Scared

For some unknown reason, I felt it necessary today to inform Charlie that she has to go to the doctor's tomorrow for a check up.  Perhaps I have a contact high from all of the pot smokers in our chemical dependency groups at work.  Or maybe I am just finally officially  losing it.  Any parent of a child knows that you don't tell a kid when they are going to the doctor's before, oh, 20 minutes after the appointment is over.  You get the question:

Am I going to get a shot?

Now before today, this question was not one posed by Charlie.  She was still oblivious enough to life to equate doctor with shots.  Unfortunately, since I am either Satan's right hand man or the best parent ever, depending on where you fall on the whole immunization argument, the last visit to the doctor was to get her a flu shot.  So really, this was a.) a valid concern, and b.) probably age appropriate since she is starting to form memories.

Shit.  Guess I can't hide the dead bodies in front of her anymore. (Insert frownie face here.)

At any rate, I had a decision to make here.  I could choose to parent responsibly and tell her the truth.  Or I could lie through my teeth and just bribe her with lots of chocolate to get her to the office without feeling like I came out of a cage fight: bruised, battered, and emotionally broken.

I opted to be semi-responsible and told her what I know.  Or don't know, since I don't have the immunization schedule memorized.  It would take up space in my brain that I need for other important things.  Like random quotes from Monty Python and the recipe for Brandy Slush.  I have no clue if that child is going to get poked tomorrow.  I could look it up, but that will cut into important time pinning things on Pinterest that I will never attempt to make.

I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was afraid.  She had that tension about her, that uncertainty.  I took her hand and told her something that I have told all of my children:

"Tomorrow at the doctor's...I will hold your hand and when you are scared, you squeeze it and I will tell you I love you."

This was something I had picked up years ago, from some touchy-feely article about a woman who's mother used to tell her something similar.  It ended with her holding her mother's hand as she was dying of cancer and saying the same thing.  It was a lovely story about how life came full circle, etc., etc.

Don't worry; I am not dying of cancer.  Heaven doesn't want me and Hell is afraid of me.

For some reason, that sentiment has stuck with me all these years.  It is not minimizing what the other person is going through.  It is acknowledging that it sucks.  That there is precious little that can be done about it.

It offers the one thing that I can do:  Be there.  Be a physical presence.  And love you, and tell you so.

Charlie looked skeptical about this.  I could see that in her eyes too.  So simple.  Every time I squeeze?  You'll tell me you love me?  We practiced in bed tonight, her lying under the 10 (not exaggerating) blankets clutching Doggie in one arm and my hand with hers.  She would squeeze.  "I love you".  Squeeze.  "I love you."  Over and over again.  The rhythm began to soothe her.  It was something she could control.  If she choose not to squeeze, I said nothing.  It was all about her and her needs.

I told her, "Being brave does not mean you are not scared.  It means doing what you have to do."  She nodded sleepily and rolled to her side.  So trusting that it would be OK.  She had what she needed.

When do our needs start to become so complex?  How many of our hurts can be solved by a simple interaction like that?  Squeeze.  "I love you".  If only life were that simple.

For a moment, I was seriously jealous.  I want my life fixed that easily.  Squeeze.  "I love you."  Problem solved.  But why can't it be?  What stops it from being fixed that easily?  There is not much that can't be fixed, soothed, or resolved by the knowledge that I love and am loved.

It is far too easy to forget that.

Lucky

I have the craziest luck sometimes.

I decided to start out 2014 with a raging sinus infection and ear infections in both ears. This developed after spending less than 18 hours in a house with wood burning heat and no nasal spray for me to use. And also because Sjogrens disease is a fucker and dries out my respiratory tract, and 'cause the meds I am taking lower my immune system.   All of this caused a sinus infection bad enough to make one side of my nasal cavity swell almost shut and to give me ear infections that make the doc say "ew. Nasty." when she looks in my ears.  I like to do the new year up right, yo.

