The Change

I am not normal. 

Not sure if you saw that coming!  But let's just be honest, here...who was surprised by that?  

Back to the point. Me. Not normal. Why, you ask? 

I like change. 

Most everyone else in my life hates it or at the very least avoids it.  But not me. When it comes to major life decisions or changes, I'm pretty rational. I deal. Good or bad, I take life as it comes and try to remain positive. (Thank you daddy, for practical reasoning skills and a uncommon ability to not react emotionally).

So imagine my surprise recently when I learned that others don't quite perceive me as flexible. 

A few weeks ago I arose before the sun and headed into work to prepare for a super early work breakfast. After the event concluded and the room cleared, I mindlessly picked up glasses and stacked plates. As I came to the coffee station, I closed the lid on the caramel macchiato creamer and thought for a fleeting second, "I wonder if that is good?"

You see, I'm not a coffee drinker.  I kind of think it is gross. Stinky.  And tastes like cardboard.  Ugh.  

Yes, that means this "Carrie" energy and positivity is entirely decaf. No coffee buzz to get me through the day or amp me up.  Not a single cup of joe was downed as I survived the agonizingly exhausting twinfancy. Give me my trusty water mug, and I'm set. 31 years and coffee free.

Until that day.

I poured a teeny tiny cup of coffee and then added some sugary caramel creamer.  Scratch that. I poured an entire mug of delish creamer and added a few drops of coffee. And then I sat at the table and took a sip. And another.  Stashed the creamer in my office mini fridge after clean up was done and pushed it from my thoughts. The next morning I sauntered into the cafeteria and grabbed the small styrofoam cup. Glanced sideways at my coworkers feeling like I was cheating on someone (myself?) and poured a cup. Added some (a lot) of the caramel creamer and downed the coffee in barely 5 minutes.  

And the habit continued.  

That week was particularly long and left my household running in opposite directions. As I sat in my office a few days later savoring the sweet aroma of fresh coffee swirled with caramel goodness, I texted my husband and said something generic like, "Oh, hey - I forgot to tell you I started drinking coffee this week." 

The response I got was nothing short of an interrogation. When? Why? WHAT??? Actually I'm pretty sure his actual text was, "Are you serious. Who are you?"  Ha.

That night he was stunned and asked more questions. I looked at him kind of like he was nuts and wondered aloud why it was such a big deal.  And his answer really did shock me.  I got a lecture on how in the 13 years he has known me and the 10 years of our marriage, I just don't change what I do. I am worse than a creature of habit. I am fiercely stubborn and set in my ways. I do things that I want, when I want, without excuse or apology. I make decisions and stick by them without fail.  I am who I am.  But I am...who I have been.  And will be, apparently.  

I couldn't believe Ben's reaction, honestly. I relayed the story to my coworkers the next day (who by the way had been laughing at my excitement and telling me that soon I'd graduate to the bigger cup...) and was surprised to find that they, too, saw my new-found coffee discovery as a symptom of something. Stress, perhaps?  I got some looks of genuine concern and surprise. My boss actually suggested I take a vacation when she found out I had joined the millions who started their day with coffee.

Turns out I see myself as a whole heck of a lot more adaptable to change than I really am.

Funny how self discovery tends to open your eyes to more self awareness.

My boys need a haircut. And I refuse to do it.  They have had curly mullets for way too long, but when I toil away at the office for too many hours, the one thing that gets me through is knowing that when I walk in the door, those sweet babies will run with glee to smack my lips with kisses and bury their soft curls into my neck as they squeeze and shriek, "Mama!"  My heart literally cannot handle chopping off the locks. Who is it hurting, really?  No one.  Except for today.  When the Walmart check out lady started calling Toby a "she." 

Oh. No. You. Didn't. 

I even said, "Stop kicking each other, boys!" several times while I tried to pay for my groceries, but still I got a "Well she needs to learn to defend herself" laugh from the peanut gallery. Ugh. Okay, I get it. I need to cut their hair so they don't have some gender crisis (not really, people, I'm just ranting here). Okay. I will embrace the change and cut the shaggy out of control bedhead.  But give me some coping time.

Who am I?

The weeks have passed and my coffee gets tastier by the day.

And another change looms ahead.  

