Almost Does Count

One moment can set us on a dramatically different course.

All I was going to post this week was: I am (happily) spending the week in Northern Michigan with family and I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and time with loved ones. 

Then, we almost got in a horrible car wreck on the way up here.  So now I have a little more I’d like to say.

I’m not sure why it takes those near-miss events in our life to shake us up, but boy, was I shaken to the core on Saturday. 

We were heading north on the highway when we noticed traffic had come to a stand-still up ahead (it looked to be construction-related).  Vinny made the quick decision to pull off to the shoulder of the exit ramp we were passing.  We were going to consult our map and see if it made more sense to get off the highway and find a way around the back-up. 

It wasn’t ten seconds later that two cars barreled past us at top speed, neither of them seeming to notice the back-up just ahead.  My stomach lurched. 

I watched in horror as the two cars slammed into the stopped traffic.  Of course, because the two morons in those cars hadn’t slowed down, neither had some of the cars behind them.  Soon, there were cars crashing into each other, flying off onto the median and the shoulder of the highway, with approaching cars flying off the road to avoid the oncoming mess.  It was something you’d see in a movie for sure, except this time it was real.

Partway through all of this Vinny decided we needed to get moving down the exit ramp to remain safe, so we did.  I have no idea how much worse the scene became.  The event was already seared into my brain.

For the next couple hours I felt sick to my stomach.  I was shaky.  I couldn’t look at the kids without becoming teary.  What would have happened if that had been us?  Then I couldn’t stop thinking, “Well, who was in those cars?  Did they have small children, too?  Was everyone okay?”  A thousand nightmare scenarios raced through my mind. 

This much is certain: if Vinny hadn’t made that split-second decision we would have been rear ended at high speed.  

So when I say we were almost in a horrible car wreck, suddenly the word “almost” becomes so much more meaningful than it ever has before.  Especially when I go on to consider that I was almost the one driving and I am almost certain that I wouldn't have had the quick wit to pull off the highway.

And it’s not surprising that my initial thought in all of this was, “the kids.”  Not that I wouldn’t be concerned about what might have happened to Vinny or I, but... it’s like that doesn’t even register anymore.  No, the instinctual response is always, “the kids!” 

So much of it is the fact that I have no control over their wellbeing in instances like that.  And no matter what, I would have felt guilty on some level, even though it would have been no fault of our own.  I would have felt like I needed to do a better job to protect my chickens.

But all this is for naught, right?  We weren’t in that accident, someone else was.  We continued on our journey safely, albeit shaken.  For the rest of the day (and beyond) I thought about how our lives could have drastically changed in that one instant.  It’s scary to think that way.

And on many levels, pointless.  Horrible things could happen any second of any day.  Thankfully they almost never do (notice that word almost again).  It’s just that sometimes, the balance tips, the almost disappears, and you are left with the aftermath of whatever that almost didn’t prevent.

On this day we were spared.  I could not be more thankful, grateful … relieved.  But then I have to remember that someone else was not so lucky, so then I pull my family closer.  I hug them harder.  Look at them longer.  Linger in the little moments that happen every day, but that I sometimes lose sight of because days are long, I get tired, and it’s all I can do to make it until bedtime. 

So what began as a short “have a good week” post has morphed into something much more meaningful for me.  How often are we bombarded with the “don’t take life for granted” “live life to its fullest” “don’t forget to tell your loved ones how much you love them” sentiments?  Sometimes we take these credos to heart.  Most times we don’t.  It’s easy to nod along, yeah, yeah, yeah, and then go about our day. 

I don’t often make requests here.  Who am I to tell you to do anything?  Well, I’m going to do it anyways.   

When you are done reading this post please walk over to or phone someone you love dearly and give them a squeeze or a kind word of love or a statement of gratitude.  Feel that moment with all your heart.  Then have a nice holiday ;)

It's Just Stuff

Except when it’s not.  A few weeks back one of my best friends mentioned she was going to have a yard sale.  Did I want to bring some stuff over to sell?

The baby stuff has been piling up in our attic since we moved in.  I’ve passed some stuff along here and there, but otherwise have been reluctant to unload the bulk of it so far.  I chose to look at the yard sale as motivation to free up space and get over what’s left of my lingering sadness over not having any more babies. 

I have to point out that I’m not a pack rat.  After moving countless times growing up I am very accustomed to getting rid of, well, pretty much everything.  There are a few items that have made it through the many moves, but for the most part I do not get sentimental over “stuff.”