Back to luck. The weather gods also elected to be fuckers and yesterday dropped a shit ton of snow. I no longer have a four wheel drive vehicle cause I finally gave in to the need for a kid hauler where I can separate into different rows as needed. Great for maintaining my sanity and reducing alcohol consumption; bad for getting out of 6 inches of snow plus drifts.  Basically, I was not able to go to the doctor yesterday.

Today I called and got an appointment as we were shoveled out. I was relieved as I was about to take some Sudafed and that shit makes me feel so on edge...totally understand the whole crank but thing. I hopped into the van and out to the appointment. It was a half an hour away...but no big deal, right?  I mean if I was gonna have to go to Urgent Care that is about 30 minutes to drive, right?  Same distance?  Go to the doc, get the prescription, and swing into the drugstore on my way home. Be back in time for lunch, right?

Wrong.

I am going down a hill when the car starts to drive weird. I'm all "WTF?" And look at my gauges. Nothing wrong. Then I look up and see low air pressure. So I pull over and get out. Low air pressure my ass!  How about a completely fucking flat tire?  Now is not the time for mildly put warnings, van!  Why weren't you screaming "pull over dumbass yo tire flat!"

So I try to call AAA.  Line is busy. Ok understandable with the weather and all.  Call every other person I know who could change the tire for me. Nope. Now before you get all "why didn't you change it yourself?"  you should know it is also -3 at this time. Plus there is snow in the ground and I am a big old wuss.  Plus I am sick and all I want to do at this point was get home and take a nap.

I finally (after about 30 minutes on hold and after asking my hubby to come out) speak to someone and she says someone will be out in about an hour.  Awesome!  Charles arrives and gets to work. Even better!  I can get home and nap!  Yay!

Or not.

The spare tire won't release. Charles wiggles and jiggles. We consult and re-consult the owner's manual.  The fucking tire will not come off of whatever is holding it into the bottom of the van.

By now I am freezing and, with the urgency that only people who have given birth know, I have to pee. I get into the truck Charles brought along, but because I am a bit of an environmentalist at heart, I don't turn it on. I do get a call from AAA that says someone will be there in 15 minutes. Yay!

Thirty go by.  I call again and am given a new ETA. Apparently what my infection-riddled ears heard as 15 was actually 50.  Ok, still they should be here soon right?

Wrong.

Another hour. I call again.

The tow truck broke.the.fuck.down.

I really wish I was making this up.

By now I have to pee to the point where it is literally all I can think about. Like the panic attack I was trying to have when they told me about the tow truck breaking was overshadowed by the intense pressure on my bladder. I decide I am going to have to pee on the side of the road.

Good thing I did because it was another 2 hours before they got there. Bad thing was...I peed so long, hard, and much that it was splashing up on my jeans and I reeked of urine by the time the towing company got there.

At this point I did not even care. It is like that point after delivering a child...you have no modesty. You'd show your vagina to anyone if you thought they'd get you out of the situation you were in. When that man finally arrived, I climbed right up into his warm truck.

And cranked the heat. Screw the environment; I was cold!

Happy New Year!  Hope this is not a taste of the year to come!!!

Letters

As I was driving home from work tonight, I got to wondering what ever happened to those letters that you use to get from certain people around Christmastime...you know, the vaguely brag-y letters extolling all of the wonderful things their family accomplished over the year while you are all over here like, "Uh, I paid my gas bill on time! Go me!"  Then I realized that all that has gotten replaced in our instant gratification society by such things as Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. Don't ask me what made me think of this...my mind is truly a wondrous mystery sometimes.  I then got to thinking about what my letter would say if I were to write one...which, let's be honest here, would never be likely as I can't be arsed to write out Christmas cards...Here you go.  Welcome to my mind:


Dear Bitchez,

Hello all from tropical Ohio, ha ha!  It is sure wonderful to live in a climate where you can be ready to go swimming in the morning and shoveling snow in the evening!  Gives the ol' sinuses a great work out and makes it super fun to figure out what the hell to dress the children in so you aren't judged by other parents!

