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Sick of being sick

All three boys are home sick again today. I’m hoping that this is the height of ridiculous illness as we’ve already had two bugs pass through almost all of us, along with conjunctivitis in just the past two weeks. This morning, Casey crawls in bed with me, sniffling, but wiggly enough that I can tell he’s on the mend. I grab my pillows and blanket and lazily steam roll over him so he’s underneath both me and my bedding.  “Why is my bed so lumpy?!” I yell and he laughs, so I struggle more aggressively to get comfortable on my very bony Caseybed. “It feels like there’s something wrong with it!” I dig my elbows in.

“MOM! IT’S BECAUSE IT’S A HUMAN!”

I’m super glad he feels like a human. The rest of us, myself included, look and feel decidedly less than that.  I’ve been getting sick a bunch lately. Since my hysterectomy (I had one of those, it was a party, I’m sorry you missed it) the end of last year, I’ve really tried to do be healthy.  I’ve done all of the good things that Ariana Huffington told me to get good sleep, I eat well, etc etc. So there’s no reason I should be getting sick so much.

I mean, other than the fact that I have four kids going to three different schools.   I’ve only had about 1/4 of school days so far without a kid home.  I even went so far as to call the district to get an exemption for Abby’s new favorite way of coming home early: puking. “Please do not send Abby home unless she’s really sick. No more of this ‘Oh, she threw up a little after shoving seventeen poptarts in her face at snack time’ shit. I mean it. There had better be blood.” The letter I got from her pediatrician was slightly less salty.   I always forget to call the school for their absences though.  (Heh. I misspelled “absence” and got “abscess” and that would be something I’d hope they’d want pictures of rather than me calling to describe it, but who knows, maybe the attendance ladies are into the spoken word.) I forgot where I was going with that.  Oh! I wish that we could text the attendance office. I  mean, then, I guess kids could, too, pretending to be their parents and bypassing that whole “sounding like an adult thing.” Even still, if Carter were to text the high school as me saying he was going to be absent so he could ditch school he’d be way ahead of me in the adulting department. I’d probably forget to text them, too.

Ugh, if I’m being truly honest, there’s a chance that my house is making me sick. I’ve often wondered if snot shows up under black light like other, grosser bodily fluids do. If so, my house would light up like a discotheque (Somewhere in the future Carter is reading this and groaning at my use of “discotheque”).  It’s not that I don’t clean. I clean a lot. It’s that I don’t clean enough. Having four kids, one that’s a veritable snot factory 9 months of the year makes it hard to get all the nooks and crannies and usually to find bottom of my kitchen sink. I try to find new ways to motivate myself to clean because I’m not quite dead inside enough to actually enjoy it.  A good motivation is the threat of DCFS. “Ma’am, we heard that you published a post about how the levels of bodily fluid in your house would cause it to light up like a disco…what’s this word? I’m sorry, I was born in 1990…” Oooh. That might be enough to get me through my kitchen!

Or maybe we share too much. I like the sound of that the best. It’s altruism that’s making us sick. In the Mag household, every drink quickly becomes everyone’s. I’m not writing this by way of saying I’m going to change, I’m not, but more as a warning. Don’t put down your drink in my house. Or fork.  But that’s more the nature of having three teenagish boys, a daughter that literally doesn’t feel full ever and a mom who eats to cope in one household. That also makes us look less like humans, too, even when we’re not sick. We all kind of wander around numbly looking for carbs like zombies look for brains.

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Only mostly dead.

Who knows? I just know that I’m sick of being sick all of the time. The only thing worse is being the one that has to take care of everyone and everything else. It’s usually Lance, and not always on account of him being the least sick. It’s that sweet moment between a couple when you both feel whatever creeping death the kids brought home hit you and you race into bed to dibs being the one whose the most sick.  Lance had a winning streak for a while until I bested him with needing a hysterectomy. BEAT THAT, ASSHOLE. He makes it a lot less fun by being totally awesome about taking care of everyone no matter what. Killjoy.

I’m going back to bed to rest with a warm cup of tea, some soup and a good book. Probably a classic.

Just kidding, I’m going back to bed with a soda, a loaf of sliced bread I wrestled from Carter and my phone so I can tell people on Reddit they’re “tools” and possibly call the attendance office.

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happy

“TALK” the three year old said as he smacked the dirt in between him and my daughter, sending it up in a wispy brown cloud that I at once worried would whirl it’s way into her already gunky lungs. “TALK! TALK! Why. Don’t. You. TALK?!” More brown lung damage swirled around them, illuminated by the bright lights of the football field that shared its space with the baseball diamond where Abby had plopped herself down to draw in the dirt, away from the overstimulating ruckus cheering at Peyton’s last football game.

I waited the socially acceptable time for mom to intervene, she didn’t, so I knelt down beside them both and placed my hand on the boys hands, “She doesn’t talk with her mouth,” I said, the same line I have said over and over and over. Mom then starts move to rescue her child or mine, or simply to look like she was paying attention the entire time. Hurriedly, I add “She can talk with her hands…” Mom picks up her son before I can finish. “Nooooo,” I think, “Don’t take him away. He was almost playing with her!” Out loud now, “He’s fine! I was just explaining to him…” Mom was gracious, but her son was already running off to play with the other kids who had all only but momentarily given Abby the “Maybe she’ll play…oh…nevermind” glance.

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Left alone again, I sit down on my knees and gently smooth out the dirt so that Abby can have a fresh canvas. I can hear the laughter of the kids as they stomp around in the dirt, play tag and dance. My heart aches in the same place with the same familiarity I’ve known since Casey was born and autism took from him normal childhood experiences.  Abby draws a stick figure with crazy hair and a wide smile with her finger in the dir. When I ask her who it is, a big smile spreads across her face as she puts her thumb up and to her chest with a deliberate cadence, “ME.”

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I have to remind myself that the pain is my own. She’s as happy as she can be. What autism takes- normal childhood interactions- autism also protects. My autistic children don’t usually care to be doing as the other kids are doing. Like Casey with the butterflies when he was the same age as Abby.

She was happy. So I was, too.

