The End at the Beginning

In December of 2000, my life changed. I took a 180 degree turn from the way I was living and started on a new path. I was practically homeless. My clothing and other important things were stashed in the back of my Hyundai Accent hatchback.

I called some college friends and told them I needed help. They dropped everything and met me at the La Quinta Inn where I was crashing. I checked out, hands shaking, hoping my Amex would go through. It did. I followed them to their home and spent the next couple of days trying to figure out where I was going to land.

My dad decided to help me, one last time.

I found an apartment in Waukegan and settled in. I spent a lot of time in Palatine, but I was young an dumb and gas was cheap, so I didn't mind driving back and forth.

One Saturday night in January of 2001, I was headed to a gathering in Hoffman Estates. I was feeling anxious and made a phone call as I drove. I connected with Jacki and she talked to me as I drove. She suggested that when I got to the gathering, I should look for a woman named Karla.

When I got there, after the gathering had concluded, I sought Karla out. We chatted for a while and she invited me to her home in Huntley. Again, I was young and dumb and didn't have a very full social calendar.

I assumed Huntley must be at the edge of the known world and back in 2000, I wasn't completely wrong. It seemed far and remote, but I followed Karla to her home.

I don't remember a whole lot of that first night. I remember the sectional couch I crashed on. She let me borrow a shirt to sleep in and I got to meet her husband, Dave.

In the morning, I got to meet her kids. They were fairly young at the time. Tara was maybe 6 or 7, Kayla was 4 or 5, Joshie was 2 and Noah was a baby.

I want to say I made an instant connection with Joshie, but I'm not sure that's 100% accurate. I don't really remember the exact moment that we bonded, but over the next few months, I spent more and more time at their yellow house.

Joshie would announce to the house that Sue's green car was there. He was always happy to see me.

He had his struggles. I know what they are now, because I have two boys who struggle in the same way he did. He wasn't diagnosed back then, but he he had outbursts, he struggled with impulsivity, he had very set ideas about how things should happen.

But I also saw how much and how deeply he loved those around him. I saw that he was thoughtful and intelligent and sweet. He would seek me out at events. He felt comfortable with me. I changed his diapers and helped him get dressed for the day and feed him. Not every day, but when I was there, I helped out.

I remember an instance where there was a Thanksgiving day gathering. It was for a bunch of us and our families to come together before the holiday started. We were able to take a walk and visit with one another before facing what, for some of us, was a stressful day.

This happened every year, but the year I'm thinking of, Joshie wanted to hold my hand and walk with me. He didn't want to ride in the stroller, he didn't want me to carry him. He wanted to walk with me. I, of course, had different expectations of how the morning would go. I didn't have my own children yet, even though Joshie felt like a son. I remember being impatient, but when Joshie made up his mind about something, that was the end of it.

Everyone else walked at a normal pace and passed us until it was just Joshie and me, walking along on a crisp November morning.

I wish I could remember what we talked about, if we talked at all. I will never forget his little hand in mine, his feet hitting the walking path.

Over the years, as my life started to unfold, I spent less and less time at the yellow house in Huntley. I was busy dating my husband, working and trying to continue on my own journey. I would still see Joshie from time to time at different parties. It was good to see him and we would talk. He had a very distinct way of speaking that included a small stutter. Again, I don't know why this is something I remember, but it's stuck with me all these years later.

A bunch of us traveled to Cape Cod in 2003 for vacation. It was a mixed bag--some people had a great time, others didn't. Joshie and his family were there. One day, we all went to the beach together. Which one? Not sure. It had sand and the ocean.

We all settled in and laughed when Dave took a ride far out into the Atlantic on a floatie. The kids played and Joshie drifted over to us. He spent a lot of time digging in the sand. He would show different rocks he found to Brian, who would in turn tell him that every rock was a different fossil.

"What's this rock?," Joshie would ask.
"Oh, that's a sabre tooth tiger fossil," Brian would say with confidence.

The whole thing was comical and I remember telling Brian that Joshie was going to go to school and show off the "fossils" he found at the beach in Cape Cod.

Joshie explained his voyage to the Cape by saying that his family got on a plane, flew around in circles, landed, and then he and his family drove all the way to Cape Cod.

In the mornings, he would travel to the different cottages where people were staying. Liz remembers that he would ask her for "the ceweal that makes chocwate miwk." (Cocoa Puffs)

Again, not important things but these are the things that have stuck with me, all these years later.

Brian proposed to me and we started preparing for our wedding. We went to great lengths to make sure we involved people that had meant a lot to us over the years. Our flower girl was Jacki's daughter, Erika. We asked our friends' daughter, Allie, to help people with the guest book. The ring bearer? Who else but Joshie.

I was talking with Dave the other night and he told me that Joshie was so proud to be a ring bearer. My wedding is kind of a blur and I feel bad that I didn't take the time (or don't remember taking the time) to check on Joshie. It touches me that he was so proud. It affirms that I made the right choice.

