Dear Chase,

Exactly 45 days ago, you turned 14. 

Aaannndd exactly 45 days ago, I was wallowing in a pity party for one, feeling wounded, and alone, and did not get a chance to write you this letter. 

It was pathetic and I am so sorry. 

Fortunately for me, you are so kind-hearted and easy going that I know I'll be forgiven before I even ask. 

Chase, I think of all of us, this move has suited you most of all.   

You have slipped into a new skin here in Texas as smoothly as putting on a warm jacket.  You immediately decided you wanted to play football - a concern for me at first - seeing as how you had no idea how the game was played and had never done it in your life.

You know.  A small hiccup in an otherwise grand plan. 

I worried about it, I'm not going to lie.  Knowing how the Football is king here in Texas (and deserving of the capitals), I worried it would be ultra competitive, and that your inexperience might hurt you or prove damaging to your confidence.  Raising your sports-driven brother has shown me what the world of athletics can be like, and I was terrified of negative consequences for you. 

Oh, silly me.  When will I learn that you know your own heart best of all? 

You have dived in with your natural enthusiasm.  You boldly explained to your coaches that you had NO clue what you were doing, and studied the playbook hard when they offered it.  You researched YouTube videos and asked help from your brother.  You took your inexperience and turned it into a prowess on the field that is so fun to see.  I love watching you play.

Football has been the BEST thing for you. 

Case in point:  We were at one of your very first football games.  Your team had finished playing and you and I were walking together through the stands.  No less than a dozen times were there cheers and congratulations from your classmates as they shouted your name and praised your efforts on the field.   They shouted your name!  That means they knew it!  All these people already knew who you were and liked you!

I looked back at you, my mouth agape, and asked you why you didn't tell me you had all these friends. 

In the classic Chase way, you grinned and shrugged your lanky shoulders.  As if it was no big deal.  Tears filled my eyes and love filled my heart because in that moment I knew:  You were going to be all right here. 

And you've been more than all right:  You've thrived.   You've grown.  You've broadened your circle and found strength in new ways.

Chase, I am infinitely proud of you.  You have a heart that is ten times your size.  And, believe me, your size is considerable.  Just a few months ago, you officially became the tallest Halverson - surpassing your father and (long ago) your older brother.  You were pretty proud of yourself, but yet made sure that your brother didn't feel slighted.  You reminded him of how tall he was, and that he might pass you up one day.  

Kid, you are always thinking of others. 

And it's one of my favorite things about you. 

Chase, I love your creativity, your enthusiasm for life, and your pursuit of your passions.  You inspire me to dream big.  You never take yourself too seriously and are more than happy to let others have the spotlight.  You work hard and have more discipline than anyone I know. 

Except when it comes to the treats.  You have a sweeter tooth than anyone in our family and I swear you must have a hollow leg.  Because I don't know where else all that food goes that you eat.   Seriously.  

I love you more than this feeble letter can ever say.  Thank you for making our life so stinkin' interesting.  Thank you for always being so easy-going, for your big plans, and the happiness you bring us by being close to you.  Your joy is infectious.  Your big grin, flanked by that one, lone dimple that I love, is one of the best parts about my day. 

And, please, could you promise to stop growing and stay this way, just for a few more years?  Because this phase of life is the funnest one yet.  I just can't get enough of it.

I love you, Chazini. 

Love, 

Mami

Identity

Moving to a new city automatically changes your identity. 

In my old town, I was the girl who always brought really fabulous desserts to a party.  The girl people asked to take photos of their babies, their families, and even their corporate executive husbands.  I threw parties, and luncheons, and always made too much food.  I was the girl who texted everyone once a week to organize a girl's lunch out.  The girl who was known to stay the longest at get-togethers and laugh until I peed a little.  You could count on me to be the chubby friend you would gladly sit next to because my plate would be full and my smile always ready. 

I was confident in that identity.  

It was woven into the very fabric of my character, its threads strong and confident.  It was my heart and my soul.  It was who I am. 

Suddenly, I am not that girl here in Texas.  I find myself always in a room full of strangers, my heart pounding and insecurities coursing through my veins.  None of them know that I am a really good baker.  Or photographer.  Or laugher (and pee-er). 

None of them know just how desperately I love to host parties. 

And when I'm struggling to help my kids cope with the loneliness and heartache that comes with this crappy business of starting over, I put on a brave face and strap a pep talk to my belt.  Constantly pulling that pep talk out, telling them things I hardly believe myself, I keep moving blindly forward.   We are all struggling, and it's just plain hard.