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It’s time to do the thing

I was over a year and five minutes late to my favorite YMCA class. Knee issues, endometriosis, hysterectomy, surgically-induced menopause and mental illness had kept me away for way too long. I apologetically worked my way to the most open spot I could find, all the while trying to dance along to music and moves that are way younger than I look or feel.  For the split second I saw myself in the mirror before I locked onto the heels of the instructor I saw what was there a year ago- a tall, not-fit, rhythmless white chick just barely able to not bump into people as she danced through a class she loved. My insides are different, though, and not just because I’m missing some. I’ve been to a lot of therapy in the last year and have found a new calm I only notice when I brace myself for anxiety that doesn’t end up coming. I spent the first half of the class trying not to see what I looked like in the mirrors that covered 3/4 of the walls. At one point I saw myself and stopped. What the hell was I afraid of? I’m never not going to be the tall white chick who sweats an alarming amount in the class.  “Lean into what scares you” my therapy spoke to me. So I did.

I haven’t kept this blog with any sort of regularity for three plus years now. I can’t believe it’s been that long. There were a lot of reasons why I quit writing. Losing my domain was probably just what pushed me over the edge because the reinforcement I craved by seeing my stats was diminished significantly because all of the sites linking in were now lost. I want to say that I didn’t even look at my stats, but that’s horseshit. I did. Stats played a huge role in my deciding whether or not what I was writing was worthwhile- but that came with huge frustrations. Because, at the end of the day, it wasn’t what I thought was my best writing that got the most traffic; that’s kind of not how the web works. Most people aren’t here for art.

I sure as hell am not.

I’m here for Reddit and to make sure the word I’m using in an argument means what I think it means. Cats. The shitshow that is our president.

I was super concerned with what people were thinking about what I wrote, too. Not so much as what I was writing, but my motivation to write. Did they think I was a narcissist? That I cared more about writing my blog than my kids’ privacy? Did they think I was an asshole for my half-hearted attempts to make money because of my blog?Did people read just to find reasons to be mad at me? Was I giving them reasons? Ugh. I still feel all of this as I write now.

Because I cared about stats and what people thought, my writing changed. It got better in a great many ways, I think. I learned to be more concise. I spent more time editing.  But it took a lot more time and effort. Time I have. Kind of. Effort, meh, I should try harder in almost every area. I stopped writing just to write though, and that made it a lot less cathartic and fun.

I resolved to just write.

That was two weeks ago. I haven’t been back to my class nor had I touched this post.

But I need to write. I just re-listened (audiobooks are my best friend) to the beginning of Amy Poehler’s book, Yes Please, because I needed to hear again her say in reference to writing the book I was listening to, “You do it because the doing of it is the thing. The doing is the thing. The talking and worrying and thinking is not the thing.”

Amy had editors who hounded her to write. I need that kind of motivation. I want to finish my book, especially now that I’m in a better place. Maybe not better, there’s a good chance I’m a hell of a lot more boring without some of the demons that wrote with me. But, calmer, and maybe a little less artistic. Oh well, it’s not the thing.

I’m going to do the thing.

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So much autism.

I walked out into the crisp  Pacific Northwest air with the same heaviness, shock and also numbness, in my heart I’ve felt twice before.  The first time was 10 years ago. The second was three years ago.

It never gets easier.

Each time, I was prepared to hear the words the doctors would say, but each time when I saw the word “autism” in black and white, the same old Heavy settles in. I feel like the whole world has changed, but at the same time, every single thing is the same.

Today, the third of my four children was diagnosed with autism. My youngest son has Asperger’s. As far as diagnoses go- it’s all autism.

He’s been having problems in school for years. We always thought they were age related and would go away with time. They didn’t. At first, it was because he was stubborn. Then I believed it was because he was gifted, and the neurosis he feels was a part of that. Then we thought it was OCD. We hoped it was OCD. After meeting with the school- his teacher, the principal and director of gifted services along with the resource teacher I adore, we decided to have him evaluated to find out more of what we were working with.

The first meeting with the psychologist was just with me. Lance was out of town. As I discussed Peyton, the psychologist kept asking me questions that were indicative of his thought train: autism. So I flat out told him it wasn’t autism. I KNOW autism. He’s too creative. He’s very loving. He doesn’t melt down…at least not like Casey…He doesn’t have problems socially…except…Oh yeah, he has sensory issues. His diet is limited to only about five things and he won’t wear certain types of clothes. On and on. I didn’t realize until after, but this amazing psychologist had helped guide me to coming to the conclusion on my own: Peyton has aspergers. I would have fought him to the death if he had just come out and said it. I would have felt like he didn’t think I knew what I was doing. I knew autism!

And yet, I didn’t know HIS autism. It wasn’t even really on my radar. I’d thrown it out a couple of times, but always walked it back thinking that it just wasn’t him. When the psychologist guided me to that conclusion, my mind was flooded with the aspies I know. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure.

It hit me a lot harder than I even want to admit. Three out of my four children are on the autism spectrum. It’s a hard pill to swallow. This isn’t what I wanted for him. I wanted it to be something he’d grow out of. I wanted this to not be another trial that didn’t go away. Not for him, and selfishly, not for me. I didn’t want things to be harder for him than they already were growing up in a home with two disabled siblings and one crazy ass mom.

I agonized about how to tell him. One of the reasons we looked into getting assessments done is that he personalizes everything. He’s SO hard on himself. I was afraid that he’d internalize this as something that was his fault. I was afraid that he’d hear “autism” and he would only see how his siblings were affected by it.  One night while we were doing homework he threw down his pencil and in tears said, “Why am I like this?!” So I told him that the doctor thought it was possible that he was on the autism spectrum.  He knows all about autism, including some of the famous people who have Aspergers. He knows that his “Aunt K” (not his real aunt, spoils him just the same) is an aspie and she’s worked at cool places like Playstation and LucasFilm. After about a minute he quickly said, “Oh, interesting. That makes sense.”

It does make sense. I’m not completely okay with it right now, but he is. And that’s what matters.

Tomorrow I will march into his school with another education folder, just like the ones I have for Casey and Abby, tucked under my arm and begin the work it takes to modify his environment so that he has the best shot at living up to his capabilities.

That’s a lie. I probably won’t march. I’ll drag my feet. I’ll probably cry when I say he’s autistic. But I’ll get over myself enough to do what I have to do.

I hope.

