I don’t know how many times people have reminded me of this over the last few years. Both in relation to Jackson having a sick and dying sister and as it pertains to Strawbaby and her tumultuous first few years of life. Until recently, I just sort of accepted this statement as fact. On the surface it appears to be true – but lately, that statement hasn’t sat as well with me and this past weekend I finally figured out why.
With just a little more than four months until Normal Broken hits book shelves and mailboxes, marketing, aka the hustle, is revving up and my self-doubt and anxiety are tagging along for the ride. Self-promotion is sooo awkward, but why? Why does it feel so weird to tell people that I wrote a book, that I hope they buy it and to please tell others about it. My emotional over-analyzation has broken it down to two main factors:
It is officially summer which means little league summer travel season is in full swing. Not to be confused with spring rec ball or fall ball – summer baseball is a special kind of all consuming.
Baseball has been a common denominator throughout my life. Which is an interesting thing for someone who has never been described as athletic to say. But it’s true! And I’m forever grateful to my dad for kickstarting this love of baseball which I appreciate now more than ever.
“How to be a better support for the growth of those around me has long been the special object of my consideration, and yet, I am hesitant to offer anything more than observations from my own meandering experiences.” While reticent to offer advice, Bud Hager has taught me more than most - and by utilizing some of the most beautiful prose you have read in ages! Please enjoy this new piece from Bud.
It is a wild experience to watch your child grow older. To see them become more independent, which is the goal, of course, but still we grasp at the moments they still need us (or want us). To help with this transition, I got myself a permanent reminder of the little boy who swore he loved me more.
Strawbaby had a dance recital this week. Cue the sparkly costumes, dear in headlights expressions while watching their instructor for the next move, and parents with phones out like Swifties at a TayTay concert. This wasn’t Strawbaby’s first recital, she had one in December, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it at the time. I was too confused.
With Memorial Day approaching, this felt like the perfect time to share a post written for Inchstones by Paulette Bilby, a hospice chaplain. During the two months that hospice workers were in our home I learned the beauty of their work, helping our family prepare for a life without a physical Adelaide all while keeping her as comfortable as possible and explaining to us what was happening, what to expect and what Adelaide needed now. End of life is difficult, scary and emotional in all the ways you are well aware of, but we don’t have to do it alone.
I have long struggled with feelings of guilt. Give me a scenario, interaction or circumstance and I can usually find something that I said or did to feel bad about. I even feel guilt for feeling guilty. How effed up is that? It’s like a crazy guilt loop that I can’t escape. While the sources of my guilt spirals are immeasurable I have recently isolated one that I hope to use as an exit ramp… and ideally in time to teach these lessons to my emotional mini-me.
We’ve all heard the phrase “it takes a village to raise a child”. Well, it took becoming a mother before I realized just how true that statement is. Whether it’s carpooling to school events, lifting each other up with funny meme’s, or stepping in as the reliever when you witness your friend on their last nerve with their melting down toddler – it sooo takes a village. What I’m understanding now is how grieving a child takes a village as well.
Last week’s post got me thinking about exposing death to children and how those experiences mold them as they grow. Perhaps this was a bit more front of mind because Hayden’s House, the retreat home I attended several years ago that, “provides a safe, tranquil space for bereaved mothers, fathers, couples, children and families to heal and connect together through a variety of methods…” was forced to put their retreat home on the market by their HOA.
“Mommy! Mommy! Can you put your lipstip on me ?!” I put tinted lip gloss on Strawbaby once and have been regretting it ever since.
“When I’m done with my work, ok? Why don’t you draw a picture?”
Two minutes later…
“Mommy, look at my picture! It’s for baby Adelaide! Can I give it to her?”
And there it was. The conversation I knew we would have sooner or later was happening today at this very moment.
Welp, that springtime induced calm and happiness lasted a whole week before the storm clouds rolled in hot and heavy. By Monday morning I was answering for that week of fair weather motivated procrastination. Seriously, how does one family produce so much laundry? And why does sending my children to school result in me having to read and respond to a bajillion emails per week concerning said school?
