I named my blog The Mom Café for a reason. I pictured you and I meeting at some coffee shop for some java and catch up time, because that’s what friends do. I thought this would be the place we would share our deepest pains and our greatest victories, like old and new friends can, over a hot beverage, in the safety of comfort and trust. Every time I write a post, I picture just that. Us sitting at a corner table, with a scone or a muffin, a latte or a tea, and each other. It’s personal. It’s always personal.
So, as I sit down with my fresh piping hot coffee, and you with yours…
We bond, through sharing all the trials and the triumphs that life brings us.
You would immediately ask about my megaboot and what the heck happened? I would tell you about my surgery and how hard it’s been. I would go on about the recovery and this very challenging time of my life, where I still can’t do a thing without pain, without help, without fumbling. I would probably go into detail with a few sorted tales of the last three months, and my recent meltdown to my husband while lying on the couch, feeling completely defeated and DONE. I would whine about feeling stuck in an immense and agonizing inconvenience- stupid foot, foolish ankle. I would whisper under my breath that it is taking too damn long to heal, but you would hear me- and join me in the sigh. And as I begin to choke up, I would continue my rant telling you that everything takes incredible effort and I’m tired of all the trying. I would declare with raw frustration, that my usual fast paced life has become painfully slow, and I absolutely hate it.
Then I would look down, take a deep breath and exhale…
And claim it all as a work in progress. A long hard work in progress. Healing is like that, isn’t it? Healing goes back and forth with those shaky steps that sometimes fall backwards. Healing needs both rest and work and ultimately endurance. Healing has its own timeline, doesn’t it? So I do my rehab and push as best I can toward the goal. I would probably look down, and whisper to myself, “I’ve been here so many times before.” And take a deep breath and say, “But life goes on, and for that I’m grateful.”
And I would look you in the eyes and smile, as my mind would shift to reflect on the good surrounding this season. I would immediately start sharing things that have brought me joy during this time. My writing, and how much it fills me, lifts me, excites me. I would talk about my kids and my husband- all buoys keeping me afloat. I would tell you how amazing my hubs has been through all of this… doing the laundry, the dishes, helping with EVERYTHING that I simply can’t do without pain. And not once, does he complain. Not once. I would share that Cassidy has dappled in cooking for us, and the kids have been doubling up on chores for me, and patiently serving me in the most beautiful way. I would say that I am beginning to get around better, and that IS progress.
I would shift one more time, with a sigh…
“Poor Cade asked me if it will ever be back to ‘normal’ with me.”
I promised him it would.
You get it. You nod and probably say you’re so sorry. And I feel your sympathy and your love. And it matters. Because sometimes, that is all it takes to release the weight of our burdens.
To simply be heard.
I would probably immediately tell you it’s all good. I’d say that Cade understands, despite his clothes being in a heaping pile that his dad leaves for him to sort. I’d say it’s okay that the kids don’t have the orderly and organized home they are used to, because really? It IS okay. I would explain to you and ultimately myself a convincing argument that despite my desperate desire to care for my kids and home the way we all want… And my need to move freely and fast…
And I will mean it.
And you will believe it.
Because you know me well.
We would smile at each other, and sigh…
And I would tell you to get another refill of that cup of joe, ’cause it’s your turn to share how you are doing.
We still have a lot of catching up to do.