It’s been a hell of a week.

Hell being the operative word. As in, hot as hell. Warmer than Satan’s armpit. More uncomfortable than a whore in church. Sweatier than Ryan Lochte at a spelling bee. And hot and I, we don’t mix. Yes, I grew up in the South. Yes, I was told that summer in Sydney is hot and humid. And I believed it…but also, I didn’t? Because what could really compare with August in Atlanta?

Sydney in February, that’s what. And it is not doing me, or my hair, any favors.

I’m on the edge. Not of glory, but of losing my shit. Every. Single. Day. But it’s not fair to blame just the heat. There’s also…me. And a little across-the-world move. And two boys who know just how to push each other’s buttons, and mine in the process. Also, a few spiders have been involved. And maybe a bit of lingering postnatal depression, some anxiety, and PTSD? I don’t know. I’M HOT. I’m hot, short-tempered, irritable, and glistening.

Let’s begin, shall we?

I made some notes. I make notes in my phone, because if I don’t then I forget everything: everything that’s happened, everything I want to write about, everything I need to buy at the grocery store. And as I look at my notes, I’m abashed by all the good things I listed, all the sweet moments and joyful memories. So I’ll work backward, from this morning, which was a Monday morning, which is the worst time of the week, can I get an amen? It was approaching 40 Celsius here (convert it to Fahrenheit yourself, I just can’t with it all right now) and I decided to drive The Kid and Little Brother to TK’s school, a ten-minute walk but it was 8:30 and I was already over this day. I parked along the street at a surprisingly close and open spot, which is a bit like seeing a nearly empty subway car in NYC and thinking “Score!” and being the chump that walks onto it then realizes too late, as the doors are closing, that the lone occupant of the car is likely homeless and definitely soaked in urine, and now you have not just the scent to contend with, but your nausea and also guilt over walking away at the next stop. Which you do, but still–ambivalently. Anyway, I parked the car and heaved the kids out of it and walked them (=herding cats, and YOU KNOW HOW I FEEL ABOUT CATS) to TK’s classroom. TK was dealing with Monday-morning anxiety and his therapist wasn’t there yet and he had lots of questions and LB had lots of energy and I had no Xanax (on me) and there was, as ever, my current, erstwhile, and oft-returning companion, Sense of Awkwardness. Also goes by Always the Outsider, Hey Look at Me–I’m a Weirdo!, and I Might Need a Bathroom Soon. I was trying to hold it together so TK didn’t lose it (aren’t we a cute pair) even as I was navigating this foreign land and might-as-well-be-another language. And bonus excuse-the-f%ck-out-of-me moment, but there are assemblies every Monday morning! And everyone else but me knows this! And the teachers were hustling their classes out onto the schoolyard, AKA Satan’s butthole of heat, to listen to the principal discuss being kind to and looking out for each other as I dragged LB behind me like a suitcase and TK was growing increasingly anxious over where his therapist might be and just exactly what the HELL was going on.

It crossed my mind that this is WHY we have a shadow therapist for him–one of the reasons–because were I not here, he would have been lost in the shuffle and who KNOWS where he would have ended up and WHERE THE EFF IS HIS THERAPIST and by this point, even the t-shirt and gym shorts I was wearing were like “Oh HELL no, you reek and we’re out of here.” The assembly ended THANK GOD and the kids dispersed to their classrooms and I told TK’s teacher that OF COURSE I left my phone in the car and I didn’t know where the therapist was but I’d go to the school gate and see if he was there and if not, grab my phone. I explained this to TK and he consented for me to leave but not without a look of uncertainty that broke my heart (not for the first time), and I heaved LB up on my hip like a sack of groceries as he squealed and protested: “IT’S HOT OUTSIDE! I HOT! I HOT!” and I made it to my car just in time to see the traffic cop taking a picture of the company-sponsored RAV4 (what does Equifax think we rap for?!), which was OF COURSE parked in a bus zone.

I played the ignorant American card (she’s seen our President and felt sorry for me and canceled the ticket), and TK’s therapist arrived talking of traffic, and we were all on our way. And that was my morning.

Now I’m in the waiting room at TK’s therapy center. There is light air-conditioning, I have snacks and cold water, I have time to weigh whether to increase my dosage of Lexapro, and I can breathe again. And as I do, I return to my notes. To my thoughts, from this week of new adjustments: of school starting for both boys, primarily. And there is this:

There were the two mornings last week when TK and his therapist did in-home sessions to pair with each other (a term which reminded me of Twilight and imprinting, but turns out, not the same thing), and I actually got to shower without an audience and walk out onto the balcony (dressed) and hear them downstairs, playing cars (did I mention his therapist is a dude? It’s wonderful. He actually has energy, #whatsthat) while TK laughed and laughed.

There is the comfort that both boys feel at church now, to the point that I was actually able to leave them in their kids’ class and hear a sermon and cry a bit, which is one of my favorite things to do.

There was the afternoon last week when we took LB to his preschool and TK and I got to spend some one-on-one time together, rare these days, and we walked around town and passed an elderly gentleman relying on a cane to walk. TK walked beside him and grinned up at him, and I was reminded of how much he sees that other people miss–how his heart is shaped uniquely to feel others’ “weaknesses” and “burdens” and recognize–rename–them as “special.” This boy, he sees everything, to the point that I have to slow down for him (you can imagine how well I take that at times)–he slows me down. He makes me see. It is so inconvenient, and so life-giving.

The heat, it is wearing me down. And now that the initial shock and adrenaline of moving have worn off, there is room for anxiety to enter in, space for frustration and lostness to show up and threaten to undo me. And I am so easily undone. The people here have friend sets and lunchbox intel and different foods and words for those foods and even my phone is new and doesn’t understand what I want to type (#firstworldproblems). I feel so out of place sometimes. It hurts, and I realize I have to let it–I have to take that time in the car after a near-ticket and a rough morning and let the tears flow, let the grief wash over me, because it’s not really about being in a new place, it’s about being in the old one–the one where I’m afraid I’m never going to fit in, never going to be really known.

There’s a print hanging on our wall here that reads, “I once was lost but now am found.” I found it online before we left Atlanta and had it shipped here, and it greets me when we walk in the door, and no matter the day I’ve had, I choose to believe it. Some days make that choice so hard. Others make it easy. Most days are a combination of both. But I watch it happening: the ways we are being seen, and known, slowly over time and through heat. How more faces and places are becoming familiar. How people are embracing my children, and how the way they say my name–“Mommy”–can change in an instant from needy to awe-filled, and I know it: that grace was here before we were, making this a home, and grace isn’t finished yet. I listened to it this morning, the reminder of the woman who knew the voice when it said her name–and I believe that that same voice calls things into being that aren’t there yet, even as I ache for them. I believe, but also…I don’t? Which is okay, because I know, and more than that, I am known.