Georgia

Saturday morning I dragged myself out of bed at 4. I caught up on paying bills, packing, organized the house, loaded the van, woke and dressed the boys, loaded them, and left the house at 8. We drove out on roads covered with debris from the windstorm, through several tunnels that had been chain-sawed through trees. Finn said "Mommy, I am so sad. All of these beautiful trees have died, and it is ugly." I told him that people would come to clean up the debris, and that in the spring the other trees would leaf in to help hide the holes. And, slowly, over the years, new trees would grow.

The drive to Albany took three hours. I played loud pop music, chatted with the boys, and tried to keep my brain, a swirling mix of emotion about the trip, Adam's birthday, and the night before with Grant, at a dull roar.

At the airport, I transferred boys and luggage to the park-n-ride shuttle. At the terminal, I learned that I can carry two large carseats, two large suitcases, a back-pack, and a purse all at the same time while herding two children (one with a small suitcase of his own) across a cross walk. (I'm thinking about trying out for the circus.) We checked in, made it through security, and bought lunch.

Here are Finn and Cullen waiting for the plane:

And here's what happened after they finished their milk:

The plane had two seats on either side of an aisle, so rather than argue about who got to sit with Mommy, I put the two boys together and sat across from them. They had already endured a three hour drive and two hours at the airport. Now they sat for a three hour flight, talking and playing and immensely enjoying the tiny pretzels and a little bit of apple juice.

Cullen has flown several times before, but not since flying back after our crash 18 months ago. He was asking all sorts of questions, and I realized that he didn't remember being on a plane. I, meanwhile, have always been and continue to be a very nervous flyer. But I sucked it up, maintained my calm, and confidently explained the noises we were hearing (flaps, landing gear), the turbulence, etc. as though I weren't wondering every minute if we were about to fall out of the sky.

We landed in Atlanta, navigated the immensity of Hartsfield, and met my mom at baggage claim. I installed carseats, installed children, and we drove the hour to my mom's house. And here we are.

I was a bit nervous about traveling alone with two small children, but, aside from my own emotions and lack of sleep, it was easy as it could possibly be. The boys were amazing. Just so good and so very, very patient. I actually had fun just having all of those hours to sit and talk to them. (Have I mentioned how cute and funny they are? Because, seriously. They are.)

And now I'm in Georgia for the first time since Adam died and our entire lives changed. I'm typing at the same desk where I composed a hasty last-minute email for work on July 21, causing us to leave a few minutes later than planned. I'm sleeping in the same bed where I last slept with Adam. I'm watching my boys play with the same Legos that they and their cousins Lucas and Max played with in the days after the crash.

This trip is yet another reminder of the infinite ways in which I miss Adam. I swear, sometimes I can almost hear him, especially his loud boisterous voice in the midst of the raucous din of all my visiting family.

Yet, watching my boys, it is also a reminder of how far we've come. I've gotten us here solo, and it actually was pretty easy. I'm running my old high school running routes, and I feel strong and fast. My boys are not injured, shocked, and scared babies. They're really good, really sweet, really funny kids. They are cracking peanuts, going outside to play, and running around with their cousins, enjoying wildly inappropriate big boy games. (I left the room for, I swear, like five minutes yesterday while the boys were playing with older cousins, and returned to Cullen yelling "I am a zombie! Are you a person? I'm going to eat your brains!!!!!") I'm watching them run, jump, play, and visit, and learning that for them this trip isn't fraught with all of the meaning that I place on it. I suppose that we, too, can re-grow after the storm.