As Brian and I started our lives together as a married couple, I lost touch with Joshie and his family. I would still see them from time to time, but the length of time between seeing him kept stretching.

A few years ago, I ran into Joshie at a Super Bowl party someone was hosting. He was in high school and talking about college. He wanted to pursue theater. I knew that he was active in the theater scene. I remember that I wanted to see him in something, but I could never get my act together to find out where or when he was performing. That and three small kids kept me busy enough that I never did get to see him on stage.

After that, I got to see him for his sister Kayla's high school graduation party. I arrived at the party late, which I regretted but also gave me a chance to visit with Tara, Kayla and Joshie at length.

We reminisced about the time we had spent together all those many years ago. We remembered the time we went to an Irish festival and Joshie had gotten away from us. It was terrifying for me and for Karla. I remember, or I should say, Tara helped me remember that when we found him, he was flanked by two police officers that were each holding a pint of Guinness. Now that I'm a parent, I can tell you that the terror I felt while we frantically searched for him meant that I deeply loved and cared for him.

I found out then that he had gotten a diagnosis of autism. There was a lot I wanted to know but felt awkward asking about. He would be graduating soon and I knew I would see him for that. When I mentioned I would see him at his graduation party, I remember him saying he hoped he would see me before then.

I did, in fact, see him for his graduation party. It was good to see him, but he was flanked by his friends and I felt awkward trying to make conversation with him. I had heard that he would be moving to Manhattan to pursue his love of theater. I was excited for him to have an opportunity to pursue his passion.

It never occurred to me to follow him on social media. When he graduated, I was just shy of 40. I figured the last thing he wanted was a minivan-driving mom to be following his comings and goings.

This past Saturday, Brian got a phone call. It wasn't at an odd time of day, but I could tell from his face and the way he was talking that it wasn't good news.

Joshie was gone. I won't get into the particulars of how he died. They are still investigating and it isn't my story to tell.

Having never lost a child, I can't speak to the level of grief Dave must be feeling. I can say, however, that I am broken at the loss of this young man.

I told him at Kayla's graduation party that he would forever be Joshie to me. I felt I had earned the privilege because I changed his diapers. He laughed at me and said it was okay. It feels funny to hear people talking about Joshua or Josh passing, because in my mind, I still see the tow-headed, curly-haired boy with big cheeks. I remember the times we snuggled together on his couch, or the times I comforted him.

Dave's family has seen an outpouring of love from the community that is humbling. Not everyone knew him intimately, but those that did remember him fondly.

Saturday night, I took Jeremy, Doug and Brooklyn over to Dave's house. So much of the house is the same and walking in, it felt like a long-overdue homecoming. I felt superfluous and couldn't figure out where I belonged or what I should do. So I did what I had learned to do at that house--be of service to those around me. I restocked the fridge with water, I made sure that Dave and Leeann sat and ate something, I reminisced, I cried, I hugged.

I spent the last couple of days finding Joshie on social media. I discovered that he was an activist, that he loved being in Manhattan and he loved being part of his community there. He has dealt with a tremendous amount of loss over the past year. I am not sure that he ever came to terms with all of it. Reading what he wrote, I saw maturity and wisdom, but also a little boy who had been hurt and was trying to make sense of all that had happened.

When we were over at Dave's house, I gave Jeremy my phone so that he wold be occupied. Doug was obsessed with Tara's dog, who really wasn't fond of Doug. They attempted to isolate the dog, but Doug is hard to dissuade when he's made a decision.

As we were leaving, I couldn't find Doug. One of the girls there told me he had been upstairs almost the whole time. When I went to find him, he was playing on Zach's Nintendo Switch. Zach explained later that in trying to isolate the dog, they had to find a way to distract Doug, so he gave him the Switch. I was touched by this small gesture. Here are kids dealing with a huge loss and yet they saw fit to be kind to my son, who is a little bit different. They could've tried to find me, but they worked it out. I was able to visit with and be of service to people without worrying about Doug getting into something he shouldn't.

I have felt like a zombie the past few days. I am torn because I want to be at Dave's house. I feel a draw to be there. At the same time, I want to give them the space they need to process and heal. The weather yesterday and today has been gloomy and that's not done much to help my mood. I cried a lot on Saturday and Sunday. I have teared up here and there in chatting about his loss with friends.

I struggle with being selfish and self-centered. I'm trying to find my spot in the ending to Joshie's story. I know I'm not an official part of his family, but I do feel like I was part of it for a while. I know many feel the same way. The thing about loss is that it lingers. There will be plenty of time to visit Dave and his family. The loss will still be as heavy in six months as it is now.

Zach is involved in theater. I have committed to myself that I will not miss a chance to see him perform. Talking with him the other night was great therapy. He looks a lot like Joshie and his mannerisms are similar. I don't want to intrude on his life, but I am going to do what I can to participate more actively.

