, or is it Social Studies now?  His homework annoys me.  It cuts deep into the time we have.  I know it annoys him.  Busy work.  This going over and again of what was already learned, already memorized.  

Outside, the sleet has turned to a gentle snowfall, soft white flakes covering up the ice below.  I'll have to salt the steps soon, or we'll both take a tumble in the morning.  I wonder, as I know he does, if it will be enough to warrant a delayed opening tomorrow.  If so, I'll bake something for breakfast.  Relish in the warmth of a piping hot oven and the comfortable scent of cinnamon.  I run through the options in my head.  Apples.  Still some in the bag.  And eggs, and lactose-free milk, and oats.  For a moment, I close my eyes and wish it so.  Still a child at heart.

The oven's on now.  I hear the clanks it makes as it cycles between heating and holding.  Dinner is almost done.  I can tell by the smell.  I'm not a recipe follower, relying on my nose to tell me if it's good or ready.  Never the same meal twice, not even by request.  A funny realization that, the notion that I never follow the recipe, always adding and subtracting on a whim.  Have I passed that down to him?  This boy who never wants to play a game by the rules, always adding and subtracting on a whim himself.  He likes to change them, games.  He likes to declare new rules, or do away with old ones.  Revising his little corner of the world to his own satisfaction.

I look across the screen and see his head bowed down, his shoulders curled in.  "Straighten up", I want to say.  Remembering all the trips to physical therapy.  But I keep silent, knowing the interruption would disrupt his concentration for far longer than those shoulders might remain straight.  My own posture is poor.  I sit, one foot underneath me, my own shoulders curving in.  

I'm tired.  Or wrung out.  I couldn't sleep last night.   I tried, willing myself to drift away. Counting backwards from 100...200...1000.  Losing track and starting over, tossing and turning.  He slept fitfully.  Blankets tangled from the battle.  I suppose he dreams of Cybertron, since his waking hours are so full of it.  Even now, as he finishes his homework, he's already planning his next design.  There are papers on the side of the table, designs ready to be cut and assembled.  Thank goodness for graph paper.  Thank goodness he's not using 3*5 cards anymore.  

He yawns and stretches and my mind flicks back to my own weariness.  I've passed that on too, it seems, those sleep issues.  He sleeps, or doesn't.  Sometimes waking repeatedly.  Sometimes trying to escape the bed.  I'm on high alert at night, listening for the faintest rustle, the slightest change in breathing to spark my response.  I'm an expert these many years later, at getting him back to sleep.  

Dinner is ready.  The smell has ripened...or something...it's richer and deeper and I just know.  I'll get up in a moment and remove it, individual shepherd's pies.  Set them on the counter to cool a bit and let him know it's time to take a break.  I look across at him, once more...and see it...

His head is raised, though his eyes are still on the screen.  I see him scent the air, just as I have done moments ago.  He knows it's ready.

How curious. I have passed on so much to him.

~Leanna

...two please, on ice...

His hand, a claw, grasping mine tightly
Fingers locked, so tight they've gone pale between red knuckles. 
Pressure on my wrist.  Bearing down and dragging, somehow, at the same time.
My shoulder aches from the added weight.
A delicate frame and rigid spine struggling to keep 175 pounds upright.
My ankles tremble, knees lock into place.  A cramp burns across the arch of an unsupported foot, but I bite the inside of my cheek and let the sharp pain distract me.  I'm on high alert, constantly scanning...surface, sound, swarm.
And him.

I'm hyper-focused...tunnel vision lasered in on his feet...his legs...his hands...his eyes...his breathing.
His face is set.  Furrow in the brow. Lips clenched.  The wind lifts his hair in flutters, irritating him every time it brushes against his eyebrows.

He talks almost constantly...a cross between a plea and an excuse, only ever so rarely an exclamation of surprise or pride or both.  I can't hear the words through the din, depending on his features to convey the message as they expand and contract.  His eyes bore into mine, then flick away to assess.  He flexes his other hand, as though the fingers are sensors.  Looks down at his ankles and, remembering a former stumble, winces.  For  a moment wondering if he should complain again.  His eyes meet mine, locking on my face...searching for a signal.  He studies me and I know it, and so I smile...forcing my eyes to brighten and feigning nonchalance.  He looks to me for guidance, and I give it...my features carefully molded into "carefree" to let him know all is well.  He takes my cue and we push forward, hand in hand, feet in sync.

