5 things my grief has taught me about other people

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When you're a person who is grieving a loss, there are a lot of things you learn from that loss. You learn the whats and hows and whys and whens of your grief. You learn that everyone is grieving something or someone, and that grief shapes who we are and the choices we make.

But when you're a person living with really deep grief - the kind that you keep in a box that you never unpack because it's safer there - you learn more than you really want to know about other people. On the occasions that you allow that grief out of it's box or during the times that it rattles and roars to be free but you defiantly shush it instead, you learn about other people's perception of your grief.

And in turn, it teaches you a lot about yourself.

Some people will use your grieving as a reason to be thankful that they are not.

People read a blog post or hear my story and they comment with, "Thank you for sharing your story. I am going to go hug my own children tighter tonight." Sometimes, these are the same people who posted a rant about their children on Facebook that made you cry and ache so badly for your own.

Some people will make judgments about your grief. 

How you are grieving, how long it is taking, how often, when, where, under what circumstance - it's all up to the scrutiny of people who think they are experts in our grief. Usually, but not always, it's those people who never ask us about that grief who seem to have the opinion. They grieved one way and it worked for them, so it should work for you.

Some people are uncomfortable with your grief. 

These are the people who don't like tears, who think they have nothing to say to a grieving person, or think they need to "fix" your grief. Sometimes, they simply don't want to hear about it at all because they don't want to deal with your grief.

Some people forget that you are grieving. 

For me, this is the most dangerous kind. When they don't remember Joey's birthday or crapiversary or remember me on holidays or other grief-triggering occasions, I become bitter and angry that they don't care. 

Some people claim your grief as their own.

These are the people who come up out of blue and tell you a story about your loved one or something that made them think of him. They tell you they pray to him or that he is their guardian angel. And this is confusing to you.


I have been grieving long enough to make a study of how people treat my grief; and I have to admit that at first all of these situations made me angry and sad and bitter.

Maybe I'm still angry and sad and bitter; but at least now I have figured a little something out about other people.

Those people who are thankful needed that reminder. We all get caught up in the drama of our daily lives. Things are a big deal because we make them so. We often forget that, yes, life could be worse. When I tell my story, it reminds people of that. If I can help them be a more patient or loving parent, if only for a little while, I'm happy my grief has brought that; because, guess what? I need reminders, too. 

Those people who judge our grief are either grappling with their own or they have no idea what true grief really is. Someone once told me that he couldn't believe I didn't cry at my own child's funeral. I don't really know him, and I certainly don't know how he deals with his emotions. At the same time, he was never with me all the times I cried over the fourteen months of surgeries and radiation and chemo and the quiet moments alone with my grief.

Those who are uncomfortable with our grief I honestly don't consider as friends. This might be kind of harsh; but loving someone is hard, especially if it means dealing with the icky parts of their lives. Fortunately, grief provides the perfect opportunity to learn who your real friends are.

The people who forget that you are grieving have their own lives that don't have anything to do with yours. And I don't mean that in a bad way. It took me so long to figure this one out. Almost all of us have a "crapiversary (a death date)" of someone we love. How in the world can we possibly remember everyone else's trigger days? Because it's important to me, I try to remember other people's crappy days - another mom who lost her child to brain cancer, a school mom who lost her husband to a heart attack, and my friends who have lost parents and loved ones. It's hard and it takes work and sometimes I forget; but it doesn't mean I don't care. Nor does it mean that other people don't care. Yes, they offer prayers and thoughts and they move on; but who am I to say that they never think of me again and offer a prayer for me when they remember? I'm not constantly praying for everyone I know, but I do when I remember. That's all any of us can expect.

Those people that claim your grief are the biggest mystery to me. Perhaps they have had a deep loss of their own. Maybe it brings out a secret fear of theirs. Maybe they are just simply good-hearted, prayerful people that God has sent to take some of our grief. I'm not sure, but it goes back to everyone dealing with grief differently. The blessing is that these are usually the people who send a text or Facebook message on those crapiversaries or on those days that you really need to hear it.

Grief is ugly and it sucks, but it is inevitable for us all. I can't claim to be grieving any more than someone else is. I can't proclaim myself "chief grieving person," because I am not.

I talk about my grief and my sweet Joey because that's how I deal with all the things that have happened and all the feels that I am feeling. But I've also learned, through those closest to me who are also grieving Joey's death, the same strategy doesn't work for everyone.

I'm constantly trying to find a reason for my grief, and maybe one of those reasons is so I can learn to be a more empathetic person. Maybe that's one way my grief can honor the son I lost.