 

 

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The dream that turns to a nightmare in the morning

….and then suddenly we’re there in the kitchen. For some reason, Abby is standing on the island and we are, slowly, syllable by syllable, saying words. She does, in turn, repeat back. Mon Mon Key Key MONKEY! MONKEY! MONKEY! And we all clap and she jumps up and down without any of us giving a thought to her falling from the kitchen island.

This dream, so small, probably counting fewer than a minute or two of my restless sleep, has caught me by the throat several times since then. Her voice, her repeating words, her jumping carelessly up and down as if the strangle hold of Down syndrome and autism had for a moment released their grip, should be a delight. A hope.

It’s neither.

It would all be well and good if we could stay in that dream forever. If I felt like this dream, and the even more cruel ones of her speaking without impediment, weren’t always going to be just dreams. If reality didn’t tug me awake with her clumsy hands and her big beautiful brown almond-shaped eyes. I roll over as Abby clambers up on the bed to force me into the kitchen where I will point to every other food item to her shake of the head and an increasingly angrier grunt until I knowingly pull the chicken nuggets out of the freezer, to which she points to the bag and looks up to make sure I know what she’s telling me.

At five, most her peers with Down syndrome could ask for chicken nuggets. Most mother’s could respond with a “No, it’s breakfast. That’s a disgusting way to start the day.”

Most mothers, ouch, most mothers have heard their child call them “Mom.”

It should be so sweet to have any glimpse of Abby speaking, right? And it it is, it is so sweet, right until I wake.

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Oh, hai, I’m back, mostly

I bought a new laptop because mine ate the dust and in order to sleep at night I knew that I had to really start writing again. So here I am with another new domain and another new attempt at a blog that I may or may not keep up.

But I’m back.

Mostly.

How have YOU been?

I’m not just asking to get out of writing. I promise.

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Peyton didn’t want to move…

We’re moving into our new (to us. It’s 24 years old with all original everything…I’ll post pictures soon!) house today and as I’m unpacking the kitchen Peyton stomps in in a huff. Right after him Dave (our friend who OFFERED to help us move, so, I guess probably the best dude in the world?) and Lance came in with the washer and dryer. I hear Peyton start to sob so I leave the guys and go after him. He’s crying. I ask him what was wrong and he said he didn’t want to talk about it. I gave him a hug and pried, “Was it Casey again?” Those two have been at each other’s throats for days. “No.” “Was it Carter?” No. “Was it Abby? Did she get you? Did she tackle you to the ground and tell you that you don’t read good?” Not even a smile. Big tears rolled down his face as he said, “Can I just be alone right now?” Sure, Peyton. I ruffled his hair and went to find out what was going on.

Turns out, Peyton was pretty sad about moving. But not in the way you would think…

Before they had packed up the dryer, Peyton climbed in it. Lance found him and told him to get out. He came back in a minute later and as he pulled on the dryer, he thought it was caught on something. Seeing that it was free, he opened it up. There again was Peyton. “Do you want me to ground you?! Get out of the dryer!” Peyton replied, “You can ground me.” He didn’t want to move…from the dryer…

Abby’s got a lot of Peyton in her, which scares the hell out of me. Today, when we went upstairs she had locked herself in a closet. Carter went to open the closet to rescue her and just as soon as he had slid it open she SLAMMED it shut again. Then went on to play alone in the dark closet.

Guess their just working through some stuff?

day in the life · Uncategorized

Hey guys, I went to the gym!

It’s a big deal. I haven’t been to the gym in years. I hate the gym. It’s full of people. Fit people.  Fit people talking about fit-ness.  It was cheaper to get a family pass than to just get the kids a YMCA pass (for the pool. oh my gosh. for the pool. so much pool.) so I begrudgingly added my name.  It was the start of the year, so I knew what I was going to look like- the beginning of what would soon be a short lived Resolution.  Besides getting the membership, for me, just getting to the gym is feat.

The pass isn’t cheap, but I am. I’m so cheap. Basically, the pass is the cost of our would-be cable and DVR in our home when we move, but because I’m a great mom and a total martyr, I gave up on demand TV because Lance said I couldn’t give up running water. I couldn’t handle the thought of us not squeezing every last dime of our membership out of it, so I decided I would go. I resolved to go. I would go. Just not today. No. Not tomorrow either. I’ve got kind of a cold? Yes. Feels like a cold.

The day came. I could no longer fight the anxiety of the broken-down-to-the-day cost of our membership slipping away from me. I stomped to pack a bag to go. A gym bag. There was no gym bag. I trudged out to the garage to find one of Lance’s old bags. There were none. I finally found an old backpack under a box in our garage. Peeling it back with just my fingernails because of the threat of spiders, I opened to find that it was full of stupid odds and ends stuff grabbed just as we were moving from Rhode Island. Five months ago.  Anger rose. I channeled it, as I usually do, towards Lance and moved on. I ended up using Abby’s backpack. It smelled like old juicebox.

I went to pack said gym bag.  Pulling out an outfit out of the mountain of clothes that rises triumphantly above the dryer itself, I had a full on existential crisis over the fact that the outfit I was going to change into after I worked out and showered, looked just like the one I came in with. I toyed with the idea of actually wearing jeans. JEANS. For a second I had forgotten who I was.

I went upstairs to grab some of my vast collection of trial sized oddities (I love trial sized stuff, and after Abby’s hospital stays I have felt very justified in buying travel everything just about every time I go to Target. It’s for this reason alone I think she’s stayed out of the hospital.  I’m too prepared. Fun fact: the hospital where we live now is actually closer to our house than the Target.) to use while showering. The thought of showering without the threat of being dragged out by a screaming child put a spring in my step. I glanced in the mirror. Ugh. My face was blotchy from my body’s attempt to keep me young through no other means besides acne.  I realized that they were going to take my picture that day. I shuttered as I thought about my new driver’s license. No. Not again. I smeared some foundation on and then realized that I now just looked flat. I added some blush, but then I realized that it made my eyes look sunken in. I added some mascara. Eventually, I found myself in full makeup. To go to the gym. “I’m one of those girls!” I shrieked as I grabbed a towel and rubbed all of the makeup off.