Joshie's funeral is coming up this weekend. I can't even believe that it's happening. It's not the way things are supposed to happen. Parents are not meant to bury their children. I have been praying for this family. I hope that they allow God to knit back the pieces of their hearts. There will always be a piece that is missing, but I know that they will work hard to come together as a family and find a new way forward.

The Crying Game (Without the Surprise Ending)

I had a thought today. (I try to refrain from having too many, especially during the summer.)

Here’s what precipitated it. My dad loves sending me (and my mom and brother) articles to read. He does it many times throughout the day. I am an avid reader, but sometimes reading books with 4 kids is impossible. Articles are great because they are short but can be very impactful. My favorites are usually ones from the New York Times, one of my most favorite publications. 

But I digress. 

The articles can be about any and everything. In a day, he’ll send me an article about current events, something nostalgic, some scientific breakthrough, etc. I confess I don’t read all of them because I don’t always have time. 

One that he sent me was about Fred Rogers. I grew up watching Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. I have heard so many great things about Mister Rogers (or Mister Rog, as my brother referred to him). On Sunday, I happened to have a few moments and started reading the article about him. 

For reasons I don’t quite understand, the article moved me to tears. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but reading about how he interacted with both the author and just with people in general affected me a great deal. 

Recently, as I have battled mightily with depression, I have shed many tears. As the tears start to fall, I ask myself, “what is *wrong* with me? Why am I crying about (insert circumstance, person, place here).

Today, as I was lying down for a nap, a different thought occurred to me. 

“How wonderful that I am created that way. How wonderful that I am moved just by words on a screen.”

Years ago, when Brian and I were first dating, he took me to downtown Chicago. We started dating around Christmas time, and so the city was all lit up. We turned onto Michigan Avenue and as we did, the sight of all the trees decorated and lit up made me start crying. It was spontaneous. It was sincere.

I cry every single time I see Bekah dance. 

I cry about TV shows (when Lexie died, when Kevin lost his necklace at the girl’s house, when Michael Scott left to be with Holly).

I cry about military families being reunited.

I cry when deaf people get to hear again. 

I cry when men cry. 

I cry when I am frustrated because my kids’ clothes are on the floor (especially if I have asked them more than once, in a very Mary Poppins way, and refrained from asking them “what the actual fuck!”)

In short, I cry. It is how I am wired. It’s how the excess emotions escape my body. It’s not a defect, as the negative narrative in my mind would have me believe. 

Conversely, I laugh very easily. I would be useless at judging a stand-up contest, because I pretty much laugh at any and everything. I snort when I laugh heartily, and that’s when you know it’s really a party. 

I am fairly certain, as I write this, that I’ve written about this before, so I beg forgiveness for subjecting my readers to repetition. It bears mentioning, though, that sometimes there are long pauses between epiphanies. Sometimes, one needs to learn something over and over in order to have it really sink in. 

I watched an episode of Mister Rogers Neighborhood with my kids today. None of them immediately asked for more, but it was enjoyable, sitting with them and talking about the theme of the episode. It was such a simple show and yet so thought-provoking. It sparked some good conversation between Bekah and me. 

I would encourage you, if you need to slow down with your kids (and your brain will literally break if you hear “Baby Shark” one more time), to go to YouTube and find some full-length episodes to watch together. Turn off all other devices and just enjoy it.

Oh, and it’s okay if after that peaceful family moment, you lose your shit about the clothes on the floor. School’s starting soon, hang in there.

I Didn't Want to Write This

I do not want to write this post. My brain is screaming at me that I shouldn't write it, that people will think I'm crazy. My brain is using a lot of language right now that is dangerous.

It's using words like should, never, always, no one, everyone.

It's not been a bad day. I started the day by seeing some friends. It was good. I shared about how God answered my prayer yesterday. We went to a local beach and Doug, my 7-year-old, left the beach area, crossed a busy street (while waiting for the signal to say walk, thankfully) and walked across a parking lot (barefoot, because he didn't have time to put on his Crocs) to find our van.

A good samaritan saw him at the crosswalk. She has a son with special needs and her antennae were tweaked seeing such a young guy crossing a busy street on his own. She followed him into the parking lot and parked near the van. She knew that a mom was probably looking for him. After finally piecing together that he had gone to the van, I walked up to find her sitting there with him. My adrenaline levels were through the roof and my anxiety was not far behind.

As I shared this story with my friends this morning, I started crying. I stopped by my parents' house and chatted with my mom for a bit. I cried some more.

I went back to the beach today, without Doug. (He stayed home and watched TV while my husband worked.)

I had a very pleasant time at the beach. I met my friend and her kids. Our kids get along well. We get along well. She usually keeps me in stitches. We have a good relationship and she knows my struggles.

I left the beach, came home, had some coffee. I spent time mindlessly playing a game on my phone. It is what I do when I'm in a funk. It's not constructive. It's not edifying. It doesn't really serve me well, but it's what I do. I folded laundry.

Somewhere in the midst of all of that, those awful words started bombarding me.

I shouldn't feel this way.