The girls are all doing fabulously, despite their parents' best efforts to completely fuck up their lives.  Elizabeth is 16 now (insert cliched, tired joke about getting off the roadways...)  She does in fact have her license and is a fantastic bundle of emotional lability, neediness, and temper tantrums when she does not get her way.  Living with a teenager is super fun and fantastic!

Alexis is dancing competitively now, which according to some means that she will learn bad things such as confidence, physical fitness, and ownership of her body.  At least until she is offed by some deranged murderer or something because as a parent I clearly lack any capability to teach her safety rules since I let her dance in competitions!

Charlie has not killed anyone, that I know of at least.  She is a fantastic bundle of emotional lability, neediness, and temper tantrums when she does not get her way ha ha HA OMG I have a preschooler and a teenager in the house at the same time someone hold me until it is over PLEASE!!!

I am working at a place that believes firmly in things such as micromanaging, employee burnout, and lynching whistle blowers and people who engage in their own critical thinking.  It is super good for my emotional and mental health in the way that it is super healthy to allow Mike Tyson to teach anger management.  I also decided recently to greatly reduce my intake of gluten as I feel pretty strongly that it can be the devil.  I also recently completed the whole30, which totally makes me better than you somehow.  But don't worry!  I haven't descended completely into the bottomless pit of tree-hugging hippiness, despite making my own laundry soap and bread as well!  I still firmly believe in the power of self-medicating with alcohol and chocolate and am not above seeking out Xanax as needed!

Charles is still working a lot.  He often times has this look in his eyes...I wouldn't quite call it despair...but let's be honest here, he lives with four females.  He spends a lot of time with our (male) dogs.

Speaking of!  They are doing well as well.  Spartacus still tends to emotionally eat.  Actually, anytime food is presented he has an emotion and needs to eat...so maybe he just really likes food.  Maximus is as dumb as ever and tends to flop over where ever you push him down...not that I have tested this or anything.  Deogie loves to try to hump the cat, which resulted in some super cool sex talks with the little girls!  We also have fish upstairs, but really does anyone count fish as actual pets?

I can't wait to see what kind of new adventures come for 2014 with my family.  Hopefully nothing involving the legal system or any form of bankruptcy!

Have a Merry Christmas!

Laura, Charles, Elizabeth, Alexis, and Charlie


Now THAT, bitchez...that is an honest letter.   I may look into sending that out this year.  Eh, who am I kidding? 

Shopping

I have written before about how Thanksgiving is the red headed cross-eyed stepchild of the family of holidays.  I'm a little irked about the whole opening stores up during Thanksgiving thing as half the fun of Black Friday is dragging your ass out of bed at ungodly hours.  It is bragging rights really and if you go right from the turkey to the shopping I am so not impressed.  Now, going from the turkey to bed THEN getting up to brave the weather and the crowds...that's 'Merican, bitchez.

I don't know that I will be buying too terribly much on Black Friday anyways this year.  Partly because there is nothing advertised that appeals to me.  And partly because I am broke as fuck.  OK, mainly because I am broke as fuck.  I am not using credit cards anymore for a variety of reasons (mainly because I am broke as fuck and don't wanna get broker) so Christmas is cash this year.  Which really, probably should have been happening all along anyways but there is probably a reason I didn't go into finance.  Mostly because I really like to torture myself at work so I go for the high stress, low paying jobs like working in a bar,  or a day care, or being a therapist at a mental health agency.  And honestly, there is not much difference between the three most days...

I digress.  I am refusing to go out shopping on Thanksgiving.  I have way too much wine to drink and I refuse to cut it short!  Plus there is pie.  I just finished the Whole30, and goddammit I am making really poor food choices that day!  Even if I will feel like I am 90 years old the next day, just in time for me to get all the Christmas decorations out and put them all up.

