This is my 'something better to do.'

Snapshot. Because Loch keeps bugging me to post more daily-type stuff. Right now Nina Gordon is serenading us with her beauty, Jacob is contemplating dinner ingredients with his head bent down into the freezer, which is almost empty anyway, as I need a lot of groceries but I never go until Saturdays anyhow.

There's no cake and no Stoli. I am now medication-free and cleared to drive again. I will not be going to buy alcohol with that freedom, in fact, I'll probably use that freedom to drag my butt to Home Depot for the three millionth time this year.

I'm doing well. I should be cleaning a few rooms upstairs. We're shifting some stuff. Jacob has decided he wants us to live in the summer bedroom. I don't blame him, it's the nicest room in the whole house. A sunny alcove slightly removed from the rest of the house with windows on three sides of the room and lovingly freshly painted in white and dark green. It's a romantic room. The door is tiny. I don't see how he'll fit our bed in that room but he told me to leave it to him. He has to duck to go in. On second thought I don't see how he'll fit in there on a regular basis.

How did we spend today? Working on the house. Being funny. Sitting in the sun. Making tandem grilled cheese at lunch and ignoring the phone. Walking the kids back and forth and a morning rescue in which I ran down to the river and was in too much pain to run back. I couldn't walk back, actually so I phoned my pace car for backup. That would be Jacob in his truck (with lots of scolding because I shouldn't be running until I have another checkup to make sure my ribs have healed).

Did I tell you his truck is leaving us? Another day I will.

Did I tell you he is the most stubborn man on the planet? Tomorrow, then. Which means porn.

And for Chase, who asked twice and seems impatient:

BR: Bridget Rebekah.
RB: Ruth Bailey (for my favorite sister.)
HJ: Henry Jacob (on purpose.)
JTF: Jacob Thomas Finnian. (Tell no one. He HATES it. Shhhhhhhh!)

And no, I am not over his new tattoo yet. I still can't believe it or him half the time.

Forever man.

    How many times must I say I love you
    Before you finally understand?
    Won't you be my forever woman?
    I'll try to be your forever man,
    Try to be your forever man.

An aside first off, yesterday Jacob left on a vague errand and came home in time to take me out for a quick coffee so that I wouldn't fall asleep during the movie.  He came home empty-handed and made some reference to seeing a friend about a long-overdue project. He needs irons in the fire to keep busy, it makes him happy. I salvaged yesterday with help, I'm okay. I'm always okay now.

It wasn't until we were home from the movie that was so bad it was funny and PJ had been dispatched with the rest of the chicken pot pie that I had made for him that we were getting ready for bed and I discovered the nature of Jacob's errand. He unbuttoned his favorite flannel shirt and there was a white bandage on his chest, right over his heart.

I was staring at it. I knew what it was. He followed my eyes and looked down.

Oh, right. I completely forgot.

You didn't.

Of course I did.
He went into the bathroom and took a quick shower and came back without the bandage but with my name tattooed on his flesh. He already has a BR on his back, in his angel wings, along with his own JTF, Ruth's RB and Henry's HJ initials plus the baby we lost, already named, but this...this said Bridget. Right there clear as day on the front of his body.

It's bad luck, Jacob.

No, princess. It's statement of fact. My heart belongs to you. It has nothing to do with us, it's just the way things are, the way things have been, since the night we met. You control the speed of my heartbeats. Did you know that?

I'm forever grateful he turned out to be this romantic. Oh you have no idea. He is marked with my name. He's mine. All mine. It goes both ways, I am his.

Thank you God.

A year ago today, I jumped. I bent my knees very low and summoned every ounce of power and courage I could muster and I jumped

I didn't have a clue where I would land. I couldn't see. There was no firm ledge, no guaranteed soft fall, no promises of anything, contrary to popular belief.

I didn't know what would happen to my kids, my finances, my house or my heart. I didn't know if jumping would really make me happy or just give me something new to think about. I hoped that it would save my life.