No one is going to want to do business with me, I'm too crazy.

No one wants to hear that I'm struggling, especially if I was smiling just hours earlier.

I'm never going to get better.

I'm useless.

I'm worthless.

And on and on. The logical part of my brain, the one that eats all of it's veggies, exercises, drinks enough water, etc., is drowned out by this other narrative. I know that people care. I want to reach out but I feel exhausted. I haven't eaten today because I didn't feel hungry at the beach. By the time I came home, I didn't have the energy to make anything.

Sleep is still spotty. I am going in on Wednesday night to have a titration study for my bi-pap machine. I am hoping that if they can recalibrate my machine, I will be able to sleep more restfully.

For reasons that I can't understand, my kids insist on crawling into bed with me. They are not good sleep citizens. I am frequently fighting for blankets and real estate on my king-sized bed.

I am overwhelmed by my sons' disabilities this summer. Jeremy's anxiety has been through the roof, and it weighs on me. I feel responsible for his defective genes. I get exhausted in dealing with his tics and quirkiness. Seeing him battling anxiety triggers my own anxiety.

Doug has been a lot to handle. Living with him is like facing the world's most redundant press corps. I am bombarded by questions from morning until night. They are not thought-provoking questions. They are not questions that help me get to know him better. It's a series of questions that repeats, that make no sense, but that are all urgent.

"Mommy, what's a (insert dinosaur name here)?" (I confess, I've yet to figure out what kind of answer he's looking for here--does he want to know if they're a vegetarian or carnivore? Does he not know how to pronounce the name? Is it some kind of crazy catechism for which I've never received the primer?)

"Mommy, what's for dinner?" (The answer he wants to hear is chicken nuggets. We rotate through hot dogs, chicken nuggets, pizza and chicken breast. You would think that answering the question in his native tongue, English, would mean the question didn't bear repeating. You would be wrong.)

"Mommy, can I have (insert name of toy here) for Christmas/my birthday? (His birthday just passed and he was disappointed to find that he didn't receive a large pile of presents. He got one toy from Target and has been lobbying to get other dinosaurs to keep it company. Now that Christmas is looming on the horizon, my sense is that the requests will be coming in left and right.)

"Mommy, what are we doing today?" (This is another that gets stuck on repeat. Again, I answer in his native tongue and sometimes direct him to his brother or sister for follow-up.)

"Mommy, can I have (food item)?" (He seems to have been fitted with a hollow leg and tends to want to eat nonstop once his Ritalin has worn off. The problem is, if we don't keep tabs, he does things like eat five sticks of string cheese at a time.)

Those are the top five, but believe me when I say that there are a million variations and I am peppered with them every single day. I start the day answering in a Mary Poppins way. I end the day answering in a way that I would liken to The Beast (from Beauty & The Beast). It's not pretty. I feel guilty that I can't be Mary Poppins all day. I know that he is not asking me these questions to be malicious. I know that in a few short years, he won't want to be near me. I get that the days are long and the years are short. I totally get that.

The problem is, when my mental status is less than ideal, I have no patience. I start off the day stretched like an overworked rubber band. Every little bump tweaks me in just the wrong way. My kids don't understand this, and really they shouldn't have to understand. I try to let them know that I'm tired, or stressed, or sad. I want them to know when my pitcher isn't feeling full. For the most part, they have started to understand that I can't be "on" all the time, but at the same time, they are kids. They are not assholes, as I sometimes like to think. They are young and their brains are underdeveloped. They love me. They want to spend time with me. They don't get the intricacies of parenting kids with special needs.

I was driving home from dropping Bekah off at sewing class tonight and there was a passage from Harry Potter that came to mind. Harry has just had a disastrous date with Cho Chang and he and Ron are talking about it with Hermione. She tries to explain to them all of the feelings Cho is having--she is conflicted because Cedric died and now she's dating Harry, she's sad because Cedric died, she feels guilty, etc. Ron remarks that there's no way one person could be feeling all of those things at once.

And yet, that's what it's like in my brain. There are competing ideas. I feel crazy for being mostly fine one minute and then weepy the next. (I'm not saying I'm manic, I'm just saying that I'm crying intermittently and it doesn't seem to be as connected as I would like to what's going on around me.)

I put a lot of pressure on myself about how a 40-year-old mother of four should behave, feel, think, act and be. I am minimizing my time on social media because of what's going on in my head. That raises all sorts of concerns about the long-term efficacy of my social media presence. I want to engage with people, I want to share content, but I feel disingenuous if I'm in tears and posting about anything else than that I'm in tears. But I don't want to post that I'm in tears because I'm afraid people will be concerned. If people are concerned, then I will feel obligated to respond with a thank-you or something.

And on and on, ad nauseum.

I'll say again, I don't want to be writing this. I want to be whole. I want to not feel this way. I want to find the medication that works for me and have it work right the eff now. I don't want to alienate anyone. I don't want to burden anyone.