My nerves are frayed.  His must be too.  The music so loud.  I worry that his earplugs aren't doing the trick.  The push and pull of the crowd around us is dizzying.  People swoop in too close, others flash by.  We swerve and stumble, trying to avoid collisions.  If we venture too far in, he starts to waver, feet wobbling and knees turning to jello.  So I twist my feet, aiming us toward the outside again.  He grabs for the edge.  The wall a lifeline.  He straightens up again, knees solid once more.  A breath, deep and long.  Another flicker as his eyes lock with mine.  Then, almost imperceptibly, a nod. 

Permission to try again.

We take it slow, left...than right...than left again.  Feet leading, dragging us along for the ride.  Finally, his knees bend.  He leans forward instead of back.
The relief on my arm is immediate.
The ache in my shoulder fades.

His hand still grips mine tightly but now it tugs me forward.  He takes the lead, and I push to keep up.  The crowd shifts, a path opening up in the spaces between.  Our arms spread out...fingers laced, as he heads right and I head left.  My feet angle in, bringing us closer again as I feel his hand spasm in mine.  I look up...5'8" turning up to 6'3", slowing down to check in.

So we go.  Progress in fits and starts.  Once round.  Then again.  This time more of an oval as I veer us away from the sides, testing the limits.

The grooves trouble him.  Etchings from those who went before.  I see him analyzing them, trying to figure out which way to go to avoid getting stuck in someone else's path.  Near the edges they are deeper, remnants of false starts and stops, so I steer him past.

We slow down as the curve straightens, coming to a stop.  Wobbling a bit as our feet straighten out.
He goes first. grasping the wall, unsure once more.  I come behind, stopping to let others past, then stepping off myself.  He heads to the bench and sits.  I follow, suddenly aware of the throbbing in my left arch and my own shaky knees.

He needs no help now.

Unlacing.

We carry our skates back to the rental desk.  Trade them in for size 7 and size 12. Big and little, inexplicably gone reverse along the way.  Stuff our feet in.  Zip our coats up.  Head to the door...to the car...to home.

On the car ride home, he picks back up on his papercraft project.  Once again in his own world.
I glance back in the mirror, note his bowed head, intent on the page in front of him...on the lines he's drawing, straight and strong.

I'm tired.  Eager to get home and start a fresh coffee press.  Already listing ingredients for dinner prep.  Wondering if there'll be snow tomorrow.

Planning for the next time.  Knowing that as we both learn to skate, he needs me as he did when he  was young.  He needs my help and my strength, my guidance and my support.  He needs his mami.

We're a team on the ice.  Feet syncing up.  Hand in hand.

I live in that space, when we stumble and weave across the ice.
Needing to be needed like that, every once in while, before he grows up and out and away from me.

~Leanna

  

...return to sender...

Every year...every single year...

I vow, as I address envelopes and affix stamps,

that next year will be different. 

Next year I'll start earlier.

Next year I'll buy my cards during the holiday clearance sales.

Next year I'll give in and just order photo cards.

Next year...

at the very least...

I'll get those damnable holiday greeting cards in the mail on time!

Needless to say..

road-paved-good intentions???

Holiday themed hell of my own creation...

as I scribbled greetings and signatures, and managed to inflict papercuts on both my lips and tongue hastily licking envelopes!  Merry Christmas...I bled for you!

But off they went, some to arrive before and some to meander in abysmally late to the party. 

(One year I had the brilliant idea sometime in November that instead of Christmas cards, I'd send New Year's cards.  Sure enough, that thought was replaced by the brilliance of Valentine's cards...only to die out come February.  Apologies to all those still waiting!)

Every year...every single year...

I vow, disgusted with myself,

that next year I will double-triple-quadruple check those addresses. 

Next year, I'll confirm contact info.

Next year, I'll email everyone for an update.

Next year...

at the very least...

I'll post a request on Facebook for addresses well in advance.

Needless to say...

I get at least one card "return to sender" stuffed in the mailbox come January every year.

(Here's where, in very small type, I admit that it's usually a family member's!)

(The shame!  The teeny tiny typed out shame of it all!)

