Of Baristas and Coffee Shops

As we head to the counter I see her start to smile. She gives a little wave and says "Hey Lion. I love your dinosaur shirt."

He laughs. He smiles and bats his eyelashes at her in only the way a two year old can.

She takes my order and says "I could just eat him up, he's so cute."

I smile in return and hug him a little tighter. "Yep. He's the best."

I head to the end of the counter to await my coffee. He doesn't even have to call out my order, he knows it by heart. "Here you go, Renee. Do you need help with the lid?"

"No I've got it. You get used to doing things one handed after a while."

"Enjoy."

After I get my coffee, we get Lion his water. He loves that he can press the lever on the water jug. I have to hold back his enthusiasm just a bit so the water doesn't over flow on to the floor.

Drinks in hand we head to the table. I break up pieces of the pumpkin or zucchini bread for him. He grabs a piece and shove it into his mouth "Nak. Yay nak."

"Yes baby. It is a yummy snack."

I take a drink of my coffee and sigh contentedly. The chaos of the morning slips away with each sip. It doesn't last long because the Lion cub does not have the patience to savor an entire cup.

Lion throws away our trash. We bundle up and get ready to face the grocery store. Before we leave we say good bye to our friends and know that we get to do this again tomorrow.

Softer

The first thing I notice is the boots, brown, flat, beautiful, perfect. In another time, a time with two incomes and less mouths to feed, I would have asked her where she bought them. I would have run out and bought those boots or ones like them because I could. I would have been happy, the kind of happy that only beautiful boots can bring.

The next thing I notice are the leggings. They are black and grey in an interesting pattern. I chuckle to myself. Looking at my mocha and cookie, I know I could never wear those leggings. Not the way she does with her supermodel long legs, with her supermodel thin legs. I could not wear them without a long sweater to hide the things that needed hiding.

There was a time long ago when a girl I remember only in photos could have worn those leggings. She was supermodel tall, supermodel thin. She subsisted on coffee, Sprite, microwave popcorn, a few cigarettes and alcohol. She wore leggings like that. She could pull that off. People noticed how thin she was. She was complimented. Boys noticed her. She was happy in the way that only a cute boy noticing you can make you happy. Miserable and unhealthy but happy that she was thin.

I notice her hair. The length is what I am hoping to achieve later this year. The color is that beautiful honey color I have always wanted but never quite achieved. I make a mental note to discuss this with my stylist on Thursday. I will be happy, the kind of happy that only a new hair color can bring.

Her back is to me. I cannot tell her age. She could be young. She could be my age. I cannot see her face. I cannot know if she is happy or sad. I can only know myself.

I know that I am softer, rounder and wider than I wish I was. There are lumps and bulges I wish weren't there. Lucky my height hides the imperfections. There are days I can rock skinny jeans and leggings (with an appropriately long ass covering sweater) and days I cannot. My hair is almost back to it's natural color. It is sprinkled with gray, a nod to my age.

My clothes are not stylish nor fashionable. I wear jeans, a t-shirt and sweater that may or may not have been picked up off the floor in my rush to get three people dressed and out the door to school on time. My feet are clad in worn winter boots. Boots that no one would look twice at but keep me warm while I stand on the playground or frolic in the snow with my children.

But none of this matters to the woman I am now. I am happy, the kind of happy that comes from living life. I am blessed with the wisdom of time, struggle and acceptance.

Comfort

It is nothing special.

It's just a simple black oversized v-neck cardigan.

It's my favorite article of clothing.

It's old.

It's worn.

It's soft.

At the slightest hint of a chill, I wrap it around me like a blanket. I relax. I feel at ease.

Others may laugh when they see me wearing it for the 10th day in a row, to them it's just a sweater.

But to me it is much much more.

It is warmth.


It is a safe place.


It is comfort.

Skin

It's his comfort, his security. He climbs up on my lap, puts a finger in his mouth and reaches out his other hand to stroke my face and neck. The touch of my skin to his calms him. He nuzzles his face into my neck or places his forehead against my cheek.

He can only fall asleep when he is touching my skin. As he dozes off, his fingers dance over my face touching my eyes, nose or cheek. I can tell he is asleep when his hand lazily brushes past my neck before resting on his chest.

He pokes my belly and then his. Laughing at the similarities, the roundness, the softness. His eyes light up when he realizes our belly buttons are the same. Poke momma. Poke Lion.

My skin also bears the signs of his love. Bruises from excited or frustrated bites. The caresses of my face can turn into slaps or pinches. "No, no. Be gentle", I tell him. "Show momma love." The hits turn back to touches. The finger returns to the mouth. Calmness returns.

My skin is his comfort, his security. His skin and my skin are one and the same. It's what he needs now to feel safe.

There will come a time when he places his hand on my arm and he notices the differences. Dark cocoa brown and light peach are not the same. My skin will bear the wrinkles of time, his the softness of youth. How will I explain?