That is, until I had kids.  I don’t know what the hell happens in your body after having children but I transformed from someone who rarely cried at movies, someone who didn’t dissolve into teary-eyed nostalgia over anything, really … into someone that can barely keep it together looking at an outfit Eli wore as a baby, or at a maternity t-shirt I wore, or at photos of either of the kids right after they were born, or some dumb-ass commercial that’s supposed to make you laugh.

Just this morning I went into Sophie’s room and saw that Eli had set the couch out from her little dollhouse and set the Mama and Papa bear together on the couch.  It was so cute I nearly started bawling when I looked at it.  Seriously?  What is wrong with me?

So it shouldn’t have surprised me that I would have a difficult time getting rid of things.  No, that’s not true.  I would say that 90% of the stuff was easy to part with.  But that other 10%...

I have a bin of clothes/shoes/etc. containing baby things that I won’t get rid of.  I’ve always known I would do that.  A couple outfits and the like to show the kids when they get older, to pass along to them if they have kids (or if they don’t).  That stuff makes sense to me. 

But then there are my maternity clothes.  Most of them I cannot get rid of fast enough.  Tried as I might to find maternity clothes that were flattering (an oxymoron if there ever was one) or that were at least “me” was more challenging that I had anticipated.  As a result, I hated at least half my maternity clothes with a passion. 

However, as I sorted through the box of clothes there were a few items I just couldn’t put in the “sell” pile.  My favorite jeans.  The t-shirt I wore when Vinny photographed me, two days before I went into labor with Eli.  The tank top that kept me from having a heat stroke during the summer months.  The clothes that kept me feeling like myself, the clothes I was so happy to be pregnant in.  The clothes that remind me of the sheer joy of being pregnant, remembering what it was like to carry both of my children around in my belly. 

Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago that I was pregnant.  It’s hard to believe it’s only been a little over a year. 

I can’t let go of the memories those clothes stir up, yet.  They are still too near and dear to my heart. 

So even though my upbringing equipped me with a “you don’t need that” attitude that I have carried into adulthood, there are moments when I can’t part with “things.” 

I’m okay with this.  I’m sure as time passes it will be easier to part with more of this stuff.  Maybe not.  Maybe there will always be a special box in the attic, just for me.  So I can sneak up there once in awhile and remember how happy I was growing my children.  So I can marvel over how little my babies were when they fit into those tiny onesies (okay, who am I kidding… neither of my children were ever tiny, but they were still newborns). 

Sometimes, we need “things” to stir memories, to take us back to a time we are happy to re-live, to remind us of the distances we’ve come.  As time propels us forward, pulls us further away from these treasured memories, it’s nice to have something as simple as a t-shirt to pull me back.

The "V" Word

And no, I’m not talking vagina.  Vasectomy.  If you’re a guy, you’re probably wincing in imagined pain right now, and I feel you.  If you’re a woman that’s been through childbirth you’re probably thinking something along the lines of, “Hell yes.  Let him have a taste of the pain…” 

But I digress.

Vinny opted for this procedure since we are done having kids.  At least, we say we’re done having kids.  Vinny has always said we’ll have two and that’s it.  I’ve always said we’d take it on a case-by-case basis.  I never had a specific number of children in mind.  What if I had a baby and then decided I didn’t love being a mom as much as I thought I would, or if the baby was particularly demanding, or we didn’t have the money, or…  It never seemed right to put any kind of parameters on the potential size of our family.

Vinny’s stance has never changed.  As for me… it’s not as simple.

Almost immediately after Sophie’s birth I said, “I’m done.”  My children seem to have a harrowing (to me) way of arriving into this world, and there is a part of me that does not want to press my luck.  We’ve all come through unscathed so far and I am thankful each and every day that Eli, Sophie and myself came through those experiences in good health.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the part of me that longs to be younger and richer so we could have more kids.  At this point we’re comfortable with two so it seems a bit impractical to push things that way. 

And then there’s the matter of actually caring for these children.  They’re exhausting.  I already feel guilt on some days because I rarely get to spend any one-on-one time with each child and feel as though my attention is usually in ten different places.  I’ve had several people say to me, “After two kids it doesn’t matter, it’s all really the same,” but I can’t get behind that statement. 