 Now, much as I hate seeing that stamped out black or red "return to sender" headed in my direction (and let's be real, you know that envelope is practically covered in stamped-on reminders of your idiocy..."unable to deliver" "address does not exist" "improperly addressed", etc...and beat up beyond belief: torn, stepped on, soggy at the edges, etc...)  I'm more than happy to suggest some alternative uses.  

Let's stick with the mail theme for a moment, shall we?  And more specifically, holiday mail.  As in, that one card that arrives like clockwork every year to an internal chorus of groans and moans. 

You know the one.

From someone you thought you had successfully excised from your life.

The ex-BFF.

The ex-MIL.

The ex-business partner.

The...Ugh...Whomever!

 And there it is, practically shouting "Remember Me?!?" wedged in between catalogues and utility bills, a tangible key to the lock on your emotional outburst.  

(Thankfully-wait, since when?-oh right, for this particular situation...I live at the top of a long, steep driveway which affords me more than enough time to burn off that impulsive, immediate reaction before anyone else sees it!)

Now, wouldn't it be nice if right there...right then...there was a "return to sender" option?  Just stamp it, pop it in, and off it goes.  No muss-no fuss. 

No need to carry it past the threshold.

No need to see it staring up at you from the waste paper bin.

No temptation to peak inside and give in to the old feelings.  

Just "Return to Sender" and silence.

Speaking of silence...

What if???

What if there was a way to stamp that on verbal "correspondence"?

Boss's thank-you for a job well done another time-sensitive assignment before you've closed the books on the last one?  Return to Sender

MIL criticized your cleaning...baking...housekeeping...life? Return to Sender

Acquaintance hijacked your first tolerable morning mood in months with her ongoing relationship-woes-saga?  Return to Sender

Mother (or Father) reminded you, ever-so sweetly and with only the faintest hint of disapproval, that you're not quite living up to expectations?  Return to Sender. 

I'll be honest.  The potential freedom is intoxicating.  I'd be red-inking the world!  

Cat decided a 2:30 a.m. race round the kitchen, complete with full quartet of pots and pans, was in order?  I've got a fix for that.

Son's algebra teacher assigned extra homework just in time for the break?  No need to worry.

Arctic chill froze your hair on the way to warming up your car?  Fear not.

Mirror talked back at you this morning, and opted for snark?  I've got your back.

Return to Sender

Red stamps for you...and you...and you...let's just go full on Oprah on this...red stamps for all!

Don't mind me, I'll be over here at the kitchen table writing "Return to Sender" on all my utility bills...

~Leanna

...everything old is new again...