Yes, Thanksgiving, I have not forgotten that the whole point of you is gluttony and possibly apoplexy. Or wait...isn't it celebrating one of the last gestures of goodwill towards the native tribes before we forcibly removed them from their homes and into generations of confusion and despair?  You know...kinda like the big businesses that are exploiting the workers who rely on these jobs because the economy tanked because of poor financial choices of the very big businesses who are now telling these workers to shut up and be grateful to have a job because you know the economy sucks and we are saving you from yourself by giving you a job...in a remarkably similar fashion to when we told these native tribes that we were going to change their savage ways and save them from themselves?

Guess its not so un-American after all.  And also, maybe I should have gone into finance.  But I don't want that to be my America.  And I can't fathom ruining anyone else financially but myself.  So I'll stay a therapist.  And stay home and drink my wine and wait till Friday to spend money I don't have.

At least I get to do it with my family.

16

Dear Elizabeth,

Holy Fuck.  You are the same age I was when I had you now.

I look at you and I see so much potential it brings tears to my eyes.  You are truly a fantastic human being and the fact that I have not totally fucked you up beyond all recognition is a testament to who you are as a person.  The odds were against us...young, unwed mother who still had to finish growing up herself.  Systems that were in place to allegedly help but that ended up trying to drag me down.  Haters and doubters, some in my own family, who were convinced that we would fall flat on our faces and were just waiting to point and say "I told you so".

They are still waiting.

Some people look at teen mothers and think, "Oh boy.  What a mistake."  That, my love, you never were.  You were never an inconvenience or a burden.  You were the one thing that saved me from myself.  Because of you, I was forced to become a better person.

We have had our fights.  Good Lord, we have had our fights.  There have been some doozies...but...There has never ever been a time when I regretted you.  Ever.  Every single person that I talk to about you thinks the world of you.  They all see you for the amazing person you are.  You are beautiful inside and out.  Don't ever forget that.

There will come times in your life when you won't feel beautiful.  When society will tell you you aren't (insert adjective) enough; when guys will reject you for whatever reason, when you get into a fight with your parents, your friends bicker with you, you have a rough day at work...but please please please promise me that you will always remember that you are so much more than you are feeling at those times.  That life has its ups and downs, but that you are always strong enough to climb the hills.

And remember very hard:

You are my sunshine.
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are gray.
You'll never know dear
How much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away.

Love,
Mamacakes

Raining

Mommy!  Moooooommmmmmmmyyyyy!!!

I look up from cooking, alarmed.  It is never a good thing when your children come running in from outside screeching like that.  I go over to the mud room and notice that it has just let loose, pouring down rain.  Relief enters my heart.  THAT is why they are screaming for me.  I open the door and Charlie and Alexis come in, laughing and shaking off the rain.  Charlie looks up at me, grinning.

"Mama, I was running in from the rain, did you see me Mom?  It was TOTALLY AWESOME!!!"

I couldn't help but think about how had that been me caught in the rain, the ensuing rage would have been of apocalyptic proportions.  I would have been pissed about getting wet, about the sensation of having damp clothes against my body, wet hair, and cold feet.  I would not have laughed at having to run in from playing.  I would not have had a first thought of it being totally awesome.

When was the last time that I danced in the rain?  The answer to that is probably never, though I do have a memory of playing in the puddles in the streets after heavy rains and playing in the one spot in the driveway that held water after my father washed the car.  The idea there is the same though...taking an awful situation and making the best of it.

This brings to mind the fundraiser I am running for JJ.  The number of people who are being so exceedingly generous simply astounds me.  It is amazing and I cannot think about it without getting choked up.  People who do not even know JJ are donating.  Something good out of something awful.

