Shedding.

Part 2.

A few months ago I noticed that our Gecko had gone blind. No, Quinn’s Gecko, a 5th birthday gift that I had been staunchly against. “I will not be caring for this thing.” Yea, I said that. And a few years later I’m bathing her in warm water to help her shed, wriggling my fingers over her bumpy back, and watching the droplets roll off of her skin.

She’d try to scurry away when I scooped her up for our little ritual in the cracked plastic off-brand Tupperware. “It’s okay,” I’d say. To the lizard. “You’re okay.” I texted my friend Leanne, Just bathing a lizard this morning because this is my life now. What I really meant was, When did this happen? When did I become this woman? Who bathes lizards. Who asks her young children to clean out their rooms for a move, a journey, a new adventure.

I took Lizzie (the lizard, yes) to the vet. I’m paraphrasing: “I don’t want to sound like a heartless jerk but last year we spent $800 and had to give this little Leopard Gecko weekly injections when she got a parasite. I will not be making that kind of investment.” The vet was quite nice. She’s a reptile girlie. Turns out, for closer to $100, Lizzie could be saved. Eye drops. A new UV light. Gut-loaded worms.

What’s a gut-loaded worm, you ask?

Well, the mealworms I buy at the pet store and lovingly place—one at a time—into her tank with a tweezer … those worms need to be fed. By me. They need to eat their veggies so that Lizzie gets her vitamins.

I bathe her. I feed her food its own food. Her vision is restored. Her eyes are clear. I cheer her on when she chases a worm across the tank. I’m a sucker.

Not long ago, on a stunning summer morning, I sprinted up the hill at the West Point Foundry in Cold Spring. Saw the waterfall. The water was low. We needed some rain. We have since gotten the rain. Too much of it. Back towards the stream, I perched on a bench and listened to the water flowing over the rocks. I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths. Nothing is permanent.

This too shall pass. With some tenderness and attention, even a blind little lizard can see again. During her warm baths I tried to help her shed, gently pulling the skin that was stuck around her feet. I think that’s what I need right now, in a metaphorical sense.

This will be my last post as an actual Hudson Valley Mama. At least for the next year, while I inexplicably become a Florida Mama.

Sam and I moved from NYC to our beloved Hudson Valley in July 2016, with Quinn growing in my belly. We didn’t know what life here would look like. We’ve had the privilege of raising our boys in the woods: Hiking trails and tributaries, climbing trees and identifying plant species. Me, always in their ears, “Can you believe ferns are older than the dinosaurs? Can you even believe how beautiful they are?”

We are embarking on a new—likely temporary—adventure. We’re taking the boys to Sarasota, where Sam spent her teen years. We’re renting a lovely little house with a pool, sending them to a Blue Ribbon magnet school. I’ll be teaching classes at the State College of Florida. We’ll skip winter. We’ll scare the living shit out of our boys: Do not set foot near a river or a lake unless you want to be thrashed around by an alligator and die a gruesome death. Fun! Fun in the sun!

If I allow myself to feel all of this change, to really absorb the emotional impact, well, I don’t think I’ll have the strength to pack another box, or take another work call, or grade a summer-school paper, or cook another meal for my family, or fold another load of laundry.

I look around at the community that Sam and I have built in the decade we have lived here in the Hudson Valley, and I am grateful. There have been failures and hardships, and right now, at this moment, we need a fresh start. But we have also been loved, deeply. Our boys have been loved, deeply. I sit here looking out my windows at the lush green leaves. There is nothing like a northeast summer. Every year I positively lose my shit over the fireflies, and this year I’m walking barefoot into the yard and staying just a bit longer. Inviting Sam to join me. Inviting our boys to join me. To be in awe of the nature that surrounds us.

I think I’ll always be a Hudson Valley Mama. But I hope you’ll bear with me as I take a little detour down south, just as you have accompanied me while this newsletter transformed from a fun little place where I share my favorite hikes and restaurants, into something deeper. A place where I bare my soul. The soul of a lizard-bathing worm-feeding firefly-loving lunatic.

Lizzie (the lizard) will be staying north, with a trusted family member. I will be chasing fireflies until it’s time to go, and then, and then you can find me with my toes in the sand.

X, Laura Leigh