I plan on eating dinner, taking my medicine and crawling into bed at the earliest possible time. If necessary, I will lock my door until the kids are all in bed. I will listen to a meditation, turn down the AC, leave the TV off and pray for a solid night's sleep. I will reach out to people as I'm able, I will be as vulnerable as I feel safe being, I will keep just trying to put one foot in front of the other.

In Defense of Staying Home (or How I Learned to Embrace my Inner Introvert)

I usually hate having disclaimers on what I write, but I feel like I need to insert two here.

First, this post is not about fishing for love and affirmations from people. I have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to that.

Second, this is not about self-pity. I largely write as a cathartic exercise for myself. It always tickles me when people read what I write and then say what I have written resonates with them.

Today was a good day. I forced myself out of the house last night. I have been struggling to get out of the house lately. I make plans for Friday nights, which are tricky because Bekah has dance class. This typically means I have to find someone to drive her home. I am loathe to do this because all the other moms have their own children to drive home. I feel bad asking them to drive her home just so I can get out for a couple of hours. A recent generous gift of a used Toyota has given us more flexibility; Brian could, ostensibly, go get her after her dance class. I also hate that alternative because it means he has to pile the three kids into the van. Even more, it's about an hour after the process for bed has started.

All of this means that I make Friday night plans with the greatest of intentions. Then, as the week wears on, I move the plans from the definite to the maybe. Inevitably, other complications (sick children, comfy clothes, comfy couches) mean I definitely end up staying home.

This is not all bad. After years of staying awake into the wee hours of the morning, there is something new and healthy about staying home and being in bed by 10 o'clock. I am sleeping well these days, save an occasional trip to the bathroom or other odd wake-up.

At the same time, I am still mostly an extrovert. I say mostly because I chose to celebrate my 40th birthday in a very subdued way. I had a lovely trip to downtown Chicago with two close friends. No one was more surprised than I that I chose that over a big 40th birthday party.

I still love people in a very visceral way. I have been spending a lot of time trying to cultivate relationships with people. I love praying for people and encouraging people and listening to people. But as it turns out, I have been exhausted by people. Not in a bad way, mind you, but by the time Friday night rolls around, I have expended all of my psychic and emotional energy.

Last night's venture out among people was a great case study for me. I grudgingly asked another mom to bring Bekah home. When I didn't hear from her, I figured I was off the hook. I started to make my apologies to the friend who had invited me out. "Come for five minutes," she said. "Even if you're here for five minutes, it will still be worth it to see you." (Again, I recognize I have an embarrassment of riches in this department. This friend 100% meant it and I knew she did.)

In the past, once I was out, I was out. I just went with it and stayed until I closed the place down. Last night, as I was jogging into my friend's apartment (it's a long drive and I'm working hard to hydrate and I have had four kids, so yes, I was jogging), I decided that I would stay for an hour.

In that hour, I had an absolute blast. I got to catch up with some people, hear a hilarious story or two (which was only hilarious in last night's context--at church, there would be crickets and people clutching their pearls), get a world-class hug from my friend and have a nice drive on a pleasant evening.

I was home by like 9:30 and asleep by 10:00. It was, in short, the perfect evening.

The struggle I'm having today is one that I have long struggled with--I am not everyone's best friend. (Again, this is not about self-pity, this is me realizing I'm acting like a punk toddler.) The line that's been running through my head is based on a popular meme--"stop trying to make everyone happy, you're not chocolate."

This is where Facebook does what it is supposed to do, which is show highlights from everyone's lives. It's not a full and accurate portrayal of what people are feeling. It's not demonstrating everyone's insides--it's highlighting their outsides.

I have such a good time wherever I end up. It is easy for me to laugh and I like to make other people laugh. I do my best to make small talk with anyone and everyone. I know a little about a lot of things, most of which are not important to the vast majority of the world. Aside from placing second and third in trivia competitions, my proficiency in small talk is directly related to my obsession with unimportant minutiae.

Being a mom can be lonely, but I feel I've done a good job cultivating a community around me. The problem is, there are droughts with hanging out. It recently took three weeks to have a play date with a friend and her daughter. In the meantime, we had a fever that traveled through our house. It stopped me from getting out very much at all. I had to cancel a few dates.

And that's how I find myself, on a Saturday night, up past my bedtime, writing about how I'm feeling a little melancholy but also a little ridiculous. (And also having had an epiphany that being out for about an hour is absolutely okay. I can summon the energy to get off the couch for an hour, laugh, impress people with my useless trivia knowledge, and be in bed by 10. Cause, you know, I'm 40. Ain't no one expecting me to be wild anymore.)

Practically Imperfect in Every Way

Over the past few years, I have started holy week not feeling it. I just haven't felt what it looks like other people are feeling, celebratory, hopeful, contemplative.

I had a setback with my health journey back at the beginning of the year. A snafu with my scale led to a readjustment of goals. For whatever reason, I have struggled to find the same rhythm I had before the snafu. 