I will take his hand and touch it to my face. I will remind him of this time. I will remind him of the comfort and security he found. I will remind him that the touch of my skin to his was how we bonded, how we came to love and trust each other.

Swimming and Running

My hand slashes through the water. My feet kick behind me, propelling me forward. My head turns, rising up to take a breath.

I continue on until my hand touches the wall. I could grab the wall and hold on. Or I could turn, pushing off and moving forward. I choose to turn.

The wall approaches again. And again I choose to turn. Touching the safety of the wall, letting go, turning back to the water.

My body begins to tire. My resolve begins to falter. My mind starts to scream. "This is not normal. This is not safe. There is nothing holding you up. You are not a creature of the sea."

The water is not real. It is not solid. It cannot hold me. Panic sets in.

I try to fight my mind. I try to continue on. I thrash and kick out of control. My chest tightens. My pulse quickens. My heart thumps so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I lift my head trying to take a breath but there is not enough air. My hands frantically search for the wall but it lies just out of reach.

My foot hits the ground. The ground is solid. It is real. One foot, then the other, hitting the ground and pushing off, propelling me forward.

I look up and see the sky. I look down and see the ground. It is solid. It is real. One foot, then the other, moving forward.

Around me are signs of life. Grass, plants, dirt, the smell of the earth. Buildings, cars, concrete, the smells of civilization. A squirrel darts in front of me, looking frightened before it escapes to the safety of a tree. A dog spies the squirrel and strains on its leash, struggling to pull free to chase the squirrel. The hand at the end of the leash pulls back, straining to control, to regain their rhythm. We pass and smile, connecting with each other, connecting with the earth.

This is real. This is solid. One foot, then the other, moving forward.

My mind does not struggle here. The sound of my footfalls, the feeling of connecting with the earth brings a clarity. I breathe in the fresh air. Each breath bringing the peace I have longed for.

This is real. This is solid. One foot, then the other, moving forward.

I have been swimming lately. Some days all I do is swim, struggling to reach the shore. Swimming in my kitchen, swimming at the store, swimming in my sleep. Too much swimming. An endless pool, river, lake, ocean.

I choose not to swim anymore. I choose to run.

This is real. This is solid. One foot, then the other, moving forward.

Comfort

As I rode the train to the BlogHer conference, I was scared. I was so nervous I thought I was going to be sick. I was going to something that was so beyond my comfort zone and I was going alone.

I knew no one.

Well I "knew" some people, but I had never met them. My two worlds, the world inside my computer and the world outside of it were going to connect. And I wasn't really sure what was going to happen. Would they like me? Would I like them? Would I be able to unfreeze my tongue and actually speak to them? Would I hide in the back of the room? Or would I hide out in my room, only venturing out for panels and food?

And then it hit me, I didn't have a room for Thursday night. I had no place to hide. I would be forced to mix and mingle. Because, in a totally uncharacteristic move, I asked someone I didn't know (in real life) if I could crash in their room. I couldn't very well be anti-social since they were being so nice to me. So I opened my mouth and words actually came out.

The more I spoke and the more I was spoken too, the more I relaxed. Maybe I could do this, maybe I would actually have fun. So I went with it, speaking to everyone I met and having fun along the way.

When I finally did retreat to my room for the night to rest my aching head and tired feet, I found no comfort. There was only the choice between chairs and the floor. I tried scrunching my 5'10" frame into the arm chair and resting my feet on the desk chair. The floor was an option, but not an appealing one. I moved from chair to floor and back again, trying to find a place to rest. I looked enviously at the beds. Their occupants were deep in sleep, oblivious to the world around them. I wanted that, I needed that.

At 2 am, I was sitting on the floor, alone again. I realized that I had not quite overcome my discomfort. I could have asked someone else, someone with only one roommate, if I could have shared their room for the night instead of being the awkward fifth in a room of four. The women I met were kind and would not have turned me away. But I could not ask. I did not ask.

I woke up in the morning, feeling much older than my almost 40 years. My body hurt. My head ached. My nerves were raw. I was not looking forward to the day. I was looking forward to 3pm when I could check into my room and have a bed to myself. Bleary eyed and tired, I imagined that I would, in fact, retreat to my room.

But again, greetings were extended to me, arms waved me over, seats were saved for me. I was welcomed wholeheartedly into the community. Laughing and hugging and sharing stories soothed my aches and pains and rubbed away the jagged edges of my nerves. When it was time to check into my room and finally had my own bed, the wonderfully soft and comfy bed with its own gravitational pull, I did not want to stay there. I wanted to be out amongst the friends that I had made. I wanted to meet more people.

The last night of the conference, late at night, I sat on a bed. I was not alone. I was surrounded by people, real live people, my friends. We talked and laughed. We took pictures in an attempt to capture the moment. We talked some more. We laughed at things that are flappy. We created lasting memories.

I had finally found my comfort.