My challenge, then, is this.  What can you do to take a bad situation and make it better?  Not good, mind you.  Nothing good comes out of getting caught in the rain, or from having cancer, or any of the other myriad things that are awful in the world.  What can you do to make it better?  Dance in the rain.  Give to a stranger.  Pay it forward somehow.

The little things add up.  Change starts with the individual and vibrates outward.  Make some noise and stop going with the flow.  If everyone thought about someone else for just a little bit, what a difference that would make.  Will it eliminate all of the crap, the diseases, the storms?  No.  This is the world we live in and that we have been given.  All that comes with the territory.  We can only change what we do.

Dance in the rain.

Stitches

So continuing the streak of semi-annual ER visits for Charlie, we made a run out to the hospital last night.  Charlie was riding on a scooter (not a motorized one, for the record...a good old fashioned get your exercise and do your part to stay healthy one) and fell and hit her head on the handlebars and got a lovely gash.   It was one of those that was small, but deep.The stupid thing kept re-opening, plus it was in her hairline...I was really uncertain if it would need stitches but luckily my mother (a former nurse) was there and said it might not be a bad idea.  If not stitches, they might just glue it.

 Now, mind you, this was the second time she hit her head yesterday.  The first time she was running in my bedroom, tripped over some shoes, and hit her head on the door frame.  That first time it was so loud that Elizabeth heard it upstairs in her bed room.  So not only did she have the new gash plus the accompanying bump from that one, she had another one (same side, mind you...) that was about 8 hours old.

I also feel the need to mention here as well that we had had a 5K benefit for my husband's godson JJ.  Charlie had decided earlier that she wanted to run it.  She had the whole thing planned out with my sister...she was going to wear her fast Princess shoes and run it with Leesha and Mommy was going to cheer.  Well, she ended up getting a little scared by all of the people there, so Alicia took off with Alexis's friend and Charlie stayed with Daddy...but she still ran at the end.  (We won't talk about being carried by Daddy...)  Then there were Cheetos involved afterwards (yes, I am crazy about my kids' food but I do allow junk on occasion...) and her white Team JJ shirt wasn't so white anymore.  When we got home, she ate some Mexican Meatball soup and dribbled some down the shirt.  Then she went outside and probably rolled in some dirt and mud wrestled a pig after army crawling through the brush to secure the perimeter of our homestead.  Point is...she was filthy.  It was a good day for her.

Anyways...So my sister and I headed off to the ER.  Alicia came with me because her husband Nick was insisting on it ("Don't you really think she might need help there?").  Since I can appreciate that kind of anxiety because it is pretty much my every day existence, Alicia came with me while Charles stayed at home with Alexis.  (Plus, then he and Nick could continue their playdate...)  I really don't think twice about Charlie's appearance until I get there.  Then I looked at her and realized that she looked really really homeless.  The bleeding wound on her forehead (since it has reopened getting out of the van...) with the dried blood on her face just added that extra touch of class needed.  She also had had her face painted at the 5K, but some of it had rubbed off so her cat's whiskers and nose now just looked like she had rubbed her had across her cheek while dropping a tranny into a Ford.

We were white trash fabulous.  I seriously expected them to call Children's Services on me.  I tried to clean her up once we walked in, but there was no saving that shirt.  It will likely never be white again.  They don't make bleach powerful enough for a white shirt to withstand a day being worn by  Char-Rambo.

We get back to the room and the doc says that the wound was just going to be glued, not stitched.  Fine by me.  The nurse comes in and puts some numbing stuff on it and says we have to wait a half an hour.  About 20 minutes in, Charlie looks at Alicia and announces, "My boo-boo's all better.  Let's go."  Apparently the numbing stuff works.  We explained to her that this was not how it worked and that the doctor still had to come back.  Charlie then choose to climb up on one of the chairs in the room.

And then fell.  And hit her head.  On the other side.  While in the fucking ER.

I kid you not.  You can't make this shit up.