I started working out more regularly, though because of what I'm doing, exercise is not the punishment it used to be.I have enjoyed lifting weights and running because I'm not doing it to counterbalance the food I've eaten.

At the same time, what has ended up being due to a shifting of my IUD turned into a month (February) where I had three periods. It was an emotional month and I know that contributed to my mental status.

I met with a friend this past Thursday and had an epiphany. I likened losing 50 pounds to someone who is clearing a horde out of their house. It has felt good, but it represents a lot of work. Further, I am finding that clearing out the horde has led to me rediscovering emotions I thought I had buried.

So coming into this year's holy week, I felt drained. I spent the week fighting off a migraine. It culminated on Wednesday night with ocular disturbances, nausea and light sensitivity. It was unpleasant and exhausting. It's been a long time since I've had such a severe migraine and I forgot that it used to take me days to recover.

We had an unexpected tragedy happen at the beginning of the week and this caused a bevy of emotions to be unleashed. (I don't have the energy to get into it on top of the fact that it's not my story to tell. I hate being vague about it, that's not normally my style. I apologize for not being more specific.)

All in all, I arrived at Good Friday feeling beat-up and exhausted. I did my best to practice self-care. I still worked out, I ate according to my protocol, I spent time in church basements. I let a few people in on what was happening and released myself from the obligation to be "Amazing Sue" to everyone else. 

My church had several Easter services. Our plan had originally been to split and have Brian, Doug and Jeremy go on Saturday night, when the Special Friends room was to be open. Then the girls and I would have met up on Sunday morning with my parents.

We decided at the last minute to try and all go to the Saturday service. Doug, however, upon learning of our plan, got anxious and balked. We have learned that for us, forcing Doug to do something doesn't end up well for anyone. We tried to coax him with the promise of a treat, but ultimately he decided he would rather stay home with Brian.

I was disappointed. My dad, upon seeing me at church and learning that Doug and Brian were at home declared, "that's called real life." And he was right, but there was still disappointment that my family couldn't have the picture-perfect Easter picture, all of us dressed up. (Well, I was dressed up but wearing sneakers, because I have four kids and Brooklyn needed dress shoes, so she got them but I had sneakers.)

Our family is just not the picture of normal and I understand and mostly accept that. We don't do organized sports--no baseball, soccer, football. We don't go to theme parks, I think it would be a disaster for us. We don't travel very much because just trying to provide for the basics for four kids is equivalent to trying to travel with a family of four.

These are all things that God has helped me to embrace. I love our family and I love our normal. We quote movie lines to each other all day. We are sarcastic. We love to read. We like to joke around. 

And the beauty of the message I heard at church yesterday (which was a bit odd because we were celebrating Jesus' resurrection before he would have technically risen from the grave) is that God didn't come into the world to condemn the world. He came to save it. For me, that means he came to save someone like me, who doesn't do devotions with her kids every day, who hasn't colored Easter eggs in years, who used tissue paper instead of grass in the Easter baskets because I did my Easter shopping on Saturday and there was no grass at Jewel.

As a woman, I cling to the fact that Jesus died on the cross for men AND women. He loved (and loves) us all, just as we are. He doesn't require us to get dressed up to come and see him. He wants us to approach him just as we are. 

The single thing that speaks the loudest to me about his crucifixion is what happened to the curtain in the temple. There was a heavy curtain in the temple that separated the holy of holies from the rest of the temple. Only certain people were allowed behind the curtain and certainly none of those people were women.

When Jesus died, that curtain (think more a velvet tapestry from the theater) was ripped in two, from top to bottom. In dying, Jesus was saying that he was allowing everyone to approach him. There were no longer the long list of rules and rituals. We were all allowed into that holiest space.

I am also reminded that my feelings are not always the best tellers of truth. My perception is flawed, deeply, and I struggle with comparing myself to others. I have wanted to write this post for two days, but kids. I am exhausted from being at home with them 24/7 for the past week. 

But I knew I had to write this.

If you're anything like me, you are scrolling through FB and lamenting that your Easter doesn't look like anyone else's. Our family enjoyed chicken nuggets (Jeremy, Doug and Brooklyn) and salmon, broccoli and sweet potatoes (Me, Brooklyn, Brian and Bekah). We don't have a big extended family and we don't celebrate with them (we haven't for a few years). The Easter bunny put Halloween candy in the baskets because he overbought at Halloween. (The blessing there is that we were able to preserve it and not touch it since October, no small feat, but I attribute that to my new eating plan and Plexus.) We didn't dye eggs. 

We had a great Easter, though, because we were able to reflect on the sacrifice that was made on our behalf. I am so humbled by the love God showed us by sending his Son to die on the cross for us. I am humbled because even a day before he was crucified, Jesus asked for the cup to be taken from him. He knew what was going to happen and even so, he struggled with it. He did it anyway, but he struggled with it. That is such a human attribute, to struggle, but with such a divine twist, to do it anyway. That has been the overwhelming theme of my life the past couple of months. 

