Homesick

           I am homesick. Extremely homesick. I miss my friends and family. I miss winter in all its white glory. I miss my rickety old farmhouse that oozed charm and character. I miss living in a place that aligned more closely with my values and morals. I miss the glory of the mountains. I even miss the local supermarket, which offered endless choices. But most of all, I miss feeling connected.

            I am no stranger to moving. I have now lived in five different states, all located in different regions of the country. Each with its unique culture. Every time I moved I left a piece of myself behind, but also grew as an individual, becoming a better person along the journey. However, none of the previous moves hit me as hard as this one has. In every other place I have lived, I made new friends almost instantaneously. I had school, work, or other activities to keep me occupied

and feeling remotely fulfilled.  I felt a sense of belonging. Even in Baltimore, a place I was not particularly fond of, I had friends, family, and connections.

Four and half months into our move to Tampa and I have met only two or three people, none of whom I would call friends. I attend story time and a moms and tots group once a week for the mere sake of getting out of the house. The conservative religiously based culture is at odds with my beliefs and morals. I feel stifled and extremely alone.

In a week I am returning to Baltimore and Vermont. I will spend time celebrating Lucy’s Birthday and the holidays with friends and family. I am excited, and petrified. Excited to once again feel connected, loved, and free to express myself. Petrified that the trip will only heighten my homesickness. Meanwhile, I will continue to struggle and pray that both my physical and emotional state are temporary.

The Sap That I Am

I am a hopeless sap. I sob uncontrollably during movies (even during Disney movies), TV shows, You Tube videos and while reading books and listening to music. My inability to control my emotions amuses both my eldest daughter, Lucy, and my husband. Lucy often stares at me bemused and exclaims, “You’re going to cry, aren’t you, Mom?”

While browsing Facebook one day this week, I ran across a video of a cancer survivor meeting his bone marrow donor for the first time. As the two strangers clung to each other weeping, I sat fixated, tears streaming down my face. After blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, I began to reflect on my inability to keep it together when faced with heartwarming or heartbreaking stories.

I can’t say that before the birth of Lucy I avoided emotional outbursts, I have always been touched by stories regarding the human condition. However, it wasn’t until the birth of Lucy that every love story, success story, or heartbreak affected me so severely.  Hormonal changes, combined with the overwhelming responsibility for another’s physical, emotional, and mental well being have taken their toll on my own emotional and mental well being.

Watching or reading about individuals who have overcome unbelievable odds, individuals who freely offer up their bodies, souls, and lives to others, often complete strangers, has made me realize how exceptional, brave, and loving human beings can be, and how unexceptional, cowardly, and cold I truly am. My tears, therefore, are born out of disappointment and anger at myself for my inability to overcome fears, insecurities, and heartbreak. Heartbreak that is far less dramatic than what some individuals have experienced and conquered.

My tears, therefore, will continue to flow as long as human beings continue to exhibit exceptional love, bravery, and resilience. My tears will continue to flow until the war that rages inside my rebellious brain decides upon peace. And the next time Lucy asks me if I am going to cry I will respond with a smile, a sniffle, and a tissue to the nose.

Rabbit Droppings

           For the last hour Lily-Anne has been sleeping peacefully in her crib, while I have spent the last 20 minutes folding laundry. The ten minutes before folding laundry, I spent deleting and merging contacts on my phone. My morning was spent walking and cleaning the garbage out of my car. My early afternoon was spent feeding Lily-Anne lunch.

I look around at a house taken over by toys. Toys that need to be neatly tucked back into their respective bins. There are still boxes to be unpacked, others whose contents need to be sorted, stored, or given away. I still have doctor’s to call, appointments to make, bills to pay, and a plethora of paperwork to muddle through. I am overwhelmed by the amount of work that presents itself each day. I am overwhelmed by exhaustion and frustrated with my lack of motivation and energy.