After my ADHD could find no more sweet diversions, I packed up Abby and headed off. The YMCA by us has a really great kids care. It’s always full of kids Abby’s age, so it gives her some time to be with her peers, which is necessary. She loves it.  After getting my information and taking a picture that looked strikingly like Nick Nolte’s mugshot, I dropped Abby off and went on my way to find a machine.  The only elliptical open was next to a very fit girl I thought would want to tell me about fitness. I put my earbuds in- a global sign of “nope”- and started my workout.   Fearing that the kids care would be up at any point to get me, I jumped into a workout, desperate to burn “gross amounts of cheeseball” calories off.

Jim Gaffigan
I stole this from Meta Picture show stole it from someone else so now it’s right.

 

I can only imagine what the girl next to me was thinking:

“Wow, that chick tackled the machine like a gazelle, but not a gazelle. Like a chubby chick should attack a workout.”

“Her shirt has a wolf, a Native American woman, a moon and some weird dude on it. I don’t know what to do with that.”

“I’ve never, ever, seen someone sweat so much in so little time. I should ask her if she’s set some sort of record. This might be her talent.”

“Is…is she crying?”

The workout was glorious. I was surprised that all the walking back and forth to school holding Abby had made it so I wasn’t as out of shape as I thought. What’s more? I felt like I sweat out the stress of the week. I might have cried. It was a release. So I went back. In fact, I’ve been going a couple of times a week until I got planter fasciitis. Which fills me with hulk like rage.  I’m still the chubby ADHD girl in the weird shirts who cries, but I’m there.

Funny gym meme

I’ll post five million selfies later.

 

 

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Sirens

Sirens. The sound that once made all the muscles in between my shoulder blades tighten  had, over the last year, worked their way to just small twitches and spasms, barely noticeable under normal circumstances. These weren’t normal. I heard the sirens from far away. All of the muscles in my back had seized and the weight of Abby in my arms seemed to double. I shifted her to one arm as I waved down the fire trucks.  My shoulders screamed, but the sound of that ache dulled under the blare of the sirens.

Just minutes before I had been running through my house trying to figure out where the smell of smoke was coming from. Pushing away chairs, couches, checking every light and every outlet. Nothing. The smell was the worst upstairs, and as  I heard the wheeze that Abby’s been fighting for the last week turn to a raspy cough I knew there was no more I could do. I grabbed a blanket and wrapped her up, called 911 and took her out into the freezing cold of the day.

Two gigantic fire trucks. Two ambulances. I felt the sirens, as I had before, jitter beneath my skin. A feeling as much as sound.

I have never called 911 before. The six ambulance rides (six? I can’t remember) Abby has had have been calls from pediatricians and urgent care doctors who couldn’t treat the level of care she needed, and one from my sister when we were in Utah when Abby’s fingers and feet had turned dark.  But the sound of the sirens is one that I have had more than enough experience with. From the inside, just two weeks after having Abby when I hemorrhaged. From the outside waiting with Abby as the rescue team clomped past scared moms in the waiting room of the pediatrician’s office. From the inside those many trips from doctors offices to hospitals.

I hate the sound of sirens.

I'm not going to lie. I wish I had gotten a picture of the firemen. They looked like they had just walked off a firefigher role on a movie set.
I’m not going to lie. I wish I had gotten a picture of the firemen. They looked like they had just walked off a firefigher role on a movie set.

The firefighters jumped out, prepared with axes and dressed in their gear, eager, almost as if they had been very bored, to fight a fire with no flames. My hands shook as I pulled out the phone answer Lance’s call- his airplane was taxiing the Reagan International Airport runway in D.C.-to tell him that the firefighters were there, and begging him to call the school again because I was so worried about the kids.  He couldn’t, the airline was breaking rules as it was and he had to get off the phone.  “My son, my son is autistic and is going to be worried and I need to get him at the school.” The firefighter’s eyes widened as he looked at me holding my beautiful daughter with Down syndrome, her head nuzzled into my neck, putting together what I was saying. “Just one son? Which school?” “No, I have three boys at that school. They’re fine. They’re with their teachers, but I need to get them.” I’m not sure if my anxiety to get there was more for me than it was for them. I wanted my boys. I wanted to tell them it was fine if for no other reason than to hear the words myself.

A minute later a paramedic came  and said that he’d drive me in the ambulance to pick up my kids. I almost laughed. There was no way I was getting in an ambulance I didn’t have to, and there was absolutely no way I was picking up my boys, my anxious Peyton and my autistic Casey, in an ambulance. I explained that the school was close and there was a cut through just one street over. The paramedic decided to escort me there and back to get the kids. He was nice, and for once, I didn’t feel the usual anxiety I get over spending time with people I had just met.

The boys were waiting in the resource room. Casey, who I imagined pacing the room biting his fingernails, barely registered my presence as he played on an ipad.  I introduced the paramedic and told them that even though everything was okay, we were going home and there were going to be firetrucks. My anxiety was lost on them. “Cool!” Peyton said as he hopped out of his chair.  Mrs. Duncan, Casey’s superhero of a special education teacher, walked with us.

Once home, I handed over Abby and met the head fireman in my yard. They had found the source- our furnace. It turns out, it hasn’t been serviced in years, maybe, and was clogged with dust. The reason I couldn’t find the source of the smoke was because it was was coming out of all the vents. The firemen let me inside to find the name and phone number of the property management company. Once I had got it, the head guy made the call for me. The company scrambled in a way I have never seen a business before. I think I’ll have him do all my calling for me.

The furnace had to be shut off, and I could already feel the chill of these past couple of days seeping into the house. The guys told me that it probably wasn’t a good idea to stay in the house until the smoke cleared, but by that time, if the furnace hadn’t been fixed, it would be too cold. I gathered up Abby’s inhalers, the Ipad, some snacks. They told me they’d keep in touch to make sure the property management company complied and gave me their numbers if they hadn’t.

I walked to the ambulance where the firemen told me they were keeping my kids warm. I pulled the back door open and my breath caught as I saw Abby sitting on the stretcher in front of me. She was fine. They all were. Mrs. Duncan had kept them calm and entertained while I was inside. She. Is. A. Saint.

