August swings lazily in his bed, calling out instructions across the room for the Breville that I am attempting to navigate while my brain wanders off to dangerous places, knowing he's possibly not wearing anything under that quilt, that the fire roars high in the woodstove and that I don't have to do a single thing today other than make a couple of decent cups of espresso here and then dump out the contents of my brain for him to examine.
Come in.
I heard him call out sleepily when I knocked on the door, the rain beating down on my head, frozen to the bone just from the short trip across the driveway. I need to keep a coat by the side door, I think. When I turned the knob and peeked in I saw a large form still in bed.
Oh! If I woke you I'm sorry.
I said come in. If I had said nothing then I was asleep. I was already awake. Just not up yet. He pulls himself up to a sitting position and the quilt comes to rest at his waist. No shirt. The room is warm from the fire. It's new so I know he's not just being polite.
I can come back if you'd like to get ready before we visit.
What haven't you already seen, Bridge? Just come in and I'll teach you to use the coffeemaker.
I close the door behind me as water drips all over the floor around me.
We need a driveway canopy.
Ha. That will just encourage me.
I don't mind. It's working.
Yeah.
I get to work making the coffees. It's fumbly at first but I can see the ritual emerging. Just a series of steps, like everything else.
I bring a tray with two small cups and two muffins toward the bed but he howls in protest, sending me back toward the living area. August's biggest pet peeve in life is eating in bed, though once he came for a pizza party with Ben and I and I didn't hear any complaints. He'll drink in bed. He just insists he feels a bit like the Princess and the Pea if he feels a crumb underneath him as he sleeps.
Can't say I blame him.
He gets up and I am almost profoundly disappointed to see he's wearing pajama pants.
God.
No really, I am. But it's better that he's dressed for breakfast. He pulls on a clean t-shirt (that might be too small) and my brain forgets why I'm here. It's too busy negotiating a different kind of breakfast and wondering if it would be rude to ask him to just never ever comb his hair again and squinting just a little bit while he talks to turn him into Jacob.
But he catches me handily. Stop.
What?
Zoning out.
Sorry, it's early.
It's ten.
Right.
The deal is every morning at ten we spend an hour, find a focus and then you see how the rest of the day goes. He smiles and I nod. It is working. It's working well, though I have moments when I just can't seem to get a grip and then it passes. 2018 is going to be the year of living gracefully as well as gratefully, together. No fists, no raised voices, no ultimatums, no tears.
Ha. That last one though. Good luck. Unless he meant for them. Men cry, they just do it in private.
We're working on balance. Control (a whole different kind than the one historically used by Caleb. Who knew there was more than one kind?). Seeking out the light. Happiness. Cohesiveness. Love.
(That's my favorite one.)
Every day at twelve sharp Lochlan crosses the driveway too and August makes him a cup of espresso and he gets a brief update and they do that short man-hug thing where they basically smash chests and thump each other twice on the back before we leave. By this time generally I've had four cups and I float across the driveway with Lochlan, who holds my string very tightly so I don't drift up into the clouds and he asks if I'm good, if it was a good talk and I usually say yes or if it was tough I say I'm glad I did it anyway and then we make our plans for the rest of the day.
In the evenings at nine it switches out to Sam, who is tasked with breaking down the events of the day and seeing how I fared. Damage control, attitude readjustment and a full commitment to August's methods. Consistency. Cohesiveness. Love. Sam and I talk quietly on the porch under the watchful eye of our Lady Grey teas while the rain pours down around the edges of our atoll and we see how hard it was for me to keep the focus, discuss what may have derailed me or how I navigated the hard parts of the day and we plot the course on a map of my heart to see how far I managed to get.
Every night at ten sharp Lochlan opens the front door and I hand him my tea to finish and he gets a brief update. Sam doesn't do the man-hug thing, instead giving a full on, arms around Lochlan squeeze that holds for five or ten seconds, depending on how the day went. This time I take the cups and go inside and Lochlan takes my place for a half hour or so, talking with Sam about the day and how he found it. How he's coping with it. How to process it. How to let me grow up when emotionally we're stuck in the teenage years seemingly forever.