Jumping out of a burning building, off a crumbling ledge, or across a crack in the ice as it widens is almost like being pushed. If you don't jump, you know you'll die standing still. It's a fear and a relief all mixed up together and it makes you feel like you're going to throw up. I can touch myself all over today and know that I made it. I'm in one piece, more or less. My battle scars seem invisible, my war wounds are fading, my heart is mending, my soul feels full.

I still smile hugely every time I see him. I miss him when he goes to the other room, I yearn for him when he's not within reaching distance, I want for nothing now.

It was like landing in a giant pillow. And I didn't have to fear for my life because in the instant that I jumped, I was spared, flaming skirt hem and all. And I could say the same for him, so let's reverse it for a moment. He stood on the edge of a cliff, below the flaming building, on the safe side of the iceberg that was breaking away and he opened his arms wide.

He stood on his faith and held his arms up and waited, not knowing what he would catch, if he could hold it, or what it would be. He caught the girl with the flaming skirt and a broken heart, two children who needed to be protected at all costs, and a solid and square hundred year old Victorian house. He also caught the ire and judgement of his very best friends in the process and he put his own heart and his own soul on the line, with the patience of Job and the shoulders of Atlas.

He saved my life. He put me down and touched me all over and he knew that I made it, with few scars and invisible wounds and a heart as brittle as a snowflake and a wide open emotional playground inside my head. But his soul is full now, he's helping to heal me, he's getting to know me. And he loves what he sees. He still smiles wide when he sees me, he misses me when I brush my teeth and thinks of me while he walks or drives.

He became a giant soft landing, a human resounding buffer zone, a collective force built into one man designed to withstand flaming broken-hearted girls seeking refuge.

We fell together, maybe, in a way. Yes.

One year later I thank God that for once I felt reckless and desperate and scared enough to make the leap even though it seemed scarier than standing still. At least with Cole I knew what to expect. I knew that we were provided for and he hurt me privately so the kids were safe and we were still a nuclear family. Cole had his sterling reputation as an artist, we lived a dream on the outside and for so long that imaginary dream was a security blanket I wasn't going to give up.

Until faced with a choice. Lose Jacob forever or blindly jump into the arms of a friend, knowing full well he was a Good Man but otherwise not getting any guarantees. I like guarantees. I like warranties and extended service plans and insurance and when I do something I want it to be forever. And I never told you that I knew damn well he would always rescue me but I was never sure if he could love me forever, if he was cut out for a long term life with me because he is a runner, an impulsive, adventurous guy or if I was a challenge for him, his faith and his curiosity. The moment I landed, however, I think I knew.

Jacob is my forever man.

I used to turn up my nose at people who joked about their 'starter' marriages, or people who seemingly divorced without having tried hard enough.But then again I still scoff at people who insist that opposite-sex best friends can be just friends, without tension of any kind. Because if there is one thing that did change drastically during the past year, it would be our friendship. Once consummated legitimately everything changed and the laid-back friend I could cuddle with became so intense, a formal protector/judge taking over where the hands-off little-input friend left off. Jacob took the power he was given and wielded it with enthusiasm and it was so difficult for us to both become used to how that felt. To say that it didn't swell his ego and bring a confidence to all aspects of his life would be underestimating his weaknesses. He can't let go of me. Ever.

I love it.

I am his weakness but in my love he finds his strength. I belong to him now and I am not strong enough to stand on my own but when I stand beside him I can do anything.

Such is my life, the way I want it. With Jacob.

A whole year behind us now and a hundred left to go.

Brief moments now.

I had a brief few moments late this afternoon in that I thought I was losing it, ever so fleetingly. Life got overwhelming, just enough for the panic to begin. Will the backyard ever be finished, can I ask my folks not to come out for a visit this year, how many parents will be supervising Ruth's friend's birthday party this weekend, why do I never want to cook or eat, can we afford to spend a little extra on some building materials, what am I so afraid of all the time and oh my God, could I please just drive myself to the store and buy one bottle of Stoli?

I can work myself into a lather over so little. You would see me and nod your head in agreement, yes, she's a mess.