My kids and I spent the rest of the evening looking for things to do. First, to fill the car up with gas, next to meet the furnace guy back at the house, to the overcrowded and much, much much hated McDonalds , then onto the YMCA where in an hour or so Carter had basketball practice. I  had forgotten Casey’s goggles in my rush back in when I had met the furnace guy, and upon his hearing this, any sort of resolve he had crumbled. He had been so good, that I didn’t even mind his breaking. He climbed to the top of the two-story play place and laid right in front of the slide, letting kids scramble right over him to go down. When they were at the bottom, I heard them calling him the “Zombie Boy” and for once, it didn’t bother me. It didn’t bother him, either. I think we both felt more undead then truly alive. He emerged for a minute to grab the Ipad then slunk back up to his perch. Minutes later, a sweet boy from Peyton’s class showed up and asked where the boys were. Peyton was swimming, Carter at practice, and Casey, at the top of the playground. The boy climbed to the top where he spent the next half hour sitting with Casey. The boy is my hero.

Abby, who’s shoes I had left at home and who was still too wheezy to go into the kids care, and I played basketball, sung songs and danced in the space below Casey’s tower. My shoulders eased as I giggled with my beautiful girl. Casey crept down and joined us and as we played mini-basketball.  He giggled as he joined in with two other boys throwing the balls so hard against the little hoops that they knocked them over. Once, the ball bounced back and caught  Casey right in the jewels. It was a half-deflated ball, and the image of it was funnier than the feeling. He fell back on the floor and laughed until his voice broke into a cackle. I laughed too, and then I realized how grateful I was that in the end, the day had brought me there. Don’t get me wrong, heads are going to roll in the rental office tomorrow, but for that moment, I didn’t feel like it had been the worst day ever.

I’m just kidding. Today sucked.  The kids are still getting up, creeping down the stairs and worriedly asking me if the house is going to burn down.

This is a long post and I commend any of you who made it through the whole thing. I probably would have skimmed it at best. Really, I wrote it for me as a way to process the trauma of a pretty untraumatic event. If sirens didn’t take me back to a place of wretched fear, it wouldn’t have been much more than it was.  Also as a ploy for Lance- who is always out of town for the fun- to buy me a cat.

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Gather ’round, kids. Mom is mentally ill.

That title seems trite. I mean, it’s true. But it should say, “Gather around my wonderful children, we have some news for you. Your mother, whom we just adore, is mentally ill.”

Yeah, that doesn’t sound much better, does it?

I went to the doctor the beginning of December and talked to her about my medication. My friend Bec has told me for ages that I have bipolar disorder. I laughed at her, “I’m not mentally ill. I’m just insane some days. Jeez.” (And then for emphasis, I laughed and laughed) Because in my head, there is a dividing line between having depression and having bipolar. The line? Mental illness. I had depression. I was open about it. But I fought the bipolar because I didn’t think I had mania. I didn’t compulsively shop, I didn’t have periods where I was excessively social, I wasn’t flamboyant, I’m barely buoyant at all. I also didn’t want to think I had crossed that line into mental illness, when I knew that my depression on its own qualified. But after getting back on depression meds, I had a couple of fantastic weeks where I cleaned all of the things, did all of the things, was all of the things! … until, well, I wasn’t. I crashed and I crashed hard.  In speaking to my Aussie love, she gently reminded me of what we’d both known for a while…

I’m bipolar.

I have bipolar 2. It’s funny, the doctor after administering the test, said, “You are just below the threshold for bipolar 2, so we’ll just call it that. You’re more cyclothymic, but the meds are the same either way. You’re not close to being bipolar 1. If you were, I’d expect to see you wearing strange clothing and things.” My jacket had been zipped up over my favorite shirt, it has a picture of a cat head on a t-rex body. A catosaurus rex.  Seen here (I’m the unicorn. You can see Alcatraz in the back)

catasaurus shirt, unicorn, clown, alcatraz
You can kind of see the shirt. This picture doesn’t do much to offset the crazy part of the diagnosis.

I walked out of that appointment strangely shocked. I mean, I knew this, but actually hearing it kind of messed with me a little. There wasn’t much time to process it, because in an insane act to one up me, my sister went ahead and got diagnosed with kidney cancer the next day.

I kid because I have very limited ability to deal with the fact that we now have had three members of my immediate family be diagnosed with three different kinds of cancer. Both of my sisters and my father.  My sister had cancer. She had it in December and now she doesn’t have it anymore. She had a really awful surgery to remove the cancer from her kidney. But it’s gone now and we are all very, very glad.  She’s pretty dang tough and I’m so glad it wasn’t worse than it is, but still pretty rotten.

I digress. But now everything I write seems pretty petty in comparison. That kind of sucks, no?

Back to my crazy. I got on a new medication. A real life anti-psychotic, friends, and I feel great! Here’s the thing- like with Casey’s diagnosis- it doesn’t change me. I was bipolar before and knowing it now only gives me a map to being well. To not deal with the ups and downs of all of it. I’m not embarrassed to tell you my diagnosis anymore than I would be embarrassed to tell you I had cancer (or will be, when it’s my turn, I guess).  Because my fault in it is about the same. I didn’t do this to myself through bad choices and a lack of platitudes and cat posters (I do have cat pants, they’re amazing.). This is the way my body was made. It’s an imbalance that is responding readily to the medications I’m throwing at it, the therapy and all in all the choices I’m making.

I choose sanity.

And I hope you do, too. I hope that outing myself will help others to see that seeking treatment is not wrong. That mental illness is not someone’s fault. That there is hope for better days. Because there is.

And now, and inspirational poster:

I hate being bipolar it's awesome

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My letter to Kelli Stapleton, my friend.

Dear Kelli,

I miss you. I miss seeing you pop up in my Facebook feed. I miss how much you love my Abby, I miss your encouragement in my writing, but most of all, I miss seeing you. I miss that smile as bright as your long blond hair. I miss your hope and enthusiasm for life. I miss your strength. I miss seeing how hard you fought and how much you cared. I miss you.

Kelli Stapleton

You. The real you. The you I knew before that September day, and, the you I know exists beyond that day. I don’t know what caused you get to that point, but, I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry that I didn’t know things had gotten so rough. I’m so sorry that I hadn’t checked in and had lost myself in my own cares and my own world. I’m sorry that so many people forced you into a place where silence was better than speaking your truth. Where the hurtful words lobbed at you as you sought care for your daughter were not met with more push back for me. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for you like you fought for Issy, even in the face of so many people being so unbelievably hurtful.