My parents are selling their house.  For real.  This is the home where I learned to play basketball and spent summers riding bikes around the lake. The home with the big living room, big windows, big closets and big bedrooms. The home where we had birthday parties and graduation parties and wedding showers and baby showers. The home where I painstakingly wrapped garland and lights around the extra long banister every Christmas.  The home that bursts with jazz music booming from every room. The home where I fought with my sister and played barbies for hours.  The kitchen where my mom baked more pans of brownies than I can possibly remember, entertaining classmates, friends and boyfriends. The driveway where I had my first kiss.  The street where we walked to the bus stop every day for years.  The neighborhood with friends on nearly every corner.  The quiet dock down the street where the love of my life asked for my hand in marriage. The community with beautiful waterways and endless opportunities for outdoor fun.  The home I grew up in.

As my parents have shared their plans to move into a detached villa in a town not far from their current home, there are several things I know to be true.  

• #1 - My dad will be calm, cool and collected during the change. He will approach this logically and may have sentimental glassy eyes on moving day, but he has made the decision happily and is looking forward to the change. 
• #2 - My mom will bubble with excitement and will launch into future decor planning. She has wanted this for several years and is so happy to be making the change. But I am betting there are tears in our future as she packs up the life she has made in that three story abode built with loving hands.
• #3 - My sister may surprise me, but I expect her to take this the hardest.  (Her exact words to my parents in the early stages of this decision a few weeks ago were: "That's fine. You guys can pack and move. I'm going to chain myself to my room"). 

And what about me?  Before today, before the past few weeks, I would have said without hesitation that I will be fine.  In fact I said those exact words to my giddy mother this morning.  I am Carrie. Bring on the change. I am Carrie. See me roar.  

Will I really be fine?  I mean really, fine. I want to say yes. I like change, remember? Bring it on.

But then I pour that cup of coffee. That change took 31 years. 

By the beginning of September, my parents will have their house on the market and will have signed on their next dream home. It has plenty of space for all of us to stay (including you, April, and we will NOT make you sleep on the couch).  My kids will know this next place as "grandma & papa's house."  We will make another lifetime of memories.

Tonight I'm faced with the ridiculous (and slightly embarrassing) reality that I am secretly an emotional wreck like everyone else, I miss waking up to the sounds of woodpeckers and speedboats, and I don't want to cut the twins' hair.  

Does simply saying the words, "I am fine," make it true.  

Here's the thing...for me, it does. 

Bonus of being stubborn, perhaps. Or bonus of not being normal.  

See, I am flexible. 

Home is where my family is. 

And I'll always have coffee.  The big cup, of course. 

The Survived

I survived.  Not sure exactly what it is that I survived, but nevertheless here I am. I received a late night phone call tonight from a friend.  With disbelief I listened as she explained that somehow the small town rumor mill was churning and I was the victim.  Literally.  One of Sam's pre-k classmates who is apparently in the same elementary school as Sam (but in a different kindergarten class) heard that Sam's mom had died. Seriously. So the child told his mother. Who texted or called or spoke to various other pre-k parents. Who also texted or called or spoke to others...and eventually ended up contacting a friend of mine...hence the mysterious call hoping to hear my cheery voice.

As I laughed about the ridiculousness of rumors among kindergartners and wondering what (if any) part my charming 5 year old had in this mess, I joked with my friend about her pre-phone call activities: checking facebook and my church's website making sure there was no news of my untimely demise. Unsettling.

It is the second day of school.  Seriously.

I survived the first day without crying. But not the second day without...dying. Nice, huh?

It's been a month of reflection and treasuring memories for our family.  End of summer. Learning to swim. Potting training twins...or trying. Celebrating 95 years with Ben's sweet grandma and then sadly attending her funeral. Laughing with out of towners about life and love and childhood. Praying for a serious family health need. Prepping for the first day of school. Smiling with pride at the all-grown-up kindergartner headed off to his classroom.

Sigh.  I know, I always say it. Where does the time even go?  I am planning a second birthday party for little ones, and all I can think of is bringing my olive-skinned firstborn home from the hospital and wondering how in the world we could actually be parents.

We survived.

And when Sam wakes up in the morning and prepares to head off for another fun-filled day of learning, I will innocently inquire about any conversations he may have had at recess about his mommy dearest meeting Jesus.