The biggest question of all, why is the affection never enough? I could eat Jacob alive, I can spend entire days and whole nights in those arms and the moment he lets go I am lost, cold, feeling abandoned and cast aside. He had to run out for a couple of hours just now, before dinner and the moment he was gone I felt alone in the world, going through my motions, struggling to just learn how the fuck to be alone. I am never alone. Ever. I never have been. I love to be by myself in the house but if there is no one else in the house then I can't handle it.

It's an irrational fear, losing Jacob is. I have been asked to face it, embrace it and plan for it, by my doctor, because my doctor doesn't believe that any amount of need placed on Jacob is healthy.

I never said it was healthy. Not once. I know what it is. I know how devastating it could become and I know simply that it can't be fixed.

I also know that I have a date tonight thanks to PJ who is flexing a little counselling muscle of his own and declaring that a two-hour distraction in the form of coffee and a movie is just what Bridget needs to reign her fears back in and keep the demons away so that Jacob and I can enjoy this momentous week of ours without the bottom falling out like it always seems to. He offered to babysit yet again. He's adorable.

We're ignoring the lack of medication, ignoring the absence of my cathartic running that I desperately need and ignoring all ghosts and cogs in the machinery of our life right now and just living moment by moment.

Some of them are just tougher than others.

But it's being fixed as we speak. And I lean heavily in the meantime. And hope. Because it's better than it used to be.

Bye, I'm headed to change. I'm looking forward to our time tonight, out in the stars and the cool spring air.

I'm breathing.

Odds and evens.

Today is a day so special I woke up early and went and got the champagne, and woke Jacob up with a glass and a toast, but he was awake anyway. He always wakes up when I stir in the mornings.

A toast to us. To him.

Today is the very last day of year one. Our first year together as a couple. As a couple of I-don't-know-whats, but a couple nonetheless. The final, three hundred and sixty fifth day of a long, arduous, perilous trip around the moon with detours to heaven a good six hundred times and back again. A journey of epic proportions in which I think my heart was dropped and picked up and broken and stitched and glued back together so many times I am a human mosaic from the inside out.

A year in which I tried to destroy my best friend and yet he is still here and as strong as ever and hopeful and full of his goofy faith-branded goodness that keeps him going even as I'm pulling so hard on the brakes I have permanent burns on my fingers and heels from digging in.

A year in which I was threatened, pushed and goaded past every insurmountable obstacle that sprang up one after the other and when I screamed for a break he simply set his mouth and pushed me more. If you think I am so hard on him just know that I rarely talk about how hard he is on me.

A year that saw a tiny bloom on a plant long left for dead flourish and expand until it outshone everything else in the garden. Our love, long denied, allowed to fly free like a bird and oh my fuck, have we ever soared. Sometimes we crash and burn and we pick ourselves up or we pick each other up and keep going.

I am the most perfect and the most imperfect human bean alive.

And I am loved.

And I love. Still. In spite of life I fell so hard in love I expected to shatter when I hit bottom. I'm still falling though and it won't stop.

So hard it floors me. Daily. And I've come to write about fights and awkward times and difficult moments and yet at the end of almost every single one of those three hundred and sixty five nights, give or take a couple of hospital stays, a business trip or two and some really stupid arguments I have fallen asleep in Jacob's arms, safe and warm and lucky and well aware that he is the one I want to spend the rest of my life with and I'm glad I get to live with him. And so crushed that I have ever hurt him, made him sad, made him angry or made him regret his choices. I write the trouble that I am for him as penance sometimes.

He maintains he wouldn't have it any other way, that despite the hardships this year has held, despite the ups and downs and the heartache and the pain when he looks at me he is filled with joy, with hope and with gratitude, but most of all with love.

Big love, he says, for his little Bridget. And through most of the past decade, everything aside, he says he is happy, because he got exactly what he wished for, so hard for so long.

Me.

But he is not the lucky one. I am.

We're spending this final day of our first year together, like we spend all our days now, hand in hand. In arms. In love.

I know. God, Bridget, the cheese! Enough.