Sam and August talk after that, together or so I learned a couple of days ago, supporting each other, choosing to work together instead of giving out mixed messages or conflicting methods.
Took us awhile, this. We'll get where we need to be.
Together, Lochlan says.
Yeah.
Come in.
I heard him call out sleepily when I knocked on the door, the rain beating down on my head, frozen to the bone just from the short trip across the driveway. I need to keep a coat by the side door, I think. When I turned the knob and peeked in I saw a large form still in bed.
Oh! If I woke you I'm sorry.
I said come in. If I had said nothing then I was asleep. I was already awake. Just not up yet. He pulls himself up to a sitting position and the quilt comes to rest at his waist. No shirt. The room is warm from the fire. It's new so I know he's not just being polite.
I can come back if you'd like to get ready before we visit.
What haven't you already seen, Bridge? Just come in and I'll teach you to use the coffeemaker.
I close the door behind me as water drips all over the floor around me.
We need a driveway canopy.
Ha. That will just encourage me.
I don't mind. It's working.
Yeah.
I get to work making the coffees. It's fumbly at first but I can see the ritual emerging. Just a series of steps, like everything else.
I bring a tray with two small cups and two muffins toward the bed but he howls in protest, sending me back toward the living area. August's biggest pet peeve in life is eating in bed, though once he came for a pizza party with Ben and I and I didn't hear any complaints. He'll drink in bed. He just insists he feels a bit like the Princess and the Pea if he feels a crumb underneath him as he sleeps.
Can't say I blame him.
He gets up and I am almost profoundly disappointed to see he's wearing pajama pants.
God.
No really, I am. But it's better that he's dressed for breakfast. He pulls on a clean t-shirt (that might be too small) and my brain forgets why I'm here. It's too busy negotiating a different kind of breakfast and wondering if it would be rude to ask him to just never ever comb his hair again and squinting just a little bit while he talks to turn him into Jacob.
But he catches me handily. Stop.
What?
Zoning out.
Sorry, it's early.
It's ten.
Right.
The deal is every morning at ten we spend an hour, find a focus and then you see how the rest of the day goes. He smiles and I nod. It is working. It's working well, though I have moments when I just can't seem to get a grip and then it passes. 2018 is going to be the year of living gracefully as well as gratefully, together. No fists, no raised voices, no ultimatums, no tears.
Ha. That last one though. Good luck. Unless he meant for them. Men cry, they just do it in private.
We're working on balance. Control (a whole different kind than the one historically used by Caleb. Who knew there was more than one kind?). Seeking out the light. Happiness. Cohesiveness. Love.
(That's my favorite one.)
Every day at twelve sharp Lochlan crosses the driveway too and August makes him a cup of espresso and he gets a brief update and they do that short man-hug thing where they basically smash chests and thump each other twice on the back before we leave. By this time generally I've had four cups and I float across the driveway with Lochlan, who holds my string very tightly so I don't drift up into the clouds and he asks if I'm good, if it was a good talk and I usually say yes or if it was tough I say I'm glad I did it anyway and then we make our plans for the rest of the day.
In the evenings at nine it switches out to Sam, who is tasked with breaking down the events of the day and seeing how I fared. Damage control, attitude readjustment and a full commitment to August's methods. Consistency. Cohesiveness. Love. Sam and I talk quietly on the porch under the watchful eye of our Lady Grey teas while the rain pours down around the edges of our atoll and we see how hard it was for me to keep the focus, discuss what may have derailed me or how I navigated the hard parts of the day and we plot the course on a map of my heart to see how far I managed to get.
Every night at ten sharp Lochlan opens the front door and I hand him my tea to finish and he gets a brief update. Sam doesn't do the man-hug thing, instead giving a full on, arms around Lochlan squeeze that holds for five or ten seconds, depending on how the day went. This time I take the cups and go inside and Lochlan takes my place for a half hour or so, talking with Sam about the day and how he found it. How he's coping with it. How to process it. How to let me grow up when emotionally we're stuck in the teenage years seemingly forever.
Sam and August talk after that, together or so I learned a couple of days ago, supporting each other, choosing to work together instead of giving out mixed messages or conflicting methods.
Took us awhile, this. We'll get where we need to be.
Together, Lochlan says.
Yeah.