This past Saturday, Facebook reminded me that a year ago I had been in Albuquerque, celebrating my last day in a city that had been home for nearly three years. And on Sunday I woke up and breathed in deep. The first thought in my head, "I've been home for one year". A year ago that day, my dad had been waiting for me; armed with hugs and "welcome home Bears" and snacks and Minnesota beer, which we opened and drank in the front seat of his car in the airport parking lot. A year ago I'd come home.
New Years Eve doesn't get me, birthdays don't get me ; while I'm an over-thinker by nature, there aren't particular 'holidays' that cause me to be more reflective. But the one year anniversary of my homecoming, it took hold. And I did a lot of reflecting. I listened to a lot of Sufjan Stevens. I found myself staring off in space quite a bit, lost in thoughts. The last year had gone by fast. And it was jam packed with stuff. Big, heavy stuff.
In the past year, I'd had three jobs (4 if you count a couple of months consulting, almost 5 if you count a near-grant opportunity that ultimately fizzled). This isn't new for me. I am infamous when it comes to job switching. Turns out, I don't do well with placidity. Or what-might-be-fraud. Or with stress that makes my insides feel like they might end up outside. And particularly in this last year, when so little was within my control, I took my place of employment rather seriously in terms of what it meant for my health -- hence, a lot of change.
In the past year, I'd lived in three houses. This isn't so crazy either. In the last twelve years, I'd had at least 10 permanent addresses (I know this because I had to write them all down for my background check with the State). I was a nomad in my twenties. I would nest. I would leave the nest. I would rebuild the nest. But moving when you're single and childless is cake ('throw your shit in two laundry baskets and ask the guys across the hall to carry your boxes of books to the car' kind of cake). Moving with two littles, a dog, a husband, and a house-worth of stuff; that's a lot. Especially for Ben, I'm pretty sure a solid six months of last year was just 'pack move unpack, pack move unpack, pack move unpack'.
So that stuff, that's just change, but that's not 'hard' (not to minimize the stress associated with moving and job changes, that stress is real! But relative to the next two 'in the last year' reflections, it was a ripple compared to a tidal wave). In the past year I'd learned that my baby has a life-threatening allergy. Oh, and I learned it the hard way. By having him almost die in front of me while I held his tiny hand in mine, begging him to open his eyes, as a team of nurses and doctors raced to slow down his heart and get him stable. There are things I hope no one has to experience, this is near the top of the list.
In the past year I'd learned that my heart didn't bounce back quite as strong as I had hoped it would. Which is no surprise, when you consider items 1 through 3 on this list. But. I gotta tell you. To be a 31 year old with two young kids and hear something less than optimal about your heart (note: hearts are important, we want things optimal), that shit is hard. Having worked with the chronically and terminally ill, illness as identity was not a novel concept. To have to work through it for myself, that wasn't something I hadn't planned on.
Of course, because I'm human, my first thoughts of what had happened in the last year were the struggles. The challenges. The pain. But when you come up with a list like that, you ask yourself, "Man, that's a lot... how did I get through that?" ... and then the good comes flooding in. Because the answer is: 'the helpers'. It is that Mr. Rogers quote that is maybe the best thing anyone has ever said (ever), "When I was a boy and I would see scary things on the news, my mother would say to me, 'look for the helpers, you will always find people who are helping' ". The amount of love and support given to our family this past year isn't measurable. On Sunday, the anniversary, I had lunch with Erika, the person (other than Mallory) who I've been friends with longest in this world. And as we ate pizza and laughed and gossiped, I thought about my year of friendship. Of being back with the people I love who I've known a long time, and of the incredible people I've met since I've been home who feel like friends I've had my whole life. I am spoiled f'ing rotten in the "I have amazing people around me" department. People who feed my soul and make me a better person. Who have endless patience and empathy listening to me talk about my sick kids. Who know when life requires tacos and when life requires (all the) beer. I am #blessed.
In a year of change and literal heartache, the overwhelming conclusion is that life is good.
I write this from the dining room table. Ben is rock climbing, the boys are sleeping. There are dirty clothes strewn across the floor and an ottoman (Sullivan is in the habit of undressing as he walks through a room); evidence that a one and a half year old has been here. It is still 50 degrees outside, warm enough to have the window slightly open to let in fresh air and hear night time noises, spring is coming. Next to me is a note that came in the mail from my Grandma (along with a funny gift), "Blair: I know how short you are on time but take a break once in a while and laugh! Love, Grandma Dot". It's the little things. It's the people. Life is good.
Happy one year anniversary, Minnesota.