Oh you think there's excitement today, just you wait until tomorrow.


    Section chief: Are you damaged?

    Condor: Damaged. No.

I don't know what I was, but I know I wasn't mad.

Therapy this morning was helpful to the point of being an overpriced gentle reminder that not everyone in the world is on my timetable, nor do people share my opinions on things, and might possibly make up their own minds.

Lord only knows, if you don't shove and push Bridget very hard sometimes, she won't get out of her own way. Maybe I needed this. Maybe this signifies our sugar-line in a more concrete fashion. After all, this life is not about just me, and it's not about Jacob. It's about all four of us, and Ruth and Henry's happiness is a blessing on all counts. They're my troopers. They come before my bullshit.

Besides, no one cares how I feel outside of this bubble. The world is turning. I think today a lot of people wish it would turn backward so that they could prevent, or save or have just one more blessed minute. I read the news. My problems, real or perceived, are so small.

The best part from the morning was Jacob's thumb again, resting on the back of my neck and tracing my tattoo like it was a rail. After the first fifteen minutes it became raw and painful but he continued to do it for the entire two hours and I endured it because I liked it. It gave me something to focus on besides the reaction my rather uncharacteristic one-word responses were evoking from Claus and from Jacob.

After lunch Jacob and I headed out with work gloves and rakes and tackled the front yard together. We haven't had a nice word for each other for the better part of a day and a half, as I am a legendary non-talker when I'm thinking and he likes to give people as much room as possible to put their thoughts together without infringing on their private ruminations. He waits for me to speak, and I wait for him to give up and get pissed off and walk out.

He won't do it now. He knows me so well. And I push him right back because that's what we do and since we're aware then it's still healthy. I just love the gentle bonks on my head to remind me that I'm not special. Even though I am. He talks out both sides of his gorgeous mouth and I know he's dealing platitudes until something sticks and I start talking.

And I did.

Halfway through putting a pile of leaves into the wheelbarrow, I threw the rake down and started in. He stood patiently in the middle of the front yard with his hands crossed on the top of his rake handle and paid close attention while I let it all out. My anger, my betrayal, my fear, my remorse, my trepidation and he only interrupted once to remind me so gently just to breathe while I prattled on and on.

Because secretly he loves playing therapist to me, and he loves it when I erupt with chaotic verbal onslaughts after saying so little for three days. I think sometimes he remembers that as long as I'm talking I'm okay.

When I was done I took a very deep shaky breath and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for an equally cutting tirade to begin. Jacob has a gift for that and he's so much better at it than I am.

After a minute a handful of leaves landed on my head and I opened my eyes narrowly to see him grinning at me.

Are you done, princess?

Yes, I think so.

Good, I'd like to take you out for lunch and it's always a nicer time when we're on speaking terms, don't you think?

He took us out for soup and sandwiches, which was relaxed, and then we took Ruth back to school late and we came home to put away the yard tools and rest for a bit. I still had laundry to do and breakfast dishes to wash and Jacob pitched in without prompting. We made short work of the chores and then he turned and leaned on the doorframe and untied his shoes. He took them off and headed for the porch to leave them out there but then he stopped and gazed at me. His look stopped me in my tracks, it was a rare self-conscious, almost doubtful expression without a hint of Jacob's usual self-assurance.

It is better, though, isn't it? Life? Us?

Yes. So much better, Jacob.

Then trust me. Please, Bridget? Can you do that for once in your life?

I do.

No, you don't. But you should. Because I would do anything for you. And for the kids.

I know you would.

Then please, just trust me. Trust us.
I nodded, because my voice was drowned in the tears that came out of nowhere. And a new gift I've discovered: I can make him cry too. Sometimes too easily. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and for the first time since I met him didn't instantly regain his composure as if nothing had ever happened. He just let the rest of his tears roll down his face and he nodded back at me.

Good, then. Because you have no idea how much I love you.

I do.

No, you don't.

Are you trying to start an argument?

Maybe. We seem to resolve a lot of things when we take the gloves off.