 Not only do I seem to lack the physical energy to tackle these daily tasks, but I also seem to lack the mental and emotional energy. My tears begin to well, as my list grows longer. I tell myself to complete at least one task a day in order to feel some sense of accomplishment, the laundry that had been sitting on my bedroom chest was today’s task, and yet, I feel like I am taking one step forward two steps back as I look at the three laundry baskets waiting to be washed, folded, and stored away.

I am, naturally, a very organized individual. The chaos that children rein on a household causes frustration, anger, and ultimately tears. I tell myself to say, “Fuck it!” to let it be as it is, since cleaning is a losing battle. For a short time this seems to work, but then I step on a pony or trip over a Barbie and become so irked that I shower the wrath of God on my children in the hopes that their habit of dropping toys like rabbits do turds will subside. It doesn’t.

Lily-Anne is now calling my name, wanting to be plucked from her crib. Any hope of accomplishing a second task is dead because Lily will proceed to walk behind me, undoing all that I do. I am taking a deep breath willing myself to stop writing, get up from my chair, and continue on with my day despite my lack of productivity.

Change: It Does Not Always Sit Well, Especially With Lucy

I am sitting in bed listening to the hysterical laughter of my daughter, Lucy, and the witty banter of my husband. Twenty minutes ago, I was laying in bed with her as she sobbed, “I want to go home!”

Lucy is not one that does change well. When she was 20 months old we relocated from Maryland to Vermont. I did not think that, at twenty months, the move would affect her much. Surprising to both my husband and I, she asked once a week for six months when we would be returning “home,” meaning Maryland. It took a lot of explaining and a room makeover before I convinced her that Vermont was her new home.

Today, she has no recollection of ever living in Maryland. Home is now Vermont. Home is our big falling down farmhouse.  Home is our half an acre of land that houses various types of rope swings. Home is the park, a two-block walk from our front door. Home is her friends, her school, and her Mi MA and Pop Pop.

Despite our efforts to highlight the positive aspect of living in a new place, with new adventures to be had, Lucy misses her home. And because she misses her home she is having a hard time accepting and loving this new home. She grieves, and each time she melts down, sobbing for the familiar, my heart ties itself in a knot.

Thank God for the wit of my husband, who can bring a smile and produce a laugh during some of the worst times. He handles her grief much better than I do.  He knows that potty and physical humor will make Lucy laugh even in the saddest of times. He is currently twisting the title of The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr. Seuss into a variety of toilet-oriented titles. Including The 500 Farts of Prune Juice McGee.  This one in particular turned her gut wrenching sobs into breathless belly laughter.

Things are quieting down now. I have placed a pad complete with pillow blanket and stuffed animal next to my bed in the hopes that when Lucy migrates from her bed to ours in the middle of the night (as she has done every night since occupying our new house) she can rest peacefully and comfortably far from the fears and worries that moving has created.

Grasping for a Sense of Home

I once again find myself in an unknown city surrounded by people, none of whom I know. I am not a stranger to moving, and yet, this move seems to be hitting me unusually hard.  My lack of family, friends, or acquaintances of any kind combined with a totally new environment is feeding on long held fears of being alone and lost. My dreams each night have been riddled with anxiety. And I am passing my days trying to grasp the very real fact that this is now home.

I have been trying, among the chaos of two children to build a nest by unpacking our familiar and comforting belongings. However, progress is slow and often times labored. Boxes sit opened, yet unattended, in every room of the house, their contents longing to find their place, asking for help in turning the chaos into calm. However, the overwhelming presence of so many unattended boxes filled with what seem to be, at this point, nonessential items stops me in my tracks and drains my motivation. Our house is, at the moment, fairly clutter free. However, I know that unloading these boxes will invite my children to adopt their old routine of messing just to mess, overwhelming me further. Therefore, the boxes sit.

And at night, I sit. Too exhausted by the days activities, by my children’s worries and fears, and by the emotional turmoil I feel about leaving a place I loved and people I cared for to accomplish anything more than morphing into a couch potato. I pray that sleep is kind to me, that my anxiety and fears subside, and that tomorrow brings more productivity and peace.