a word about gifts

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This is the wonder of the internet: to have this thing you need, or want to know, or you're looking for affirmation for some kind of feeling and you just feel like there is no way, no way on this green earth that you're going to find it. It was like that with Alice's blanket Bo. He was given to us as a gift, a gift long before she'd even made her entrance into the world. And by the time their relationship had developed (Bo of the Magical Soothing Powers, Bo of the Wonderful Blanket Smell, Bo of the Soft Sweet Fibers, Bo Wish We All Had One) - it's not like I could find a back-up in the stores anywhere.

All of this at the time when I was struggling with all those New Mother Things: the nursing and the all-organic-crazy-or-not and the sleep issues and the hand wringing and all the...stuff. The stuff that we throw out on the internet in the winging crazy hope that someone will understand. Someone will have answers or sympathy or both. Day in and day out, someone did. One of you would log in to The Creamery and would remind me that I wasn't crazy, and then you'd offer gifts of hope. They were like small white feathers of a bird high overhead, your words would remind me to look up, to have faith, to breathe. Many times they would make me laugh out loud. Or I would cry in gratitude to have found a small section of the internet world that accepted me as I was. I came to the internet to write. To share stories. And I ended up making friends.

It will be four years this year, four years since I started this blog called The Creamery. This space has seen its fair share of sadness and loss, and I'm sorry to say it has seen a little bit of angst and anger and meanness. I've tried hard to keep The Creamery shielded from ugly things, but the truth is, that ugliness is out there in so many forms, lurking right outside our windows. It's going to peek in from time to time. It's going to be attracted to the warmth from the kitchen. I've seen some familiar faces come and go--- faces dear and loved don't visit here anymore, whether it's my doing or a simple lack of interest or just limited heart/mind/time space, it doesn't matter. I miss every one of those faces. Every one. And there are some of you so new here, so squeaky clean to The Creamery's interior, you have quietly stood by and listened and lurked, maybe fearing that you're not welcome (but you are, you really truly are). Then there are you dear ones who have visited long and well, who have watched Bean grow and marveled over her days. You have offered comfort when it was sorely needed. You have become my friends.

There have been rough moments during the last several months, a jumbled cocktail of worry and repetition that, over time, rubbed me raw. Things that once upon a time wouldn't have phased me are now wriggling in the back of my mind like stray pieces of sand. And I've become increasingly preoccupied with this mysterious group of people who come to visit here at The Creamery but leave so quietly, leave no trace other than the faint shadow of their site meter stat. I have worried over your presence, that's the truth--- worried probably more than I ought--- wondering what I could do to welcome your being here, or, quite frankly, wondering if The Creamery was a concept better left to these first early few years of Bean's life. I've considered the possibility that maybe it's time to finally close these doors and turn off the kitchen light.

Enter Sarah from Indiana (hello Sarah!). I had posted something about Alice's Bo - how I've never been able to find a back-up blanket. I have never done a decent job of explaining just how worrisome a woobie-without-a-replacement is. Especially when the woobier (woobier? woobie-ite? woobie-onian?) is a child who has the particular trouble of coughing until she vomits. At night. The closest I've come is telling you that I've developed a pretty decent case of Post Traumatic Stress surrounding the evening hours anytime Alice is sick. I get a twitching tick in my eye (truly). You just don't know until you've lived it. Sarah's email was this: Hey, we have one of those blankets if you want it. What do you say?

My email back was this: ARE YOU SERIOUS? OF COURSE I WANT IT. I CAN WRITE YOU A CHECK. OR SEND BLOOD. OR GIFTS. SHALL I SEND GIFTS?

And as we exchanged emails about addresses and particulars I considered dear Sarah from Indiana: a girl I've never met, someone who has never commented, someone whom I know virtually nothing about. But apparently, she visits The Creamery, and she cared enough about my plight to offer a solution.

Sometimes hope comes in the form of a blog comment. Sometimes it comes in the form of an email. Or a surprise phone call from an old friend. Sometimes hope is a blanket from Indiana. It tells you that you aren't alone, that this late night vigil you keep is kept by other mothers across the planet. These mothers might be silent at times, but they are listening. And they are reading.

I'm keeping The Creamery open. I would miss this warm space. I'd miss all the gifts of hope. And I'd miss you.

Thank you, Sarah, for everything.