When I think of my attention being divided further by another child I wonder how I would actually do it.  Check that.  I know I could do it, but whether or not I would do it happily is another question.

So there are all these reasons not to have another child.  And they are good, solid reasons.  To be honest, there is no further justification needed beyond Vinny not wanting more children because, really, we both need to be on board for a decision of that magnitude.

And yet…

When I think about not having that moment of learning I am pregnant again, I get sad.

When I think about not feeling a little babe kick/move/punch/roll around in my belly again, I get sad.

When I look at my maternity clothes and remember being pregnant with Eli and Sophie, I get sad (and nostalgic).

When I think about how awesome our kids are, how good we are at making kick-ass babies, and then realize we aren’t going to do it again, I get really, really sad.

For some crazy reason I like being pregnant and having babies.  Nevermind the insomnia, morning sickness, insane heartburn, carpal tunnel, massive weight gain, general aches and pains, etc.  I love it.  And I have to add that I do have easy pregnancies, despite those ailments.  Really.  I am lucky.

In spite of all these things I know the best decision for us is to not have more babies. 

It doesn’t mean I still can’t be sad about it.

I never anticipated being the one leaving the urologist’s office in tears (and for those of you that know Vinny, you will appreciate that statement to the fullest ... and for the record he did fine).  But there you go.  As we drove home from Vinny’s procedure last week I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down my face.  It was a bittersweet moment for both of us.  Then Vinny managed to lighten it with a joke: “I’m not sure if I just did that because I don’t want more kids, or because of the ones we already have.” 

It didn’t stop my tears, but it did put a smile on my face.

A Dose of Anxiety

And, it’s done.  Just like that.  Sophie had eye surgery this morning.  A simple procedure, but one that required her being put under. 

This was the real issue.  Something about having my child in someone else’s care, the use of anesthesia, and all the things that go wrong with that alone, well, I’ve been a wreck.

The surgery was initially scheduled for June 5.  Then, a call late last Thursday wondering if we’d like to move it up to today.  It was a scramble to get a pre-op appointment, blah, blah, blah, but yes, let’s move it up.  Less time to think about it.

And really, as long as I didn’t think about it I was fine.  Then, the nurse called on Friday and we went over Sophie’s health history (or lack thereof, thankfully).  It was going well until he said, “Dress her in something comfy like pajamas.  And bring her favorite stuffed toy or blanket, it helps to comfort them when we take them back and they’re frightened.”

The image that cropped up in my mind upon hearing this was enough to turn on the instant tears.  The nurse could tell I was getting sniffly.  “She’ll be fine.  Really.  It’s so much harder for us parents then it is for them.”  

I know this is true, mostly because Sophie didn’t have a clue what was coming and I did.  I was the one that could run the nightmare scenarios through my mind while she yelped out our front window at passing dogs, oblivious to my mounting anxiety.

We all have a Momma (or Papa) Bear instinct that turns on when someone we love is threatened / in danger / hurting.  I had experienced this long before ever having children.  However, after having children I was startled to realize how much stronger that instinct becomes.  And not just stronger, but ferocious, too. 

There have been several instances when I have felt threats to my children: a dog not on a leash making a beeline for Eli, a high fever that makes the babes so miserable, a stranger trying to touch Sophie’s face (please, don’t do that to anyone’s baby), Eli darting for the road.  Things of that nature.

Never before have I had to turn over either of my children to absolute strangers for a medical procedure.  This felt like an entirely different kind of threat.  Because really, at the end of the day what is happening is a positive … albeit one that requires passing through a relatively shitty phase of handing over all control and responsibility. 

Of course the doctors and nurses are going to proceed with the utmost care.  I don’t doubt their intentions or capabilities.  But, mistakes happen.  Unpredictable reactions can occur.  There is an unknown element that no one can speak for, hence the horrible, “in some instances may cause death,” sentence that you must not only read but then say, “yeah, okay, I’ll give my consent to this.”  It’s an extreme statement meant to cover the asses of those performing the surgery, but it’s a horrible experience to even have to entertain that possibility and then to sign the paperwork agreeing to the slight possibility of that even happening. 

Had something gone wrong, man, how I would have beaten myself up over signing such a document.  Thankfully, Sophie is doing well.  She’s bruised, swollen, woozy, and hopefully done with the bloody nose (poor girl), but she was a total champ today.