When the news came to me- it was an article gently sent by a caring friend- my first thought as I read the headline that a mom had tried to kill herself and her autistic daughter I saw the picture of you and Issy and thought, “Well, this news agency has the wrong picture here. There’s no way…” The room got really loud in its silence. I crumbled to the floor and put my hands over my ears and screamed, “GOD!” It was a prayer and a threat and swear word all in one. “No, no no no no no!” I wailed at the walls that seemed as if they were closing in on me. I felt Lance’s arms wrap around me as he lifted and carried me to my bed. I screamed and screamed. “If she can fall, what hope is there for the rest of us? If she could break who is safe? We’re not safe. No one is safe!”  I tell you this, not because I want to inflict any more pain than you are already dealing with, but because that moment was transformative for me.   In those awful hours as I tried to make sense of nonsense, I realized one tiny thing that has changed me in huge ways. You fought so hard for your daughter that there was seemingly little time or energy left to fight for yourself and your own needs.

I cannot condone what happened and there is nothing that will ever make it okay. I do not understand what happened at all. I was not there. I was not in your brain nor could I feel what you were feeling. Too many people think they can. They are wrong. But I want you to know that even in this awful tragedy, there has been some good. Kelli, last week I almost broke.  I lower than I have ever been.  The constant toll life takes wore through me.  I remembered the promise I made in the wake of September 3.  That I would take care of myself first so I can be able to take care of my children. I promised that I would ask for help and be completely honest no matter how much it hurt.  I promised that I would drop everything else the minute I felt myself tiring out. Again I found myself in the arms of my husband sobbing until I could hardly breathe.  I told him I needed help and that I needed him to stay with me until I felt better. I got help and he was with me until then.

I’ve thought about you a lot since then. I’ve wondered what would have happened if I weren’t so constantly vigilant of myself and of those around me. I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t promised myself and my husband that cold September day that I would not allow anyone to silence me.  I’m sorry that this had to happen to wake me up to the reality that parenting a special needs child is harder than any of us say out loud.  In writing about the reality since then, many have criticized me for being not as cheery as I used to be. That’s just not true. I’m just more honest. In that, others have found a voice in their own pain. So many people have told me that they’ve needed a safe place to say that it is hard and to reach out for help. People have sought help.

There are so many people who love and care for you. I can’t say that my feelings haven’t been terribly conflicted during these last months. I went from being lost in your pain to being angry at you to being at something that resembles some peace. I still ache for you and so much for your family. As I’ve come to realize that empathy doesn’t mean I condone what you did, I see that in the search for answers, I found some in myself.  I need to fight for my kids, but I need to fight for myself, too. I need to fight for parents who are told that they are wrong in their pain. Who are sold the lie that if they say it’s hard, they are saying that they don’t love their child for who they are.  I speak for myself and I speak for those parents who long to come to terms with a beautiful life that just isn’t as they had planned.

And I will speak for you, too. I will speak to the reality of how taxing it is to be a parent of special needs to anyone within the court system who will hear me. I want them to know that if it could break you, a giant among us, that it could break anyone. That the only way we are safe is if we are free to speak our truth to people willing to listen and to empathize.  We need support, we need understanding, and we need relief. I will work to find that for myself and others, and I will remember you as I do. I will remember your fighting spirit. I will remember how much you love Issy and how hard you fought for her.  I will fight.

I will love you until forever, nothing changes that.

Lexi

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I hope you’re wrong.

I was scrolling through my brain of what has brought me to where I am in my life now. I tried to find a way to string together the commonality between the biggest bouts of growth I’ve had as person.  I find myself today a different person than I was just a couple of years ago. There have been great changes that were of my causing and some were of not. The biggest change in me came from one thing:

Being wrong.

No one likes the feeling of being wrong, but I doubt there’s something that has such a power for change if we but embrace our wrongness. Just sit there for a while, being wrong.  Being right rarely challenges our worldview, it rarely requires us to think outside the box- or the compartments- we’ve built for ourselves. While there are many experiences that challenge us to grow and to be more, there are few things that require introspection like finding out we were wrong about something we were sure- we KNEW- we were right about.

After Casey was diagnosed with autism, I wanted answers. I wanted to know why he regressed, why he lost his words, imitation and love of all foods. I searched and found and answer that felt right: the vaccines. His regression was RIGHT after he was vaccinated, right? I mean, it was around that time. But it had to have caused it. Right? I stopped vaccinating him and delayed vaccinating Peyton until I was sure he didn’t show some of the early pre-regression signs Casey had.  Even then, against the science-based arguments of a doctor I now have a lot more respect for-I delayed his vaccines as long as I could stomach. I did not want to be wrong. I didn’t want to give Peyton autism, too.  I was wrong. But not about Peyton’s autism.  I was wrong about vaccines.

I had done what so many had done before me. I had wanted answers where there were none. When I came  across data that proved otherwise, I found myself doing what is well documented in controlled psychological experiments: I dug in. My belief only got stronger in the face of conflicting data. I built up walls inside my brain to continue to be right about something because ANY answer was better than none. It gave me control in an area I felt completely powerless. Eventually, I embraced my wrongness. I dragged all of my kids down to the doctor and go them all caught up on their vaccines and have vaccinated them on schedule ever since (minus the times the doctor’s couldn’t allow Abby to be vaccinated because of her health issues).

Since realizing I was wrong I’ve felt a need to steer people away from the very real dangers of not vaccinating their kids. I’ve fought hard against the prophetess of the movement- Jenny McCarthy. I seek to prove her in her wrongness so that other people aren’t led down that path.  Being SO wrong about something like this changed how I felt about vaccines, but not how I felt about being right. It didn’t shake me of my belief that my gut, my feelings about The Unanswerable Questions. I went on being right. I went on not challenging my preconceived notions about family, faith and who I am and what my place on this earth was to be. Until I was wrong again.