It can creep up on you sometimes, that feeling that the feelings you're feeling have all been felt before.  You'll have a moment, as I did, where you wonder what the point is...the point of persisting at the endless task of self-improvement when in all likelihood, you'll just find yourself here again.

~~~

The moment the holidays fizzled out in a haze of twinkle lights and champagne toasts, the rumblings began.  First just one comment here, then followed swiftly by a question, a query, a curiosity.  The new year was just round the corner, and clearly (if the interrogators were to be trusted) , there were resolutions to be made post-haste.  

But there I was, silent.  Not a single, solitary offering to add to the collection of fault-acknowledging, shame-avowing, change-necessitating resolutions.  

Oh no!  Much to the chagrin of those doing the asking, I was completely without answer.  And without intention.  

Because, you see, I had resolved to not make any resolutions.  

(Thus, avoiding quite neatly the after-new-year,  mid-March slump when realization hits that once again, you've slid off course.)

Instead, this go round, I had decided to make a list not of changes to be made but rather, of changes that had been made.  A bullet-point collection of lessons learned, skills acquired and traits developed.

And having done so one quiet afternoon last week while the bitter cold seeped in through cracks,  making steam rise from my lukewarm coffee and my son was busy with his own project (carefully cutting out the custom 3D printed Transformers that had *made* his Christmas this year), I was ready to bid adieu to 2017 in all of its messy, tempestuous glory.  

In fact, I breathed an actual sigh of relief...shoulders rising and falling with that one deep breath, knowing that at long last, this year was coming to a close.  

This year, this 2017 on its way out, had been far more me-altering than any resolution I could have made.  This almost-over year had been the one to dismantle, reconfigure and refine me in ways I hadn't known were necessary.  

And as I looked at my list, carefully handwritten and ready to be filed away, I read past the summaries and realized I'd written down a list of things I used to know and had forgotten.

One:  Doubt is always louder than instinct:

Plug your ears, close your eyes, and listen for that quiet voice that knows what to do next.

Two:  Friendship, the real deal, exists in the silence:

It's the silent comfort that doesn't seek to advise or distract.

It's the silent acknowledgement that you are heard and understood.

It's the silent touch of a trusted hand when your foot slips.

Three:  If you want something done right, do it yourself:

Delegating can be disastrous.  

Sharing responsibility is less about shared effort and more about shared credit. 
The team you build for any project will only ever be as strong as its weakest individual.

Four:  The most necessary messages are the ones that are actively being silenced.

Speak up. Speak out. 

And when silenced, find another way.  

Five:  If you build it, someone will try to knock it down.

The moment you achieve something, you'll know it to be true...because you'll notice someone else coming along behind you trying to dismantle it.

Six:  If you are trying to spark change, be prepared to get burned.

No matter how good your intent, how hard your work or how tireless your effort, you will be accused of the very opposite at every step along the way.

People fear change because it is without limit or structure, because it can grow exponentially and redefine reality.  That very fear sparks defense, and often that defense is offensive reaction.

Seven: Hope never dies.

There will never come a day, no matter the circumstances or tribulations, where you are wholly jaded...wholly hopeless.  Even at your lowest point or weakest moment, there will be that little voice that says "keep going". 

Listen to it.

And you'll find yourself clearing the hurdle and leaving the ruin behind.

Eight:  Say "I'm sorry" to yourself.

It's the most important apology you will ever make.

Nine:  If it doesn't bring you joy, don't bring it along.

Stop carrying the old wounds, old hurts and old shames into each new day.  Allow yourself to forgive and forget...not only the one who hurt you, but the way it made you feel.  

Ten:  The only opinions that matter are those that come from the people who matter to you.

So often, I allow this one to be a "do as I say, not as I do" lesson, speaking the words to my son in his moments of hurt or embarrassment.  But this year, I've rediscovered that part of me that knew to let the chaff blow away like so much useless talk. 

I'll file this list of mine away, stuck between copies of wishlists and holiday menus.  And likely in years to come, I'll see it again and be reminded of how it felt to be at this point of my story.  But for now, as I sit here sipping my coffee and trying to "write out" the indefinable and inexpressible, I hope that these new reminders of old understandings will stick with me this time round and that I'll carry them all into this new year.

~Leanna

...tick tock, goes the clock...

3...

2...

1...

Happy New Year!

We stayed  home. 

All snuggled down in blankets and fuzzy socks, cocoa and sparkling cider and the remains of a holiday popcorn tin...just the dregs of white cheddar and butter, since someone ate all the caramel on the sly...

We flipped between cheesy holiday movies and episodes of House, never once tuning in to see the crowds or the performers or that glittery bauble poised to drop.

And when the night grew old and cold we turned in, snuffing out candles and gathering up dishes to discard in the sink...headed to bed with books.  

Yawns and stretches and "I'm not tired's", and lights out.  And a warm, purring fluff ball curled up across my legs.  I closed my eyes in the not-quite-dark of a moonlit room and let the slideshow play...the highlight reel of 2017 flickering by.  I let it wash over me, those moments of good and bad and everything in-between.  I let it burn its way down deep into memory, and settle in to the nooks and crannies.  I let it all become a part of me.  

The cat stirred, made anxious by my rigid concentration.  She sat up, stretching, turning round and padding my legs back into a suitable cushion. And I reached down, reassuring her with a chin scratch until her purrs filled up the darkness to the brim.   

I lay there, willing myself not to move, listening to the soft and steady purr.  I remembered the feelings of loss and loneliness, of joy and rage, of success and pride...and how each in its moment had felt so vivid and all-encompassing and crucial.  I thought of the wins, and the losses.  Of frigid cold mornings waiting for the schoolbus, and sticky summer afternoons laying about on the swing reading aloud in the thick air.  I thought of plans made and promises broken.  Of trips we'd taken, and harsh lessons I'd learned.  

And finally I, too, closed my eyes and drifted away with all those memories, whispering goodnight and goodbye to all those days and moments and memories.  

 And so it was that in our little ragamuffin home, not a creature was stirring when the old year ran out...

~Leanna