And now that it’s over I find myself feeling like I got hit by a truck.  I’m exhausted.  I forget how we hold fear and anxiety in our body so tightly that once we let it go our body let’s us know how we robbed it of rest and peace of mind.

Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s anything I could do differently.  Saying, “don’t worry, it’ll be fine,” is all well and good, a necessary reminder, a mantra to repeat to keep some level of calm established, but at the end of the day my mind / body is going to go into anxiety overdrive whether I want it to or not.  There are some things I cannot force my body to do.  It’s okay.  Sometimes surrendering to the emotion is much less tiresome than fighting it.

In this instance it didn’t matter.  It drained me.  It won.  But I don’t mind.  Even when Sophie could barely keep her eyes open in recovery Vinny and I would ask her, “Where’s your tickies (our term for her toes)?”  She would grin and pull a foot out from under her blanket, putting her toes in the air.  Somehow, that one small act reassured both of us that she was fine.  We needed it.  Only in that moment could I finally relax knowing that whatever discomfort she was in, she was still her playful self, still able to grace us with a smile.

The day has only gotten better.  We were warned that the reaction to anesthesia is either: One cranky pissed-off kid, or, a sleepy, cuddly one.  I have been basking in the cuddles and snuggles that have come along with a woozy Sophie.  You’ll hear no further complaints from me today.  

I Have Awesome Pregnancy Brain

It’s so awesome that a year after Sophie’s birth it’s still going strong (and no, I am not currently pregnant). 

In hindsight, I should have known I was pregnant with Eli the day after he was conceived, the day I left my contacts in overnight, something I had never done in the sixteen years I had worn contacts, even in the throes of late-night benders, or Dr. Mario marathons, or… I had always taken my contacts out before laying my head on the pillow.  That is, until I became pregnant.

Hello, Pregnancy Brain.  Goodbye, contacts (that little stint resulted in an eye infection and corneal ulcers … yes, it was as painful as it sounds).

Had someone told me before getting pregnant that I would turn into an airhead, a fumbling idiot, a forgetful pro, well, I still would have gotten pregnant.  Sure enough, after I got pregnant and mentioned my increasing skill at mucking things up on a daily basis there were several confirmations of, “Oh, it’s pregnancy brain, that’s all.”

So in my mind I figured this meant that once you popped that kid out all would return to normal.  I was wrong.  Not only has my mind not returned to normal, the situation has taken a steady downhill turn since my second pregnancy and the subsequent birth of Sophie. 

For those of you with mental clarity, you won’t understand this.  You won’t be able to fathom what it’s like to forget words mid-sentence, to run to the store for two items only to return home with one of them, completely oblivious that you needed two items until the next day, you would never dream of putting the milk in the pantry, throwing your toothbrush away when you’re done brushing rather than returning it to the toothbrush holder, you wouldn’t run into the kitchen to grab a _______, shit, why did I come into the kitchen? 

It goes on.  And on.  And on.

You start doing shit like this as a senior citizen and they take away your car keys and put you in a home.

The worst part isn’t the memory loss, the inability to speak, the clumsy knee-jerk responses that are always the wrong responses. 

No, for me, the worst part is that during this fog known as Pregnancy Brain I have become incapable of making decisions.  I’m not talking tough, life-changing decisions.  I’m talking…

Vinny:  “Babe, do you want some cheese?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Babe?  Cheese?

Me:  “. . . . . . . .”

Vinny:  “Umm, it’s a yes or no question?”

Me:  “. . . . . . . . I don’t know?”

It’s annoying, for everyone involved.  The questions are “easy,” and yet, my brain cannot find a way to formulate a decision in either direction, ever.  I sit zoned-out, appearing to be in the midst of some kind of enjoyable daydream when in fact I’m trying to figure out why the hell I don’t know if I want any cheese. 

Every decision feels momentous.  Sometimes I push myself to yell out a “yes!” or “no!” regardless if it’s what I want or not.  At least it’s an answer.

Then there are those out there (damn scientists) who doubt that Pregnancy Brain exists (go here).  They do not want to come face-to-face with any woman experiencing it and tell her that—just because we’re slow doesn’t mean we won’t beat you up.  

