***UPDATE: I've arrived without incident! You may disregard the following post!***
Last night I kept randomly bursting into tear. (I don’t cry easily. Sometimes one tear is all I can muster.)
To fall asleep, I had to repeat the words to a hymn in my head (at Doug’s suggestion) ad nauseam to settle my thoughts. When I did finally fall asleep, my dreams were riddled with vivid arguments with family members and cameo appearances from ex-boyfriends. (A sure sign my subconscious is in serious turmoil.)
I woke up this morning with a groan and a foot in the back from Doug shoving me out of bed with harsh orders to hurry up and get in the shower.
I have a stomach ache and a perma-scowl I can’t shake.
I keep taking deep shaky breathes, but they aren’t having the desired calming effect.
I don’t know why the anxiety is so intense, but it’s filling me from head to nervously tapping toes.
I’m hoping this “mind dump”/post will help clear my head.
Why so much turmoil?
Because in a few minutes I board a plane headed for Haneda. Where I’ll hop on the Airport Limousine to Narita. Where I’ll grab a flight to San Francisco. Where I’ll run across the airport to barely make my flight to Salt Lake City. Where my sweet mother-in-law will pick me up.
“What?” You say. “You didn’t tell me you were going to the states!”
“Well!” I say. “I don’t have to keep you appraised of all my travel plans now do I, ya Nosey Nate!?!”
So yeah. I’m going “home” (ish). To Utah. Where I lived the first 16 years of my life. Which, after moving, I replaced rather quickly with Carlsbad as my adopted home—and never looked back. (Even though I did live there again, met my husband there and birthed my first born son there.)
I’m going home to see family but mostly my mom. Who was going to go on a mission, but now isn’t. Because she’s sick. Or, more accurately, not healthy. At least not healthy enough for the Dominican Republic. Which makes me a little sick when I think about it. But we’re not going to talk about that.
We’re going to talk about this:
For some reason, for the last 24 hours I’ve been feeling like I’ll never make it. Like I’m heading into an abyss. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been back to the mainland for 11 months. Maybe it’s just the anxiety of leaving not only my kids, but my husband behind.
Whatever the reason, I’m very anxious. So I’m going to write this down. Just in case.
Here are my final wishes—my last will and testament—in case my plane disappears into the Pacific. These items must be seen to in case of my sudden demise:
First and foremost: Ang, you get my kids. (Sorry Joe...and Doug.) Doug can (maybe) handle them on his own, but they need a mommy. And you’re the closest to me they can get. You’re the upgraded version of me, I’m last years model of you. Once again, sorry to all parties. But maybe Doug could build a little shack in your back yard and become your landscaper to help out. (And of course, your new family of 6 kids would have a lifetime of free dental care!!!)
And speaking of the little devil-angels, a few notes:
Make sure Max marries Ani. (Ginger will take care of this.) Also, he has to master the piano before he can start drum lessons. My sweet, beautiful Sammy needs therapy and possibly a lobotomy…or maybe he’ll just grow out of it. Give him lots of cuddles. Gabe is practically potty trained. He’s peed on the potty like three times now. So he’s obviously very close. Don’t ever cut his beautiful hair too short. Be sure to kiss him on the nose and squeeze his sweet buns every day.
Tell all of them I love(d) every grubby part of them with every ounce of my heart and soul. (I’m tearing again.) They’re going to be really great men some day.
Secondly: The person I would have bequeathed Doug to (Cousin Kimmy ‘cause they’re both science geeks) got married a few years ago. No one else will do. So sorry ladies. He’s off-limits. He’ll just have to spend the rest of his life mourning my loss and not moving on. (While living in a shack in my best friends back yard.) Doug, you should know that every day I’ve known you I’ve felt unaccountably blessed and incredibly lucky to have you. Even the days when I’m really mad at you and want you to sleep on the couch. (Which you wont) And even when you think you're the funny one in the relationship which you aren't. I still love you. Even on those days.
Third: The only thing I “own” of any worth is my blog. Someone please publish it into a book and use the millions it makes (by being #1 on the New York Times Best Seller list for 20 straight months.) to pay for my kids college. You can give a little to Doug to spruce up his shack.
Lastly, in lieu of a funeral, throw a big party for me. Make sure there is plenty of 80’s music (just use my i-Tunes play list) and lot’s of ice cream.
I think that just about covers everything. I feel a little less antsy.
If I live to see Utah, please disregard this blog post. If I don’t, well, now you know what to do.