finslippy

What friends are for.

"I ran over a chipmunk today."
"Oh, Abby, why? Why did the chipmunk have to die?"
"It was an accident! I tried to stop in time. Then I saw it in my rear-view mirror, smeared across the road."
"Poor little chipmunk."
"Maybe it had cancer, and I spared it a gruesome, painful death."
"Or maybe it had just been miraculously cured, and it was running across the road to tell its family."
"'GOOD NEWS, EVERYONE! I'M GOING TO LI—'"
"I bet you killed it right in front of its family, too. Right when they were all, 'You're going to what? WHAT?'"
"Hey, look, a bunny rabbit!"
"Where?"
"It ran away."
"It smells the scent of death on you."
"I think that chipmunk was dying. I think I'm the Jack Kevorkian of chipmunks."
"That chipmunk was running across the road, calling to its beloved, 'HONEY, I'M PREG—'"
"I just knew you'd make me feel better about this."

Thank you.

I get the feeling this isn't the first time I titled a post "thank you," but I don't think you all hear it enough, considering how much you've given me. I had no hopes for any benefit coming out of that previous post, beyond at least getting the task of posting something off my plate. But the response I received—it absolutely floored me. I didn't think it was possible for comments and emails to help me that much. Just to be able to explain this weird place I'm in was an immense relief, but also knowing that so many of you are out there, rooting for me? I can't even begin to describe what you did. That night was the first time since I came home that I managed to eat any sort of actual food. So thank you, thank you, wonderful people. If I could write you all individual thank-you notes on the extra-good stationery I save for special occasions, I would surely do so. But let's face it, I'm too lazy for that, and I don't know your addresses. It's just not practical. Try and understand.

So. Somehow I managed to write a Wonderland post this week. It may make a little bit of sense. No guarantees, of course.

What's going on.

Readers have asked me to write about Blogher, but I can't. I didn't have the BlogHer experience I wanted to have, and I can't pretend I did, and if I tried to relay my experience I don't think anyone would believe I was at the same conference as all those other amazing people who had such a great time. Because my experience had nothing to do with the conference, it had to do with me. There's something not right in here, and I don't know what the problem is.

What I know is that I'm filled with grief all the time, that I have tried the patience of my friends and family, that I have been less of a mother and wife than I want to be, that I'm terrified that I'm driving away the people I love, that I've barely eaten since I returned. I am sure anyone who saw me at BlogHer will be baffled by this post, because I do an excellent job of hiding in plain sight. But since then something has broken open, and I can't hide. Right now I wish more than anything I could take back the decision to go to this conference, take back the last few months, start over and give you whatever you're here looking for, the anecdote or joke or relief from your day that you probably expect, instead of this sopping mess who's struggling to compose these crappy paragraphs. Even writing this seems awful and self-indulgent, but if I can't be honest here and get this out I will never write here again. I'm barely hanging on, and I'm trying to make sense of what happened to me. Of what's still happening to me.

Please be patient with me as I try to get to the other side of this. I know I will, but getting there means wading through a stunning level of pain and I don't like it one bit.

I leave for one week, and my son turns into a twelve-year-old.

Henry: My shoe feels funny.
Me: Do you want to take it off?
Henry (sighing): I'll live.

*

Henry (sniffling): I'm not going to camp anymore. I'm staying in bed until I'm ten.
Me: Let's discuss that tomorrow, shall we?
Henry: Tomorrow I'm going to remember this crying fit. And I’m going to remind you that we agreed I could stay in bed.
Me: Good night.
Henry: Until I'm TEN.

*

Henry's friend Sofia: (nonsensical babbling about something or other)
Henry: What?
Sofia: I know, right?
Henry: I didn't say "WHA??!!!", I said "what."

Here is where I am living now. Forward my mail, please.

Utah is innard-dessicatingly dry, and Scott could never find work here, and my family would weep forever if we were to move here, and also all our stuff is in New Jersey. Nonetheless, I cannot leave Utah, ever. Because Utah has this.

This is my two-year-old niece, whom I want to eat whole. Perhaps on a baguette, with some horseradish sauce to offset the sweetness. I haven't seen her in a year. Now she's talking and toddling and asking me how I'm doing and whether I like apple juice and I AM NEVER LEAVING.

Scott and Henry are not yet aware of my plans for us to remain here forever, but I suspect they won't put up too much of a fight.

I mean, come ON. Tell me you could walk away from THAT.

Vacation!

Dear friends, I'm off for a two-week vacation, which will culminate in the frenzied bloodbath—I mean tender lovefest—known as BlogHer. I will try to update when I'm away, but I promise nothing. In the first week I'll be in Salt Lake City, visiting my brother-in-law and his gorgeous family and baking in the dry desert heat, and then I'll be in San Francisco, shivering in their weird hippy eternal springtime. Expect some photos.