ICYMI: It's not okay for adults to bully children, no matter who their parents are

I really hate what the world is becoming. I hate that social media is making it so much easier for people to bully other people. I hate that the original purpose for it - to connect and unite people - has been lost in a sea of emboldened vitriol.

When did we come to accept that it was okay to openly laugh at and make fun of someone's life? Take their photos, their thoughts, their trust, and shove it cruelly back in their faces?

Perhaps some people think that it's okay to do this because, after all, the act of putting the photos and thoughts and trust on such a public forum must mean that you are "asking for it." And maybe it's true. There are certain people who invite controversy and criticism, who are looking for a fight. But those are people who are ready for it and can stand up for themselves.

But what about children? It's long been said that we as bloggers and writers are exploiting our children by writing about them and sharing their pictures online. Indeed, it's a fine line; and one I've been considering giving up lately.

There's a subset of minors who didn't ask to be thrust into the public eye, but by nature of their parentage they are firmly in the middle of it. One such minor is ten-year-old Barron Trump. After the inauguration on Friday, people tweeted and wrote the most awful things about him. As a mother of sons and as a teacher and coach of ten-year-old boys, it broke my heart. Ten-year-old boys are interesting humans, and certainly not deserving of anyone's criticism or jokes.

Over at Her View From Home, I'm sharing what I know about ten-year-old boys that makes them so special AND adding in a message to all the adults who think it's okay to say mean things about them.
Please read it here, and let me know what you think. Thanks!

When television reflects real life

I remember hearing that in Disney's sequel to the wildly popular Frozen, the character of Elsa will be gay. My immediate reaction was one of slight outrage. While I fully support gay rights, I wondered if we as parents are ready to have gay cartoon characters and be forced into that conversation with our children.

Well, you know what? I think the answer is yes. As I was finding the above Elsa link, I stumbled across several articles discussing the speculation that other popular Disney characters have been in same sex romantic relationships.

WHAT?? (Watch the clip in the article I linked above.)

Okay, those totally went over MY head.

The subtlety with which these references are thrown in will likely go over children's heads as well. Unless, that is, the child, tween, or teen identifies as LGBTQ. In that case, it may be somewhat of a comfort to feel as if they are being represented in some way.

While I don't think identifying as LGBTQ is some club that the rest of us don't understand, I do think it's like much of the adult humor in children's shows: you don't totally get it unless it applies to you.

Take for example the newest installment of Ghostbusters. My boys and I loved it, especially Leslie Jones's Patty and Kate McKinnon's Holtzman. In fact, dare I say I, like many other women I know, came away from the movie with a little crush on Kate and her portrayal of the smart, funny, ass-kicking inventor?

I had NO idea, even though I know McKinnon is gay in real life, that her character is supposed to be gay. Consequently, it's not even on my sons' radar (no pun intended).

But what if it's staring them right in the face? What if, say, two dads show up in a cartoon to drop their son off for a play date? What then?

I'm discussing that in my latest Her View From Home article. Come over, read it, and let's talk about if we think this is a good idea or not. (You might be surprised at what side I'm on.)

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6 reasons my kids WON'T be having a free-range summer

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Right after we pulled into the garage on the last day of school, twelve-year-old Slim ran across the street toward some girls who were playing outside. A few minutes later he came back into the house.

“Why are you back inside, Slim?” I asked.

“Oh, those girls saw me coming and ran into their house,” he shrugged, matter-of-factly. “I guess they couldn’t handle my awesomeness.”

Slim has high-functioning autism. Whether he really thought that or realized the girls were trying to get away from him because they think he’s weird remains to be seen. But this is one of the many reasons that, despite what kind of a childhood I had, my sons will not be having a free-range summer.

Alphabet letters. In addition to the ASD, my son also has ADHD. He has one brother who has ADD. These boys need structure this summer. Honestly, all kids need structure. The first two weeks before lessons and camps and activities got started, Slim tried to plan out our entire day minute-by-minute. It was maddening, but I understand his need for order and schedules. Sure, sometimes we’ll wake up and just fly by the seats of our pants; but most days we will have a routine of chores, summer school work, screen time, active time, lessons, camps, etc . . .

Screens. When I was my sons' ages, cable television was a new thing and Atari was just a fuzzy game my brother played that I didn't have any interest in. Once "Fraggle Rock" was over and HBO was showing Nine to Five for the fifty-gazillionth time, I turned off the t.v. Now our kids have so many channels and options and personal devices and gaming systems. If I didn’t set limits, my sons would only emerge from their boy cave long enough to pee and grab more bags of Veggie Straws (Seriously, have you tried them? They’re surprisingly good.).