Into my adult life I believed that being gay was a choice. I remember when I read the science behind orientation and my beliefs were challenged. People are born gay. Instead of rethinking the whole issue, I went with what I was told: Sure, sure, they can be born gay, but they don’t have to be gay. They can be celibate.  They don’t need LOVE, companionship or even to be recognized as equal to heterosexuals. They still had a choice.  Ugh. It wasn’t until I had children who were born different that I saw the parallels. Though there is no disability in being gay beyond what society has imposed on it, my rightness was challenged in fighting for equal rights for my children. For fighting for inclusion.  I didn’t want people to leave my kids out because of the way they were born.  In that moment I knew I had a choice: Be a hypocrite, or be wrong.

I chose to speak out for equal rights. In so doing, my rightness was again challenged in regards to my faith. My testimony was challenged not by people outside the faith- but from people on the inside.  I was told that it was 100% true or 100% false. There was no grey area.  So I studied. I spent a year studying it all. I came out on the other side ripped from the whole framework of which I had built my life.  I had been wrong. It wasn’t what I had thought it to be. There is no pain-none- like that feeling. It was a death, a defeat, a divorce all wrapped in one.  Being wrong about something that so many times I had stood before a congregation and said that I knew, not even that I believed, but that I knew, felt like it split atoms within my soul. I broke into a million pieces and have put myself back together completely rearranged.

The pain of being wrong about this thing, and the ongoing pain of other’s believing that I am now wrong, has it’s fingers in every area of my life. But it’s opened me up to something remarkable:  though wrong hurts,  it opens our brains up to endless possibilities. It forces us out of the boxes we create for ourselves and allows us to become whatever we want to be. It gives us compassion and empathy but mostly, it gives us a reason to listen to the other side of the debate. Being wrong before has opened me up to the possibility that I am now wrong and will be wrong in the future.  Being wrong has freed me.  I see the universe in a brand new light. I see science as art and the Unknown Answers as having endless possibilities. My brain is free to roam into any idea, and then it is challenged to decide if it is right or if it is wrong.  I’m cautiously optimistic about being wrong in the future.

Many of you now are feeling that I am wrong in the views I have said. That’s fine.  I could be.

My hope for you this new year is that you will find yourself in your wrongness. That you will be challenged and that you will grow. That you will be set free.

I am free.

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The autism is hard.

The autism is hard.

His words. Not mine.

There, laying at the foot of the stairs, his head on his arm, his legs squirming as if trying to pull free from his body he again moaned, “The autism. The autism is hard. Why am I so much afraid all of the time?”

I have always been careful about what I say about autism when Casey is around. I knew he’d internalize they way we spoke of it, and I never wanted him to feel like his autism made him any less than his siblings or friends.  I wanted him to be proud of what it gives him, but, somewhere along the lines, I stopped the dialog with him about the hard parts. I stopped letting him feel how he needed to feel. I kept willing rose colored glasses on my beautiful boy who sometimes needs to see in black and white. And he needed me to see his world there with him.

I knelt beside him and watched as silent tears crawled down his face. “I know it’s hard. I’m so sorry, Casey. I’m so sorry it’s hard today.”  I scooped  him up the best I could and brought him over to the couch. He was not content to sit by me, but rather, crawl onto my lap.

autism is hard

 

It’s been a rough time for Casey. We can’t quite put our finger on why. The weather change? Hormones? Me? Is it me? I’m so worried that he’s picking up on my own moods, my own stress, my own sadness. Waves of guilt rush through me and seep into my tired bones. Even when I try my best, I can’t help but blame myself.  Casey doesn’t blame me though, not yet. I look at some of the adults with autism I know that hate their parents. That hate all parents. Will he become like them? Will he hate me one day for messing up time and time again even though I was desperately trying to  help him?

We decided to try to adjust the world to Casey. To find safe places for him to just be him. We started out simply- a “sensory-friendly movie” at our local theater. They turn down the sound and keep the house lights on. When we got there, I delighted in having Casey in a place where people weren’t going to look at him funny for his autistic behaviors. An environment set up for him to be himself, and to enjoy something ‘normal’ like going to a movie.  He was VERY excited. Check out his rocking:

And I sat back and enjoyed it, too. He could rock the hell away and it didn’t matter. The people who surrounded us were there for the same reason. We had won this round with autism, I felt. We had set ourselves up for a win.

Autism is an elusive beast. Just when I think I have a hold of Casey’s autism, I’m grasping at air as it has once again changed shape. It can be large and loud and terrifying. It can be repetitive and obsessive and completely, soul-draining obnoxious. It can be beautiful and responsive and a borderline super-power.  It can be crushingly sad. The danger lies in never knowing which form it’s going to show up in, how long it’s going to take hold, and how tightly it will affix itself around Casey.

I was prepared for autism at that sensory-friendly movie. We had all of the provisions. And then, again, autism showed us it could outmaneuver us, even as seasoned experts.  Fear made it impossible for Casey to stay in the theater. Not knowing what was going to happen next. Sadness blanketed us both as we sat under that exit sign, defeated by this strange beast we have worked so hard to try to love.

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To discount the realities of any disability is to rob it of its beautiful complexity; it lessens the triumphs and it denies all involved of the authenticity found in expressing every emotion.  It’s the lesson I’m terrible at learning- to let Casey lead. If he wants to be pissed at the shitty hand he’s been dealt, well, I’ll be pissed with him. If he wants to rock with joy, I’ll rock with him. If he wants to cry, I’ll share in those tears.

Because the autism is hard.

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I’m sure of nothing.

I hit a million. A million times this blog has been opened up. People read. People cared what I had to say.  A benchmark more than a goal- I never thought anyone would read this stuff, but one that I looked at myself and thought, “Whelp, maybe I’ll walk away.”

Blogging. This damn blog has changed everything for me. Everything. Okay, correction: it’s helped me to find people who have helped me to see everything differently. To THINK. It’s taught me to challenge what I supposed to be true- and it turned my world upside-down and SHOOK IT really hard. All of the contents came tumbling out. Who I was, my goals, my view of disability, my religion, EVERYTHING.