As is often the case, I try to find something positive in the situation, but so far I can't find anything positive about diminished mental capacities.  Sure, it makes for some good stories, some slapstick hijinks, but when you can’t even remember most of those moments…

But I’ve learned to cope, mostly.  I have turned into a write-it-down junkie.  If it isn’t written down (and sometimes, even when it is), it doesn’t exist.  If I can make and then find a list of groceries, errands, birthdays, reminders, etc., then the world continues to function on a somewhat normal level in our house.  But if I can’t…

So apologies in advance when I forget your next birthday, anniversary, the last conversation we had, what your name is, or how we know each other.  It’s not personal.  I promise.

Time for Cool

Except it’s not cool.  Not at all.  How is it that I’m already looking at preschools for Eli?  Not only that, I’m late to the game.  I should have been looking late last year (to be fair, I was in L.A.), and trying to register him in January.  Oops.

Instead, about two weeks ago, it suddenly occurred to me that if we were indeed going to send him to preschool this fall (and we’ve been on the fence about this), that I needed to get on my shit and get this thing done.

The organized, practical part of me kicked in and was like, “Right, I need to get some recommendations, do some research, and go visit some schools.  We’ll go from there.”

The emotional part of me has been freaking out about sending my child off to school, even if it is only four + hours a week.

It’s easy to rationalize not sending him.  He won’t be three until Halloween, so is close to the cut-off point age-wise anyways.  I’m not in any hurry for Eli to be “schooled” in the traditional sense. Why not wait another year?

But, I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I think Eli would love going to school.  I know he would have so much fun and that in and of itself is reason enough for him to go.  It would be good for him for lots of other reasons, too, but knowing it’s something he would enjoy is what is pushing us in this direction.

So, I went to visit a school with him.  I told him the night before we were going to school the next day.  The first thing he said to me the following morning when I entered his room (with a huge smile on his face to boot) was: I go cool?  I go cool?  He was so excited about going to school.

Eli is going through a bit of a shy phase right now, so although he was completely psyched about the playground, sandbox, and toys in the classroom, he was less enthralled with all the kids there, not wanting to get close to their “morning circle.”  Even the flirty grin of a little girl (which was melting my heart) did nothing to encourage him closer.

It cannot be overstated how emotional this entire visit was for me.  It was only that, a visit, and yet already I could envision the first day when I would have to drop him off for real and what a blubbering mess I was going to be, and how would I hold it together for one second if he was a blubbering mess and didn’t want me to go, and…

Several times I had to remind myself simply to breathe.  Calm down. 

This is the first in about 1,113 steps of letting my children go. 

And as resistant as I sometimes want to be in these instances, kicking, screaming and fighting every step of the way, I have to remember that I cannot stop time.  I cannot stop my children from growing up and away.  I know it will break my heart a million times as they take their independent steps, each one taking them further away.  At the same time there are moments of intense pride and an ever-deepening awe as I watch Eli grow into an amazing boy. 

I often compare parenting to being on a rollercoaster.  And while there are certainly ups and downs, the comparison isn’t quite apt because often the ups and downs are occurring at the exact same time (which as far as I know isn’t possible on a rollercoaster, yet).  So I am concurrently excited for Eli to have this new experience and devastated that he won’t be home with us all the time.  I am thrilled to have him spend time with other children and paranoid that he will pick up some horrible tidbits from them.  I am forever curious to see what life will bring next for Eli, and disappointed that I won’t get to share all the new discoveries with him (something I adore doing with him right now). 

I feel like I’m going to miss out on so much of what he’s learning in life. 

I’m going to feel left out.

I don’t know if this gets easier as he gets older or not.  Sometimes I rationalize it by saying, “well, it’s because he’s still so young and impressionable,” that’s why it’s so hard.  Or, it’s important to me that his immediate family be the ones shaping him, helping him to learn his rights and wrongs, his manners, etc. 

Now, for part of the day at least, we’ll be the ones on the sidelines, having to trust that he will be in the care of people that have his best interests in mind, that will lead him down a path I would agree with, that will take care of him.

It’s scary.

I’m eternally grateful that I’ve been able to stay home with my kids so far.  Sure, there are days when I want to go hide in the attic and let them figure it out for awhile.  Generally, I try to burn each moment into memory because those moments are passing by at lightning speed, and now we’ve enrolled our first-born into preschool for the fall. 

Next week, he’ll be graduating from college.  The week after that we’ll be meeting the love of his life.  The week after that?  Grandchildren.  See, this is all going way too fast.

A Need to Pause

Yes, it’s been awhile.  Again.

For lots of reasons, I haven’t been posting.  I’ve had good intentions.  I’ve started four or five posts with fervor and then… nothing. 