I hope that as the year continues to unfold, God will deal with me and my expectations. They get me every time. I am doing better at scrolling through FB mindlessly. Turning off notifications has changed my life in a dramatic way. I am still on my phone more than I probably should be, but it is much better than it used to be.

I am grateful for my faith, which has buoyed my spirits over the past week. I am also grateful for friends and family, near and far, that continue to demonstrate God's love to me through their words and deeds. 

MOTN (Middle of the Night)

I am not normally awake at 3 AM anymore. This was going to be a FB post, but I thought it would go faster if I sat at the keyboard and typed.

A couple of years ago, I was very angry with God. There was a lot going on in my life that was not great. We were struggling as a family. We had a lot of illness. There was just a lot of external circumstances that weren't great.

I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. I spent a lot of time shaking my fist at God and asking,
"why us?"

Over the past few months, as I have set about trying to change the way I think, I have come to discover that life is about 50/50. Half is good, half is not so good. I have worked hard at taking my emotions out of play when it comes to eating. I have learned how to work on the thoughts that are negative. Sometimes, it means I just let them go. Other times, I have to combat negative thoughts with truth.

In any case, our lives in general have gotten less chaotic. We are not living without problems, but the problems we have today aren't awful.

I have stayed up late a few nights lately, mostly to read. I love to read a good book, but I'm awful at pacing myself. John Sandford novels, in particular, take hold of me and preclude me from putting them down.

Last night, to remedy the previous night's late hour for bedtime, I went to bed early. I was asleep before 10 PM. I was excited to get a good night's sleep.

It's a busy week. Bekah, who dances with Summers Academy of Dance, is performing in the Nutcracker this weekend. She has been preparing for months and is very excited. We have drilled into her the importance of going to bed early and getting plenty of rest. The other three kids all got diagnosed with strep over the weekend. She seemed to sidestep that and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Alas, though, she sidestepped the strep but has fallen to the stomach flu. She woke me at 1 AM to tell me that she had thrown up.

In the past, this would have set off a sequence of events and feelings. I would have been angrily posting on FB or messaging someone or feeling frustrated.

Not one of those things happened.

I navigated over to a group on FB that is one of my tribes of prayer warriors. I posted there asking for prayers. Brian woke up and we prayed together. I didn't freak out or get angry or anything. I surveyed the hallway bathroom where she had missed the toilet. I shut the door and went back to bed.

Then I realized, dried-up vomit is harder to clean than new vomit. So I went downstairs, gathered supplies and cleaned the bathroom. While I was on my knees scrubbing, it occurred to me that I could be praying for people, so I did. After getting everything cleaned up, I realized I didn't have any heavy whipping cream for my coffee in the morning. Brian is headed to Kenosha for a meeting first thing.

So at 2:50 AM, I headed to Jewel. I grabbed some flowers for Bekah, in case she misses her performance this weekend. I remembered that I have a friend celebrating a birthday on Saturday. I got her a card and before I left Jewel, I mailed it off.

I am not typically a sunshine, rainbows and unicorn girl. I have been crabby and short-tempered this week. I don't normally see the glass as half full.

But here's the thing. I feel confident that she will perform this weekend. I have faith that this is a short-acting bug. At the same time, I have absolute peace that if she doesn't perform, it's going to be okay. There will be so many opportunities for her to be in the Nutcracker in the coming years.

I feel this overwhelming sense of peace that I can only attribute to God. I don't see a point in getting all riled up. I hope no one else in the cast falls ill. I hope I can post on Sunday that another Nutcracker is in the books.

I had to write this because I am so baffled by all of this. I feel almost like I'm having an out-of-body experience. This is not fundamentally who I am, and yet I am so comfortable feeling like this.

I am not even sure I will feel like this in 12 hours (or like 4, when my alarm goes off). It might be a very rough day, where I am crabby and short-tempered and get bad news. But I'm not going to live there. I'm going to live in the feelings that I'm having now.

If you're reading this, please say a prayer for Bekah's speedy recovery. I cleaned every surface in the bathroom and every other surface that she could have touched. I have washed my hands and realize there's nothing more I can do but wait and see. Thank you for taking the time to read this and for praying!

Hump Day, Schlump Day

I have been exhausted since I woke up this morning.

Doug's sleep continues to be an issue, which means it's an issue for me. He falls asleep with no major problem, but then wakes up around 2-4 AM, as in wide awake, talking and playing. Today I met with his psychologist who tested him. (I found out at the appointment that he does have ADHD and will need medication. Now the next hurdle is to get him in to see a child psychiatrist, but I've got an appointment set for January.)

Anyway, I woke up to use the bathroom and discovered Doug in bed with us, playing with a plastic shovel. I don't know what he was playing (there are a lot of great narratives in his head) and I didn't care to ask. I did my thing, came back to bed, put my mask back on and started watching YouTube.

