We go back home to Idaho tomorrow, which is a phrase I would have never imagined typing five years ago. But we do. And because my sleep patterns have completely gone cr to the aaa to the zee, I’m just going to stay up all night tonight rather than attempt to wake up at 4 am tomorrow. We’ll see how that works out.

I’m not sure if I wrote this before, but I’ve been in a sort of emotional suspension the past month. To quote Scarlett O’Hara:

“I can’t think about that today. I’ll think about that tomorrow.”

I’ve been blessed to be surrounded by friends and family this month, friends and family who love my children as I do, and have given me time alone and away from the clatter of everyday child-rearing. I’ve been blessed with three amazing children, who loved their grandmother and love their aunts and uncles and cousins and friends in Texas, but miss their Daddy and beds and toys and need the normalcy of our home life. And I’ve been blessed to get this time, having no paycheck to earn, and no school to report to, and a husband who called everyday to tell me how much he missed me.

I go back to Idaho renewed and happy. Melancholy, certainly, but motivated to be a better person, to do more good, to write more words, to paint and play and dance and travel and teach and learn and love my family like the world was ending tomorrow. And as I finally deal with the grief and heartache that I’ve been quietly suppressing this month, the one thing I know, that I’ve always known and will cling to, no matter what else I think of my mom, is that she wanted me to be brave. Of all the grandparents, my mom was the most enthusiastic of our move to Idaho. She relished the thought of my kids growing up around mountains, as she did. She loved hearing Charlie talk about skiing and Juliet talk about playing in the snow. She wanted me to write a book that got published. And even though I can’t go back and read her comments right now, she loved this blog. And there was a time, last summer I think, that she frequently commented on my posts.

Some of you are very, very close to your mothers. I was not. We were very different people, my mother and I. So as I consciously re-shape my memory of her, I’ll be trashing the bad and savoring the good and hoping she did the same with me over the years. Knowing her, I’m sure she did.

This is the part where I say thank you. Thank you so much for your kindness and attention and well wishes and prayers. There are no words to express what your good thoughts have meant to me.

And this is the part where I say that it is time to write about other things. Funny things. Happy things. Idaho things. After a month of neverwritingever, I do believe I only have 2.5 of you readers left anyway. So for you, dear reader(s), it’s time to get my blawg awn.