So now my child has not one, not two, but three lovely goose eggs on her forehead (all from within a 12 hour period) as well as glue from the ER caked in her hair and a tiny but deep gash at her hairline.  I am going to take her to daycare tomorrow and am going to be told that I cannot have her back because look at what I did to her over the course of being responsible for her 24/7 for just two days.  I am kinda worried about the rest of today, to be honest...Charles asked me when we left the ER if they wrapped her in bubble wrap.

Might not be a bad idea.  Plus, that shit is so much fun to play with!  Keeping Charlie safe and Mama entertained...I might have to seriously consider this!

Indecision

It is a common misogynist trope that women are notoriously flighty and constantly change their minds.  I sometimes fit that bill, though it is unclear if this is due to being female or being depressed/anxious or the pressures of society or because I am just plain old of the crazy variety.  Possibly a combo of all of the above.

Most days I am perfectly content.  I am content to do things like throw elaborate birthday parties for my kids and their friends with crazy complicated homemade cakes, to bake homemade bread and grind chicken for homemade gluten free chicken tenders.  I am content to spend my time at home with my family, and just occasionally going out.  I am mostly happy in my job and sometimes confident that I can do it without causing lasting harm to people.  I am usually happy living in BFE (though if the chance came to move back to where I come from, I would probably snap it up in a second).  I am happy with my house though I realize its layout is not ideal.

But.

But there are times I question just staying at home on the weekends with the children.  There are times I think that I might want to look at a new job.  Hell, there are times I consider moving into an entirely new FIELD.  I consider working part time.  I look at other states to live in as well as other cities.  I consider cutting my hair, painting walls, rearranging furniture.  Just...a change of some sort.

Where does this restlessness with my situation come from?  When changes are forced upon me, I get pissed at the lack of control.  It causes my anxiety to skyrocket and the crazy in me to come out in ways that probably adds months if not years to my children's therapy totals.  But when things get too mundane, too routine...I start to look for ways to change it up.  I am a mass of paradox that way.

Or ODD.  Really, either/or.

Variety is the spice of life, I suppose.  I always try to strive to be something unique and not like ordinary cinnamon.  Maybe cardamon, perhaps fennel.  Certainly not savory.  That spice just sounds like it is trying too hard with its name alone.

Just as long as I can control the amount of fennel, I guess.  Cause there is nothing that ruins a dish more than an overabundance of fennel.

Enemy

There have been many articles written about the whole idea of not being a superwoman, all packed with touchy-feely bullshit about how women need to support each other and not be so goddamned competitive.  I don't know about all of you, but this just makes me feel even more like shit because I'm doing it wrong.  I am totally competitive and constantly feel inadequate.

I make my kids homemade bread?  Someone else is growing their own organic, GMO free wheat.  I researched area daycares to find the best fit for our family?  Someone else is homeschooling their child and teaching them Mandarin, Spanish, and how to make macrame.  (Does anyone ever actually use macrame?  What IS it?  See, I am even more inadequate because not only do my children not make macrame, I don't even fucking know what it is.)  I started running again?  Someone else just completed their sixth marathon.  I helped a client verbalize their feelings about a trauma?  Someone else helped theirs function well enough with schizophrenia to hold a full time job.

It goes on and on.  This has nothing to do with societal pressures, the mommy wars, being catty or bitchy.  This is strictly from within.  This is all from the voices in my head.  I am my own worst enemy.  I am the one who tears myself down.  I am never good enough for myself.

I have been this way  since God was a boy.  I would hold myself up to unrealistic expectations and beat the shit out of myself when I did not meet them.  The problem was, I usually could meet them so that just reinforced my unrealistic expectations for myself.  The cost, though...well, just my sanity (or what little I do possess...)

I have felt myself recently slipping into beating myself up.  I work full time.  I have three children.  I have way too much debt.  I have three dogs and a cat.  I have a house to care for.  I'm helping to organize a benefit for a friend's son.  I'm going to run in a 5K.  I'm a little busy, maybe.

