Stealing time, freaking out, and taking off.

Stealing time to write this blog post. Pretty much every blog post I've ever written, I have stolen time from my family to write.

I'm so glad I did.

Dave's mother is here, I'm slowly teaching her the Chez Riley ways of living. Vital things like .... when you open something for Rocco, he always, ALWAYS must hold the wrapper in his other hand. If he doesn't he will scream out "MY LID! MY LIII-IIIIID!!!" And you will forage deep in the garbage bin for a piece of plastic wrapper from the cheese stick, and it will be the most pressing, important, vital thing you will do all day. Or at least until the next crisis.

Dave and I leave in two sleeps. I have been counting down from six months ago ... and now it's two sleeps. Milk at the grocery store now has a due date of when we will be away. On Monday, we will drive down to Sydney, park at my sisters house, kiss her and make her take photos (because they could be the last photos ever taken of us, and printed in next weeks paper under the headline "COUPLE DIE IN FIERY MID-AIR COLLISION.")

And this is after we kiss our boys goodbye. The longest I have ever been apart. I'm driving Max crazy, cuddling and gazing longingly.

Yesterday was Dave's birthday. He turned 44, which I'm pretty sure is a master number in numerology. He thought he was 43 all morning until I sat down and actually showed him the maths equation - "Look, hon, see? Born in 1966 = 44. You're welcome!"

I gave him an extra year for his birthday.  I am SO thoughtful.

Yesterday, I spun out so badly that at the supermarket carpark I climbed into the back seat of my car and cracked open the biggest block of coconut rough chocolate ever made. And sat there, on my own, freaking out, munching. Looking up into the clouds, how pretty they were! People driving past looked in, expectantly, waiting for me to move my car. I was all, seriously dude - does it look like I'm moving? I'm sitting in the back seat eating chocolate! Freaking the hell out! Move along, nothing to see here!

We tell people we're going to New York, and they can't believe it. We can't believe it. It's outrageous. Ridiculous. Miraculous. Who does this? Why are we going?

For many reasons. I keep getting full-on flashbacks of two years ago when I was heavily pregnant, spending that last weekend with Dave, when he was bent over in pain from his tumours. I knew that life would never be the same again. We were going on a journey then too - a terrible, heartbreaking journey.

And here we are, two years later, a journey of a different kind. Everything Dave and I have ever gone through in our lives, has led to this moment right now. WANKER ALERT: I think every journey is actually taken inside yourself, not how many miles you actually travel. We've had to overcome a lot of darkness to get to this place.

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Last night, after we all sang happy birthday to Dave three times (it's Rocco's favourite song) ... and ate the lamb and the chicken and all laughed together, I gave Dave his birthday present. A helicopter sightseeing tour of New York. He LOVED IT. Later on, I dragged my brother Cam into my bedroom, telling him I had the hugest dream about his father (my 1st stepfather, aka Dead Dad Number 2) .... and Dave walked in, interupting, telling me he had something for me.

He dragged me over to the table, telling me to keep my eyes closed. I glimpsed a red bag, I said what - a tool box for yourself? (Dave is not known for amazing thoughtful gift-giving. Bless.)

He laughs and is all, no hon, keep your eyes closed. His beautiful daughter was standing next to him, saying how cool it was and she wished she had one.

I opened my eyes to this -

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And I cried and cried, straight away. Big heaving sobs. And Dave cried and *NAME REDACTED* cried too, so contagious was the deep cry I cried.

It's the best gift I have ever received in my life. Like Dave peered into my Soul like an Avatar and whispered, "I see you."

When I was a girl my grandmother used to look into my eyes, like really look, and see that I was an actual person. And she always said, "You know Eden, you're a very good writer. I think you will write, one day."

Years later, in the wilderness years .... the twenties of my discontent, the rehab shuffle and the misery and the attempts to not live in the stupid world any more .... I would wonder if maybe one day I would be ok? And get better? Maybe I could write about it all one day?

And I am and I did and I have.

And if we do die in a fiery plane crash, I will die the happiest, blessed, most fulfilled I've ever been.

(Except they can't identify me from dental records because I've cancelled three dentist appointments in the past two weeks. New York, you get to see my sticky-outty strange front tooth that broke the day before I went to Bullen's Animal World when I was ten years old. It's fixed, but needs to be re-fixed ..... I would rather pat a huntsman than visit the dentist. My sister said they could identify me from my tattoos, but I said no because they'd burn off in the crash. Maybe my panic gland will be all that's left, sitting buckled in my seat, listening to its teeny iPod. Because my panic gland is SO STRONG I DON'T THINK IT CAN EVER DIE.)

So. New York in two days. I'll be writing about it, oh yes.