We could resolve even more if we took our clothes off.

Can I get a raincheck on that?

What?

At least until the kids are in bed?

Oh, I suppose that would help. Oh and Jake?

Yeah, princess?

I love you. More than you know.

Some days you have really no idea how happy I am to hear that, princess. Today is one of those days.

When honesty is completely unwelcome.

How do I feel?

I don't like it.

So, yes, honestly it was something I would have wished for maybe as Ruth was leaving for university or when Henry gets married someday, that they would have taken Jacob aside as almost-adults and asked him if it was okay. I know I have wished so hard in the past that he would have turned out to be Henry's father but that was for his comfort, not mine.

No, in true impulsive fashion that they have now learned from all three of their parents, it's throw yourself headlong into it and see what happens.

It's too soon. He hasn't been dead for a year and they've switched alliances and it's so okay by everyone I can't even breathe. It's fine, it's normal, they're young enough to be resilient yet old enough to understand the gravity of a word.

Jacob is so happy who in the hell am I to say it isn't right? Or that it's too soon for me? Who am I to deny him any more of anything?

Oh no. Now, now, he has it all.

And it's like Cole never existed except for in Bridget's pretty little crazy head and that...that's fucking weird. And different. And slightly unbearable.

I feel guilty. But it has nothing to do with me, and I have to pluck a resiliency out of thin air that doesn't even belong to me, because I am not seven years old.

I may as well be. Because I feel like a total unappreciative brat for even thinking this, let alone saying it out loud for all to hear. You all want the fucking barometer? Here you go. Come figure me out now.

Sometimes they are ready but I am not.

    I sail to the moon
    I spoke too soon
    And how much did it cost
    I was dropped from the moonbeam
    And sailed on shooting stars
    Maybe you'll be president
    But know right from wrong
    Or in the flood you'll build an Ark
    And sail us to the moon

It's been 275 days since her father died, and Ruth was out yesterday afternoon jumping in puddles with triumphant glee, soaked to her ears, covered with mud. Wearing green wellies, a yellow raincoat and carrying her ladybug umbrella aloft, Ruth was heralding spring all by herself on the sidewalk in front of the house while I sat on the front steps with all three doors behind me into the house wide open to welcome the warmer air after the rain. Warmer being six degrees, and so we wore sweaters buttoned up tight against the chill.

Jacob was beside me on the steps frowning into his paperwork and scribbling lines and lines of writing, stopping every now and again to ask me if I was cold enough yet or more softly, if I wanted a new hot cup of coffee or some toast. He's spent most of the past week and a half sitting next to me and stroking my hair or holding my hand tightly in his, things he does perpetually anyway, with his new customary touch of concern, a dash of extra patience and more than a little sympathy and regret. When I tell him I'm fine and I can still do just about all the boring things myself he lets an edge of pride round out his expression, because physically I am tougher than you would expect. I heal fast, and I rarely slow down for long.

I'm just about one hundred percent again.

Physically anyhow.

Some of Ruth's friends from school came by and she came in to ask if they could stay for a quick tea party and I went to get a towel when I saw her coming and by the time I got to the top of the staircase, she was running in through the porch trying to get Jake's attention.

Only she wasn't yelling Jake! Jake!

She was yelling Dad.

And oddly I could feel his smile before I even saw it.

You couldn't miss it. It was a thousand-watt beam coming straight from his heart.

Road warrior.

When I was a child I endured very long car drives. I traveled hundreds of miles every few months and just about every major holiday to visit one set of grandparents or the other, both sets living in a different province from my third to my seventh year.

I have vivid memories, not of the visits themselves but of the backseat of the 1972 Olds Vista Cruiser that we drove in. I was the typical youngest, mostly ignored until I was howling, running after everyone to catch up. Whatever part of my life up until age seven that I didn't spend on the beach or in the ocean was spent sitting in the backseat of this station wagon that was the sickliest shade of green ever. Avocado. The only shade of green I don't enjoy to the fullest. The inside was tan vinyl.

