I'm not a writer.
One day I hope to be but for now it's not my profession, it's just therapy.
As soon as I hit publish on a tough post, a weight lifts. I feel lighter, better, calmer. There's a release that's similar to talking to a great friend, running on the treadmill, or just getting a good night's sleep.
You don't know that I feel better after every word I write, though. All you know is what I write.
So, after a few down-in-the-dumps-type posts, I understand why it probably would surprise you to know I was laughing on the phone yesterday with Natalie, enjoying a run at the gym, and then laughing with Mike about how annoying Julia Roberts was in Eat, Pray, Love. "She's irritating, it's not just me, right?"
(I fell asleep as soon as she got to India.)
(I credit the pasta for keeping me going until then.)
It's been a tough week (month? year?), that's totally true, but I'm fine. Writing about it, albeit vaguely, helped me. Made me feel instantly better. As did all of you. As did Mike.
Then Kyle had one of the worst mornings he's had in.....oh, ever. He was whining and melting down over EVERYTHING. I left him with Mike, headed out of the house, and heard the horrible news from Japan.
There's not much to say beyond what's obvious to say: it's horrible, awful, heartbreaking, unfair, scary as hell.
As I was driving to work, I thought about my two-year-old and how he thinks the worst thing that can happen to him is that I occasionally don't butter his toast quickly enough or sometimes I turn off Handy Manny because he's acting like a crazy person.
It's frustrating that so little can unwind and unravel him. It's hair-pulling that he can turn something so little into something so day-ruining.
But., he doesn't know there's any worse. He doesn't know the world is much, much worse. He thinks these things are as bad as life gets. One day he'll know differently, but I'm so grateful that day isn't today.
We're okay, really and truly, and I hope hope hope you and everyone you know are too.