We went strawberry picking this past weekend. It’s something I’ve been wanting to take the kids to do for a while, but never seemed to have the time. This weekend was perfect. No soccer and cooler temps.

So I made plans to visit a nearby field (aptly named Berry Sweet Acres in Plant City) and we paid almost $40 to pick our own 8 pounds of berries. Why I had to pay to pick my own berries…and then pay for the actual berries is beyond me. But I did. It was expensive but sometimes you just gotta suck it up and pay the money. It was fun and the people that worked there were really nice. The girls all seemed to enjoy it too. I think it’s the “gatherer nature” in us woman. It’s really cathartic to pick fruit. I could probably do it for hours.

My dad was an alcoholic. He still could be as well. I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to him in lifetimes. But, in the small span of years that I did know him, he drank regularly and in excess. This post isn’t about him, though. It’s about me and the ongoing thought that swirls in my mind that wonders “am I an alcoholic, too?”

I’ve been drinking in some fashion or another since I was 13 or so. Not that I was having daily drinks while in 8th grade. But I have these vivid memories of occasions where I would drink in excess. Like the time I sat on the floor of my aunt and uncle’s kitchen and, while everyone was sleeping, I drank from their bottle of Malibu rum, replacing my sips with water when I was done so I wouldn’t get caught.

I cried while drinking alone on that cold kitchen floor. My back up against the cabinet, cat hair swirling around my fingers, while I sobbed and sang a song to myself that I made up from reading the rum’s label.

Days go by. They are here and then gone before you know it. Like a hot breath on a cold window. We move through them, doing the motions on repeat. Sometimes there are undeniable, memorable moments in those days that get etched in our minds that we remember “that day” over the others. Something that makes us smile or laugh so hard that we know we will remember that day or that moment for the rest of our lives. We take pictures of the big days to keep them forever. Birthdays, holidays, big moments.

But what about those other days? The other days without those moments to shake our minds and stamp “that day” on our memory? There are thousands upon thousands of those days. I’m 40. That’s almost 15,000 days. How many of those 15,000 days do I really remember? Those days, without the pictures or notable moments just get lost. Sands through the hourglass. Falling to the bottom and pilling up. All those days. Just gone.

It’s a depressing thought. To lose all those days when you KNOW moments did happen. They just weren’t big enough or you didn’t take a picture to capture them. You lose so much of your life to unmemory. And that makes life seem short. It seems like it flies by and then you look back and think, what the hell happened to that year? Where did my life go? What did I do?

I found a way to keep those days…. if not the days, at least moments within them.

Here we are again. After “trying” for the longest period of time yet, we have finally started to bake another nugget. The last nugget. The final piece to complete our 4-piece nugget meal. This is all weird Krissy speak for “I’m pregnant, again.”

I don’t know if it’s just me, or just me and Vince, but at least the last two times we’ve found out we are expecting another child, our reactions are not immediate joy. We both are like “ohhhhhh shit’s real now.” I don’t know why. We talked about having another baby. We went through the logistics and how this would change our lives (yet again). Pros and cons without an official list.

We both wanted a fourth child.

But when I peed on the stick a few days ago, my reaction was not excitement. That feeling was compressed by immediate worry and apprehension. Shit’s real now. There’s a child starting to grow in me again. Immediately I said to myself, “this is it. I’m done.” I know this is my last go. There’s no more room in my house or my life after this. This baby will be our last. I know that once I greet them next year, I will be closing the pregnancy chapter of my life for the rest of my life.

Gianna had about 18 or so of her friends come over for a gift exchange a few days before Christmas. Last time she had her large group of friends over, I stressed out too much. Cleaning places people wouldn’t even go, overdoing it on the food, and worrying about the impression our house would make. This time, I said eff it.  I let G clean most of the house, with my only expectation that our bathrooms didn’t resemble a men’s urinal.

While Gianna cleaned, I decorated a little and then ran to the store. I wanted to get some things for the cocoa bar and drink station, and Gianna requested a can of beans as a gag gift for her friend. I didn’t write beans on my shopping list because it was the main reason I went to the store.

Arriving at Target (eck), I was in immediate shock at the number of people there. It was mid-day Thursday. Yes, it was the week before Christmas but good God don’t people work during the day anymore?!  Is everyone off now before the holiday??? The store was so damn busy and with all the bustle I ended up forgetting the damn beans. 

I get back home, beanless. Scarlett was in the kitchen. She had cleaned up and organized the paper products and hot cocoa bar. I could tell she was a little stressed out. Not that tiny chores like this are her tipping point but she had been anxious the past week or so leading up to this party. She didn’t want to be the younger, annoying sister that was hanging out with all the older kids. She wasn’t sure she’d belong. As the minutes counted down to the party start time, I think she was getting more anxious.

Yesterday I was walking through the produce section at Sam’s Club. I had decided to not change out of my pajama pants when I woke up that day. So, it felt like I was gliding more so than walking as I maneuvered my way around the display of pineapples and towards the meat coolers. Walking in public in your pajamas is extremely relaxing yet it also induces a small tinge of anxiety. Because you know people are looking at you and thinking you’re either a hot mess or its pajama day somewhere. Looking back, maybe the fact that I was in PJ pants allowed for what happened next. Perhaps being in pajama pants made me even more approachable. Perhaps the PJ pants are what got me noticed in the first place.

Pushing Evie in the abnormally large shopping cart, I headed towards the meat coolers and for a brief second, I made eye contact with a woman who was standing about 10 feet in front of me, parked near the sushi. Let’s call her Carol. Carol was talking to a man who I assumed she knew based on their interaction. In our brief locking of eyes, Carol stared me in the face and said, “Mary!”

Not a question that she might know me. No hesitation that I may not be Mary. Carol was certain I was this person. But my name’s not Mary.