I would be sunburned and overtired, keyed-up and wide-eyed, hanging over the front headrest looking at my dad's balding spot or my mom's perfectly sprayed twiggy haircut and chewing on the stick from a lollipop long-finished. My hair was in an unruly ponytail, my white t-shirt and red shorts stained from grass and chocolate and coca cola. I stood and watched the glint of cars as they appeared on the opposite hill and marveled at the mirage made when the sun broiled the pavement on the flat straightaways. I talked nonstop but no one listened until at some point my father would yell at me to be quiet.

Soon I would become dizzy and nauseous and my mother would pass back a chewable motion sickness tablet and tell me to sit down. This was long before seatbelt laws. I would sit back down and poke my fingers out the top of my window, left open a crack for fresh air. The wind rushing past the window would freeze my fingers into tiny icicles, and then I would put them against my hot forehead and relish the cold. The car always smelled like stale Easter candy and potato chips and eventually I would panic and ask my father to pull over. Once I had been sick I would usually sleep for the rest of the trip, only to be rudely awakened by Bailey pulling on my arms and yelling at me to Bridgie, get up, we're here! Bailey never got car sick. I hated her for that.

For some reason the drives back home were always magical in comparison. There was something special about being out in the dark, up past my bedtime, far from home. Wrapped in a too-big handmedown sweatshirt and more sunburned I would take my place in the car behind my father and sit watching closely between the seats as headlights appeared on the road in front of us, drivers blinking their highbeams off when they saw our lights approaching. I would have a sticky face, a sore belly from all the extra treats that long-distance grandparents ply on their grandchildren, and be clutching Blythe, the doll that I dragged around for most of the seventies. My hair would be a wild halo of tangles around my face, in my eyes, in my mouth, with very little left in the ponytail. I smelled like sweat and candy.

I would just watch the lights and listen to the songs on the radio. Deep Purple, Journey, Kansas, The Eagles, Heart, Elton John, Creedence, Gordon Lightfoot, Fleetwood Mac, and I would sing along in my tiny little voice that I couldn't hear but no one else could either. Somewhere around the bay I would nod off at last and then wake up only as my father would miscalculate when he carried me into the house and bump his head on my doorframe as he tried to put me to bed without waking me up.

Those nights I would dream of floating lights set to music, a never-ending trip home.

I still don't like very long drives but I sit up front now and play all those same songs. That helps, at least a little.

Soothing Saturdays.

I'm sitting on the patio right now in the warm early morning sun drinking coffee and working a little bit while Jacob and Henry go up and down the driveway. Over and over and over. Jacob is teaching Henry how to balance on two wheels, having taken the training wheels off earlier this morning. I can tell which heartbeat he hesitates in before he lets go of the back of the bike seat, and I hear the pride and love in his voice as he calls out reinforcement and encouragement once Henry pedals out of reach.

Then he runs to catch up because every time Henry stops he falls off.

Jacob has always been incredibly involved with the kids, from before their births, if you could believe that, as I was gently steered from unhealthy cravings for wonderful things like cheeseburgers and onion rings to salads and wholewheat sandwiches when he would take me out for lunch. He was their surrogate father when Cole worked himself invisible for the past seven years and he was their champion when it seemed like everyone else was busy. I was never sure how Jacob managed to maintain such a presence in our lives when he spread himself so sparing with work commitments and everything else but he did, and he was consistent except and even when he traveled, with postcards, calls and souvenirs.

It is yet one more sign to me that he was meant to be ours.

Happy sparklies.

Yes! Drive is on the stereo. I love Incubus.

    It's driven me beforrrre,
    and it seems to have a faaaaint,
    haunting mass appeal.
    But lately I, am beginning to find that IIII
    should be the one behind the wheel.


Anything to get Down with the Sickness out of my head, because I love Disturbed more. Jake cracks up every time I sing it.

Especially the beginning.

Oh-ah-ah-ah-ah! Oh! Oh! Will you give it to me?

In my really Scary Voice. Yeah. Bridget's hardcore.

I am so using that song for my next lap dance. Whenever the hell I can manage it.