Am I doing it right?

I remember snippets of a conversation from some point in my shy, self-conscious teenage years, when some well-intentioned adult was trying to get me to break free from caring about what people thought. The gist of the punchline, so to speak, was "How much have you thought about so-and-so today?" Followed up with, "What did so-and-so wear last week?", "What did so-and-so say two days ago?", etc. And though I couldn't answer any of those questions very well, I continued to wear my self-consciousness into adulthood, worrying that each step was a misstep and that I would soon give myself away as a fraud —not quite the person I was pretending to be... not quite a great mom... not quite a good writer... not even close to Martha Stewart... not quite a real grown-up.

Though a small victory, one good thing that has come of the past almost-four weeks is that suddenly, none of that matters.

Seriously. I haven't worn anything beyond mascara and a ponytail since I left the hospital. I don't think I've vacuumed and am certain I haven't dusted since my mom left two weeks ago. And the never-ending project to-do-list that usually fills our weekends long before Friday evening, at least for now, seems to be a thing of the past. Because the only thing I want to be doing is impossible, so why bother with anything else? So I navigate the day-to-day with a bit more ease, not worried about much beyond are my kids safe and happy? Too bad perspective has come at such a high price.

It would seem I am free of inhibition in all but one area of my life. But in this one area, I am driving myself crazy: I don't know how to be the person I have now become.

And even though everyone keeps telling me there is not one right way to trudge through this bog that is missing my babies, I worry with every breath that I am mucking it up. Worried that the only thing I can do for them is being done wrong. Am I too pushy or too clingy in my sadness and will everyone forever think of these two little guys negatively (which is different than with sadness)? Too formulaic in my retelling, too happy in the in between, minimizing my heartache and their impact?

And just as my 15-year-old self, knowing something (that none of it matters — that my grief is not up for judgment) and moving forward with that knowledge are two very different things.

And I am driving myself crazy.

The upside: Every once in a while, the worry about how so-and-so will hear such-and-such feels almost normal. At least until I fill in the blanks with the topic at hand.