It’s been a wild ride, and so many of you have been here before the car even pulled up to the starting line. I remember a friend telling me that to be considered a “real” blogger, you have to get at least 25,000 hits a month. I remember the first month I hit that. I thought things would change for me.  I thought when I had “made it” people would appear to give me cash for ads, jobs for real websites for real money, etc. I still live with the very real delusion that money buys happiness… I digress. But what I’ve gotten out of this blog is better than money. Mostly. Backing up, I remember the first time someone ‘shared’ something I wrote on Facebook. It was my cousin Tyson, and it was my post about the pranks my friends and I had been pulling on each other. That high of getting a couple of hundred hits was like any other high- exhilarating. I wanted more.
So I wrote more. I longed to connect to people like me. Until 2011, I had only really known a couple of Down syndrome bloggers that I had met through Babycenter. Gail, who has been here from the start, prodded me to look up Diary of  A Mom. One day I did. From there, I found Sunday at Adventures in Extreme Parenthood- where I found the Special Needs Ryan Gosling Meme. I laughed and laughed and laughed. I found what I can now only describe as my tribe; my family. Parents who were going through what I was and had found themselves walking the fine line of sanity. We got through by making each other laugh, and really, crying with each other. It was this group of parents that has carried me through the toughest years of my entire life. It was this group that walked me through being angry at autism to accepting it (mostly). It was this group that stood by me, even when they disagreed, when I was getting hammered by negative comments from trolls, and worse, people I really cared about.  It’s this group that I think about when I begin to be okay with walking away from my blog.

This blog has cost me more money than I’ve ever made on it. My get-rich blogging scheme? Yeah. You have to be motivated to make money doing this. I just want to write. That’s all.  What I’ve gained from this blog is more than what I’ve paid, times a million. I’ve changed so much. I will readily admit that. I think I’m better now. Stronger. Wiser. More honest.

The honesty continues to get me in trouble. Having more people actually read my stuff lends itself to having more people there to criticize me. More people who put down how I’m feeling and even what I’m going through. People who comment, people who send me messages, people who even go so far as to trash me on their own blogs (I KNOW, RIGHT? Seriously, get a hobby, assholes).  Maybe I sound like a big fat baby, but at the end of the day, it SUCKS to put yourself so completely out there- I say things here that I’d have a really tough time saying out loud- and be trashed for it. There are people who come here ONLY to find things to be pissed at me for.

These last couple of months have wrecked me. I toy with shutting this down all together. It’s not just the dickheads. It’s me. I’ve been pissed that some stuff gets shared while others do not. I’m mad when something that took me ten minutes and is a warm fuzzy is loved, and something that I pour my heart and soul into gets glossed over. I’ve become this egomaniac with my blog- I was checking my stats several times a day and I almost stopped writing the truth- the real truth without a glossy spin on it- because those are the times where the negative feedback would be the worst, along with my stats.

It’s so dumb. And I honestly don’t know where to go from here. I want to be myself- but the minute I swear, the minute I say something that doesn’t bode well with one of the various communities I am in or WAS in, I get raked over the coals for it. I’m not as strong against that stuff as I want to be. It still messes with me for too long. It still makes me long to do away with this blog because I feel like I’ve gotten enough out of it. It makes me want to be done.

When I started this blog, I started out sure I had all of the answers. I knew all of the answers to life’s questions, and never even dreamed of questioning anything. Now? I’m gladly sure of nothing. I have become well acquainted with how little I truly “know” and I’m fine with that.  I have my days where I want to rage-quit this blog. Burn it down. I have days where I’m sure I want to keep doing this forever. I have days like today where I’m just content to not know.

Because in the end, being sure of nothing means there’s room to grow. Maybe I’ll continue. I’m paid up on the server for a couple more months. Maybe I won’t. I know right now, I’m taking off comments and I’m getting rid of the “like” button. I don’t need to judge myself by what other people like. If this blog was for the ads or for some other purpose than to just tell our story with my insane spin on it, then maybe. But it isn’t. This blog is mine. This blog is me.

If you’re here to tear me apart, don’t let the door hit you on the way out. If you’re here to clutch your pearls and judge me when I swear, or tell a story that crosses the line:  LET THE DOOR HIT YOU ON THE WAY OUT. I’m done working around the words I want to say. I’m done biting my tongue. If I go on, it’s going to be without you. If you want me to go back to being a fluffy mommy- blogger,  well:

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Promise me.

I felt the earth tilt a little a my resolve crumbled around me.  Dizzy. Nauseous. Mad.

Most of all, sad. I had spent days preparing for this meeting. Knew the law well, knew I had rights. It all laid poached like once hopeful animals at my feet. I had nothing left to say. No fight. They won.

And it isn’t me that lost. It’s my daughter. My beautiful, three year old completely non-verbal daughter. Abby doesn’t even babble. Yet here they were cutting the time she would have in a language rich environment in more than half. Cutting speech services. Why? Because they could. Because the law let them. Because at the end of the day, they’ve met their bottom line and my daughter isn’t worth anything extra than the bare minimum. Their dollars are better spent on a child that excels than a child with Down syndrome and autism.

At least, that’s how it felt. That’s how it hurt.  I couldn’t hold back. My advocate skin had been too thin, the parent-the mother- was all that was left. I was reduced to a quivering lip that betrayed me. I broke down. I sobbed. And then I did something that I truly regret:

I apologized for the tears they caused.

I apologized for tears that showed the damage they had inflicted- like apologizing for the blood that spills from a bullet wound. I apologized.

I won’t ever do that again. I’m done apologizing for feeling hurt when people hurt me. I’m done holding back tears for the safety of my car or home. I’m done pretending everything is all right when everything is not. all. right.  My life is beyond hard. I can put any spin you’d like on that. I could finish this post with some resolve and some “everything happens for a reason” bullshit, but I won’t because it’s not honest. It’s not me. It’s not real to what I’m going through.

I could not publish this because I know damn well that the district reads my blog now. But I am going to publish this for the same reason I cried in front of them and for the same reason I will never  apologize for tears again:  TEARS ARE HONEST.

No more. No more crying in our cars after someone says horrible things to us in a grocery store. No more apologizing to the person who caused our tears. No more feeling like we are weak for loving our children so much that our emotions take over.  It’s in these times, in the times that we have the courage to break down, the courage to show how deeply we’ve been hurt, how deeply we care, it’s these times where we are our most brave.

Promise me, too, that you’ll stop holding back and apologizing for tears that were not your fault. Promise me that you’ll let people feel the full weight of their actions as they flow in tears down your face. Promise?

Promise me