Competition. Gone are the lazy, explorative days of our childhood. My sons cannot possibly take the summer off from school work, learning how to code, or perfecting their three-pointers. Nowadays, there is a camp, a class, or lesson for everything. If there's not, there is a private tutor or coach waiting to teach your child to be the best. I'd like my kids to at least have a chance. (It's a lot, isn't it? Have you read this article about why most kids quit sports before high school?)  

Nosy neighbors and CPS. When they were in Junior High, my brother and his friend built an elaborate tree fort whose size rivaled a small NYC apartment or one of those trendy tiny houses. No one gave a thought to two twelve-year-olds with tools and nails and boards and anything else they could scavenge. All four of their parents were working; in fact, I was only ten and staying home by myself. Now, the "village" is all up in everyone else's business. I feel like if I don't check on my boys every ten minutes, I'm going to get judged as a bad mother. 

Mean kids. I'll admit that I hover around my kids. The primary reason I do is to make sure they are behaving and being nice to other children. "Catching them in the act" is the perfect time for reteaching and role playing. But I will admit, too, that I watch Slim like a hawk to see how other children are treating him and reacting to him. I've had to stand up for him in the past, but I'm really trying hard to get him to understand what is appropriate in social situations and what is not. While he really wants to be social, he's not always the best at it. 

Fear of loss. I woke up one day seven years ago and my whole life changed. There wasn't a thing I could do about that. But if something happened to one of my boys now and I could have prevented it, I would never be able to live with myself. One day last summer, I wasn't checking on Lil' C every ten minutes outside, and he rode off on his bicycle. We couldn't find him for about twenty minutes, and I was panicking, thinking of every kidnapping scenario and desperately trying to remember exactly what he had been wearing. Just as I had pulled out my phone to call 911, he came riding back, happy as a clam at his adventure. We used to ride our bikes EVERYWHERE, but somehow, I feel like this is a different time. 

I asked my mother once about all this, if she worried about these things, too. There were no cell phones growing up, so she had to trust that we were where we said we'd be. Also, there were no online predators to worry about, though there were actual predators. She said childhood cancer wasn't as prevalent as it is now, but occasionally you did hear of a child who'd died from it. She worried about mean kids and drugs and car accidents and freak accidents and everything we moms today worry about. 

But I still think it was a different time. I think with every generation comes a loss of innocence that we cannot get back. The more we move forward, we the more we lose. 

I guess this makes me a helicopter parent; and you know what? I'm okay with that. They are only little for a short time, and I am going to control things as much as I can. The older they get, the more opportunities for independence they will have. I'm okay with that, too. But right now, at 12, 10, 8, and 4 years old, I think I still have a few things to teach them. 

By the time they are old enough to apply those lessons, maybe I'll be ready to let go, too. 

Do you consider yourself a "free-range" parent? What aspects of their childhood do you control? 

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Why can't I stand up for my kid?

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It was a totally harmless comment. We were at the zoo and Slim, my twelve-year-old with ASD, was super excited running from tank to tank at the aquarium talking very loudly.

He is normally a very loud talker anyway.

A mom walked by with her two daughters and said, "Oh my god that kid is loud. I thought you girls were loud, but that's loud!"

She was in front of me long enough for me to say, "He has autism. He is still working on appropriate voice volume."

But I didn't say it. Instead, I sent dagger eyes that only her younger daughter noticed, and my tongue twisted inside my mouth, and I stayed mute until she was far off down the hall, and I wanted to run after her and grab her and tell her what I wanted to say anyway.

But I didn't.

And I mentally kicked my ass for it all day afterward.

What she said was true and something that a lot of us moms have probably commented about other people's children. What bothered me more than her saying it to her daughters (as if saying something hurtful is okay as long as it is true), was that I didn't stand up for him. I didn't give an explanation of why he was being loud.

But is being loud okay because you have ASD? Would I be giving him an excuse not to fine tune his social behavior?

It's a slippery slope for me. No doubt, I hate conflict. I avoid it like the plague. I hate to argue, I hate to try to prove my point, I hate to talk over people or be louder or smarter or more convincing than someone else. What if I'm wrong? What if the person never sees my point of view? What if the other person is louder or smarter than me? What if I cry? 