But.

But I still mentally harangue myself when my house is not clean.  Hell, I still compare my house to that of people who probably make triple what I do.  I compare myself to other men's wives regardless of whether she is someone my husband would even find attractive anyways.  I beat myself up because I am not feminist enough (a REAL feminist would not have these concerns!), because I am not trained enough as a therapist, because my children aren't in enough activities, because we are not as financially sound as I would like us to be, because I don't coupon, because my family sometimes does not eat dinner together, because I don't have the energy to start a small business, because the dogs are overdue for going to the vet, because I require coffee to make it through the morning, because I hate mornings, because sometimes I want to leave work to get home to my family, because sometimes I don't want to leave work BECAUSE OF my family,  because I must be a horrible human being if I have the very real experience of my family driving me crazy, because I get depressed when I think about all of the evil in the world, because I don't have time to do all of my hobbies, because I have not picked up my violin in over a year, because I don't take my children to the library enough, or the movies, and we have never been to Disney, and, and...

It is me.  My thoughts might be fueled by society and flamed by mental illness.  But I am my own worst enemy and I sometimes feel helpless to stop it.

Moon

Driving in the car with Charlie with the sun roof open at night:

Charlie: Mama, Mama!  The Moon!  It's so big! It's following us!

Me: (Trying not to laugh)  OK,  Charlie.  I see it.

Charlie:  Don't worry, Mama.  It won't come in the window.  It can't get us.


I laugh at this exchange because I distinctly remember being very annoyed as a small child that the moon followed us everywhere.  I mean, seriously MOON, don't you have anything better to do than to follow me like some kind of deranged psychopathic stalker?  They make movies about people doing that kind of shit...what makes you so special that you can just get away with it and follow me and be all SHINY IN THE SKY?

I of course grew up and realized why the moon "follows you" (just last week...KIDDING!) and now can kind of chuckle at the sweet innocence of thinking that the satellite that orbits the earth had it out for me and was deliberately fucking with me by following me home.  (Looking back, it shows that my derangement runs real deep if I was thinking like that before Kindergarden...)  That was back before I grew up and realized that babies don't always get born; that people die or are killed, and not just strangers but people I know; that people get sick; that people aren't going to be what you hoped or imagined they would.

Before I had to explain to my children that a little boy that they have known all their lives got suddenly critically ill. That he is in the hospital. That he has cancer.  Just typing those words out makes me want to shake.

No parent should have to go through what his are right now.  No parent should have to tell their children that another child is ill, and critically so.

I feel helpless.  I have avoided blogging for a while because I tend to write out some pretty raw things.  Facing the idea that a child I have known since age 3 months, with the big grin and the deep belly laugh, who has questionable tastes in professional football teams but is spot on with college teams, that he has cancer...the ultimate betrayal of one's own body, IMHO...I couldn't do it.  It is still hard.  Writing out that he has a life-threatening illness...I don't want to admit it.  If I feel this way, I can only imagine how his parents feel.

So I participate in fundraisers for them.  Hell, I am helping to organize one.  I re-post updates and wheedle donations.  The community response has been fabulous.  I do what I can sitting here.

But I still wish that I could go  back to a time when the moon following me was upsetting.  When I never knew what it was like to have to explain adult things to a child.  When these kinds of things happened to someone else.

He is your child.  Your neighbor.  Your son.  Your best friend.  Just because he does not live with you, next to you, go to your school; it does not mean that he and his struggles impact you any less.  This disease has an impact on you; just because it is not directly does not make it any less of an impact.

The same moon that stalks me is the same moon that shines down on him where he is getting treated for his lymphoma in a hospital room.  The same moon that shines on you where ever you are right now.

Be cognizant of this.   People matter.  They all have their stories; their journeys.  Perhaps if we weren't so quick to judge, the world would be better.  After all, the moon is equally obsessed with each and every one of us.