Here's the thing. 2-4 AM is not a great time of day for me. My brain, which up to that point in the evening has been playing crazy things in my head. Sometimes those dreams wake me up in a panic or cause me to feel very unsettled.

But once I'm awake, it's like the deejay in my brain switches. It goes from crazy to the oldies. What I mean by that is, I start reliving any painful, embarrassing, uncomfortable experience I have had at any time over the past 39 years of life on Earth. It plays in slow-motion, there's instant replay and even color commentary.

Just for fun, it's also a time when my brain likes to play the ever-popular "What If?" game. This means that I lie in bed and consider all the awful things that could happen. I worry about concrete things, like what if the bathtub from our hallway bathroom falls into the TV room. I also worry about emotional things, like what will happen if the person I said I was going to talk to doesn't talk to me or decided (s)he hates me?

So, really, good, good times. So much fun.

When I finally drift back to sleep, it is under the veil of the negative feelings I get from playing these two games (I hardly ever win). Any sleep I get is minimal and fractured.

But I'm a mom and so I don't get to sleep in or parent from my bed. I have to get up and get going right away, which I did this morning.

The problem was, the morning took a sideways turn before I could even get downstairs.

Jeremy, who is normally dressed immediately upon awakening, was still not dressed at 8:10, when I descended the stairs. I knew this because I heard Brian (my husband) shouting at him at least once to get dressed. I had to yell at him two more times before 8:30 (when my kids leave for school).

Meanwhile, he let me know that he lost his medicine. When pressed, he couldn't tell us what had happened or which medicine he had lost. I called Brian back down (he manages Jeremy's medicine) to determine what medicine Jeremy had lost.

At the same time, I have to get out of the house around 8:30 to get Doug to his therapy (play therapy) appointment. Doug has come downstairs, but is in a pull-up and groggy. I employ Bekah to help me distribute lunch boxes to everyone's backpack. I manage to send her off to school. Jeremy, who has been yelled at about a dozen different times, ends up with a nosebleed. I send him off to school with a wad of tissues and a directive to seek out the nurse if he needs her.

Then it's time for me to take Doug. This means I have to change Brooklyn's diaper, get a coat on her, get her in her carseat, get my lemon and ice water, get graham crackers and get in the van.

The therapy appointment went okay, but afterwards Doug left the building without waiting for me, which didn't make me happy. I dropped him off at school and headed home.

I had volunteer duties at Jeremy and Bekah's school today. I hadn't showered since Sunday (possibly Monday, but I really think it was Sunday), so I felt like I needed to shower. I figured I'd put something on TV for Brooklyn, sneak up, take a shower and dry my hair (cause it's cold outside). (Um, I am shaking my head at 11:00 AM me for thinking I would have time to dry my hair. Bless.)

After showering, I went downstairs and decided I should unload and reload the dishwasher. No biggie, takes me hardly any time. Except that there was standing water in the bottom of my dishwasher. Like, a lot. No biggie, I'll run the garbage disposal, it's probably backed up. Nope, that does nothing. So I start scooping water with a ladle into a bowl and pouring it into the sink. Which is fine, until water starts spilling out of the cabinet directly under the sink. In no time flat, there is water starting to spread all over my kitchen floor.

It is now 11:30. I need to be at school at 11:45. I have no time for this horsecrappery. I urgently call Brian down, we empty the entire cabinet and start trying to dry it out. I am trying to gauge how long I have to wait with him until I can discreetly leave for school.

(Luckily, we have a plan with Nicor where things like this are covered, so we just have to call and start a claim. The process is tedious but manageable and far cheaper than having to pay for crises out of our own pocket.)

After volunteering, I head to see the psychologist who evaluated Doug. Then I find out the plumber can't come out until Tuesday.

You guys.

I cook in my kitchen almost every single day. I make lunches for the kids, I make myself a salad and I cook dinner. I make bread. I make sauce. In short, my kitchen is not for show. I definitely am a heavy kitchen user. I can't wait until next Tuesday to discover the source of the issue (that's not even to fix it, it's just for them to come out and figure out what went wrong).

As I'm leaving the doctor's office, I notice that the gas light has come on, indicating that I am low on fuel. I know Brian has to take Bekah and a friend to dance class, but guys, I'm not kidding. I was so tired and I hadn't eaten lunch and so I just went home. I figured he could work out the gas situation on his own time.

I got home, had lunch and laid down for like 25 minutes.

The rest of the day went off without a hitch, but the string of bad luck made me seriously doubt we were done having our hats handed to us.

Now, I felt down in the dumps and mopey all day long. I can normally rally and send an encouraging text to someone to jump start my own good feelings, but today I just didn't have it.

It is 9:48 and I am absolutely exhausted and sleepy.

The big victory, though, is that none of these bad things that happened caused me to eat outside of my protocol. I felt bloated and gross for part of the day, but even that didn't make me feel poorly enough to dive into the kids' buckets of Halloween candy. So guess what, Wednesday? Suck it, cause I didn't let you completely defeat me.