I fall into bed at night, exhausted and emotionally wrought, and just pray. 

Pray that soon it will be easy and natural. 

Pray that it will feel like home. 

Pray that I will feel like me again.

Because I desperately miss that girl.  

Helpless

I heard the front door open and ran to meet him.  The knots in my stomach had been swirling all day until my insides felt like a tangled mess of anxiety and pain. 

The look on his face told me what I needed to know.   What I had feared the most.

The silent tears that spilled down his freckled cheeks broke my heart in half. 

Taking him in my arms, as I had not needed to for years, I embraced my oldest and cried with him.  I had no chance of being strong at this moment.  No hope of providing comfort.  No words to say, except choked sobs of I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.   

Never have I felt so helpless.   

Never have I been so helpless. 

I have no idea what it feels like to be him.  I did not move until the day I went to college.  And, even then, I went with my six best friends from high school as roommates.  I did not really learn how to make new friends until I was a married adult. 

I will never know what it feels like to be a sophomore in high school and sit alone at lunch.  I will never have to face class after class of stranger's faces or wander unfamiliar  hallways on my own. 

I will never know the courage it takes to do such things. 

When we moved here, we gave them all promises of happiness and new friendships.  Not knowing that 95 percent of our congregation at church would go to a different high school.  Not knowing that the handful of boys he would meet in his high school would all have different lunches than him.  Not remotely comprehending just how hard it would be.

It's been a week and two days, and I still can't talk about it without tears. 

My heart aches for what he's going through -- how exposed and alone he feels each day.  I see the vulnerability eating him raw, and I see the walls he puts up to protect himself.  I see anxiety and worry on his face.  This is not the boy I know.  

But, mercifully, every day, it seems we gain a little bit of new ground.  Really, even an inch will do.  A friendly conversation with someone at football practice plants a glimmer of hope inside him.  Finding someone to sit with at lunch has been huge.  Faces are becoming recognizable.  Days are melting into routine familiarity.  We are slowly pulling ourselves out of the lonely despair of that horrible first day.  Thanks, in large part, to an amazing family who moved here about a month ago themselves, and who have kids that match up exactly to ours.  

It's been so nice to know we're not alone.  To have someone to commiserate with.  To have a shoulder (for me) to cry on.  To know it's not just us.  We're in the trenches together, this mother and I, helping our kids cope with some really tough stuff.  Going through battles like this creates an instant bond.  I am so thankful for her.  

I know the answer to this problem lies in persistence and time. 

But I would give anything to take away all the pain from my boy.  To ease his heartache and make his sweet, kind soul whole again.   He is doing an amazing job and handling it with grace.  I am so proud of my boy.  

I know he is going to be all right. 

But would it be so terrible if he was all right sooner rather than later? 

-------- 

[SIDE NOTE:  In an effort to document monumental family experiences, I am writing about this personal experience.  I do so not to elicit pity or praise, but merely to help us remember the hard things that allow us to grow.  This is an intensely personal post for me, as it exposes one of my children's vulnerabilities in ways I am not accustomed to.  My vulnerability?  Up for grabs and there for the mocking.  But my kids are off-limits.  Please remember this and be kind.  There is a real person behind this post and he's struggling in an extremely real, and very huge, way. ]

Last Guest Post

Wrapping up my fabulous week as a guest poster at Nest & Launch.  Click over to read about the change of perspective I am thankful to have received.  This one is all about realizing what's important and what's not.  You won't be sorry.   

Apple Bars that will change your life

Want to learn how to make these? 

You know you do.  Pop over to Nest & Launch to see my midweek post.  While you're there, give my friend Annie a great, big internet hug.  She sent her baby girl into the MTC today and won't see her for 18 long months. 

Pretty sure she's going to need some love.  

Sending you elsewhere

Hi there. 

I am posting elsewhere today.  Please click over to www.nestandlaunch.com to read my wise words on how to survive a move.

If you've not been to that site already, you are going to thank me.  It is run by my long-time BFF Annie and her friend, Sarah.  They are brilliant, funny, creative women who have put together a blog for those of us parents in the "mid-stage," i.e., not raising babies anymore, but not quite done yet either.  There are all kinds of how-tos, recipes, links, and amazing wit and wisdom.  If I could pick one friend to be just like?  It would be Annie.  She is the bomb.  I love her to pieces and miss her every day.

I'll be posting there all week.  Honored and slightly terrified.  Go read and see.