Initially I chalked it up to all the usual things, which I won’t bore you with, but if you have any procrastination “skills” I’m sure you could put together a list, too.

However, after some time passed I had to ask myself: Why haven’t I been writing?  What is really going on (beyond the usual BS excuses)?

When I take that quiet moment and ask myself what on the surface appears to be a very basic question, I am quite often bowled over by what rushes forth in the way of response.

I’ve been so bowled over that I haven’t written for some time now.  That in and of itself is quite striking because my usual response to any situation is to write about it.  I may not always share it, but it will undoubtedly be written about.

Lately, though, I’ve been stuck.  My thoughts have not moved down to my fingers and onto the page like they are so normally apt to do. 

In short, I’ve been in a mourning period. 

In mid-February, Sophie stopped breastfeeding altogether.  She was just over ten-months old, a respectable run some might say.  The fact that breastfeeding had been a struggle since she was just shy of four months old makes that ten month run seem downright amazing on some days.  However, on most other days it makes me sad.  When you want something for your child, when what you feel so strongly about is a struggle and cannot be accomplished, well, my tendency is to blame myself.

I know this is foolish.  I know she is fine.  She’s always been fine.  I’m the one who struggles with these things.

Beyond that, and I can only really talk about this in a peripheral sort of way, even now, is the fact that for about seven months I was really, really depressed. 

To feel so depressed in light of all these wonderful things happening in my life, at a time when the dream of finally moving into our first home was realized, a time when I could look at my beautiful and healthy and complete family and say, “we’re home,” was devastating to me.  How could I be depressed?  Why couldn’t I snap out of it?

Well, I didn’t.  Not for a long a time.  And it wasn’t something I could talk about when I was in the throes of it because it only made me feel worse, only made me feel like I should be able to wake up one day and “feel better.” 

Of course it’s not that simple.

I wasn’t prepared for the toll all this would take, either.  With Eli, I had a several-week period of “baby blues,” but between month three and four, when all the breastfeeding and sleeping and colic issues had smoothed out I started to feel somewhat “normal” again, finally felt some semblance of my former self. 

Sophie turned one last Friday.  Although I am finally emerging from a months-long fog of sleep deprivation and depression, I still don’t feel like myself, yet.  The difference now is I can see that I am making progress and this propels me forward, strengthens my attitude on a daily basis.  I know that one day, maybe soon, I will wake up and feel ever closer to… myself. 

It’s a difficult concept to explain to anyone that has never experienced it.

Sophie turning one has been a shock to my system.  Vinny and I were watching videos of her early months the other day, and in some ways it was as though I were seeing Sophie as a baby for the first time.  Truly seeing her.  I marveled over every coo, every little facial expression.

Then I cried.  A lot.

While I know at the end of the day she is fine, we’re all healthy and fine (thank goodness), and that I did the best job I could during her first year, it still pains me greatly that I wasn’t as present for her (and the rest of my family) as I wanted to be. 

Her first year is gone.  Gone.  And I feel like I am just now showing up to the party, just now being as present as I would like to be on a daily basis. 

When it hit me how much I missed, how much of her first year was spent on autopilot in an attempt to just get through the day, well, how can I not feel guilty about that?  I can never get those days back, no matter how much I long for them.  And I do.  So much.

So I’ve had to allow myself some time to be sad, to reflect, to think about what it means to be Milk Machine Mom.  When Sophie stopped breastfeeding I initially thought, “Well, I guess I need to find a new title.  I’m all dried up…”

But I’m not. 

I’m still here.  I’m still giving to my kids all day, every day.  Sure, in the early days I was a literal milk machine to those hungry babes.  But even once the boob juice stops running we are always giving and giving and giving to our children.  It’s what we do. 

And I’m back to it to the extent that I would like to be, finally.  I am grateful for a return of clarity, some occasional long-ish stretches of sleep (after three years of not sleeping through a night my body has needed to re-learn even this seemingly basic task, and it’s been slow going even on the best day), and most of all to a healthier mental state. 

During the worst of it, I had thought about closing up shop and shutting down the blog, but I still have words I would like to share with you all, and the comments and support I’ve gotten from so many of you propel me forward.  I’ve always thought of this space as a community for anyone who cares to join, and still think we always learn the most from each other.  So thank you for helping to create this little corner of the internet with which to share my experiences… I hope to share more with you, soon.