Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Day 112 on Lexapro

Day 89 on Lamictal

posted much, much later…

The year that Em was born, when she was only 3 months old, we decided to pack up and move everything we had from Chicago to Houston. It was a split decision, but one to which I became desperately attached very quickly.

I thought if we moved to Houston, things would be better for Em.

And for us.

We could have a fresh start. With a nicer place to live. And friends. And a whole host of other things I’d been missing for years.

I thought this would help things.

And so, without telling my mother-in-law, we loaded our car and a U-Haul truck and drove all the way down to Texas, leaving the winter wonderland that is Chicago behind.

And just in time for Christmas, we found a place to live that was a million times better than where we’d been.

The excitement was palpable.

We had a new baby. A new home. And a new chance for everything to be alright.

There was always, I thought, a chance for everything to be alright.

And that Christmas Day, when it snowed, I was delighted.

“Em brought the Chicago snow with her,” we all said. “She is a snow baby!”

And we all thought it was magic and terrific and right.

And when it stopped snowing that Christmas, it didn’t snow again.

Until this day.

And I could feel it in the air.

When I drove Em to school this morning, the air was cold and wet.

“I bet you it will snow today,” I told her.

“No,” she replied. “It can’t snow today because it isn’t Christmas yet.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I think it just might snow anyway.”

And this evening, when I picked her up, ice was falling lightly from the sky.

“It will snow soon,” I told her. “I just know it.”

And we were so excited.

As soon as we got home, we opened all of the blinds and waited for it to fall.

But we didn’t really see anything.

It was not until I peeked through the window that I noticed a thin coating of white powder on the cars and bushes outside.

“It snowed!” I squealed. “Em, look! It snowed!”

In an instant, we flung open the door and flew outside without our jackets on.

Em danced on the porch excitedly with her hands stretched to the sky until she noticed a small accumulation at the foot of one of the porch columns.

With bare hands, she scooped it up and delightedly threw it to the ground.

“Give some to me,” I told her. “I want to show you something.”

So she handed a small amount to me and I packed it into a tiny ball.

“Look,” I showed her, “it’s a snowball!”

Then I threw it right into the ground.

She was delighted.

For a very short amount of time, we made tiny snowballs and chucked them mightily into the concrete beneath us.

And then we went inside.

This night, we went to bed early because we were so very tired.

And while we slept, so much snow fell from the sky that it still coated our world the next day.

Lightly.

But it was there.

And it was magic and terrific and right.

Just like my Em.