I hate the tightness in my throat, the pit in my stomach, the way my heart races, and the sound of blood pulsing in my ears.

But I hate even more that I am not teaching my sons by example.

Hubby and I always tell the boys to look out for one another, stand up for their brothers, and speak out if someone is mistreating one of them. How will they know how to do that if they do not see it happening? Actions speak louder than words. 

We are having a problem with some of the neighborhood boys not being nice to Slim. I was outside one day when I heard the boy across the street say, "No, Slim, you can't play. Go home, Slim."

Shocked and unable to think how to react, I looked at the ground and pretended to feed the dog a treat. Why couldn't I say anything? Is it because I have to be neighbors with his mom for the next two decades? If my kids are being jerks, I would appreciate knowing. I would THANK you for telling me. How are his brothers supposed to stand up for him when his mom can't??

There are many times I stew over comments about his behavior, I keep quiet to a teacher I should speak up to, and I shoot angry daggers at mean kids and rude adults.

I'm too emotional. And when I'm upset, it comes out wrong. One day last summer, we were at the swimming pool. Slim was excitedly running from one group of kids to another, talking loudly and trying to make friends.

A group of boys about his age were laughing at him, and one started saying, "What? I can't hear you." Every time Slim would start to speak again, this boy would yell, "What? I can't hear you!"

I watched over the top of my book, my eyes tiny burning slits under my sunglasses. I waited for Slim to speak up for himself. I waited for his brothers to come to his rescue. None of this happened. Finally, I put my book down and walked over to the boy.

"Would you please stop being mean to my son? He is just trying to make friends." The boy lowered his eyes to the ground, but a smirk remained on his face. "He just talks loudly sometimes, and you are being rude."

He apologized, and I scolded him in my pissed-off mom voice. I never told him that Slim has autism. Why should I have to? Why should that be an excuse for anyone to be nice to him? Would it even have made a difference?

I certainly didn't like the way I spoke up that day, but at least I did it. And honestly, I need to keep doing it. I need to keep doing it until I find a way that does not have tears behind it, that is not scolding or angry or accusatory. A way that doesn't make excuses, but explains and teaches, empathizes and understands.

Maybe I'm no good at standing up for myself, but I'll be damned if I don't teach my kids to stand up for themselves and each other.

What advice do you have for me? How do you stand up for your kids without going all "mama bear" or crying or losing your sh*t? Please tell me in the comments. 

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Don't forget the people who love them

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I have never felt as much love and support as when Joey was diagnosed with cancer. People came out of the woodwork to send support, prayers, gifts, meals, and love.

Entire communities came together  - the dental community in which my husband works, the school and church communities we attend, friends of our siblings and parents, our college and high school friends, and people we had yet to meet. Clearly, some of them believe this:

"Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for kindness."

~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca

You don't need to know someone in order to be kind. That was shown to me over and over during Joey's illness and after his death, and I will be forever grateful for that. Truth be told, it was what kept me going and buoyed me up when I needed it most.

Recently, my family got news that one of our own (through marriage and cousins and nieces - not that it matters), Addy - a beautiful, bright and active seven-year-old precious girl - had a brain tumor. 

Crying aside, because I always cry when I hear a child has cancer, I couldn't stop thinking about her mom. Thinking about the fear and the worry and the wonder and the questions and everything I felt when I found out about Joey's cancer. 

And then I thought about my mom, Joey's grandmother and my dad, Joey's Papa and my sister, Joey's Godmother. And then I couldn't stop thinking about Addy's Grandma and cousins and aunts and step-dad and all of the people who love her. 

Because, you see, if affects them, too. But the thing is that most of the time, people are only supporting the child's immediate family. 

When really Grandma would appreciate a phone call or a card, too. And the Godmother wants you to ask how her precious godchild is doing. And the Papa would love if you take him out for a cup of coffee and let him talk about it. 

These are the people who are likely providing the most support for the family in crisis - babysitting, making meals, doing laundry, trying their best to provide unwavering support, and being the shoulders that are cried upon. 

And they love the person who is sick, too

But who is supporting them? Where is their break, their compassion and consideration, their card in the mail that says, "I'm thinking of you and praying for you."?

Kindness reaches far and wide. Don't ever be afraid to be kind. No one is faulted for being kind. Going forward, I'm going to try to think outside of the kindness box and consider who else might need it. 

I will always support a family who has a sick child, but I think I will let that support ripple to all the people who love her. 

"Remember there's no such thing as a small act of kindness. Every act creates a ripple with no logical end." 

~Scott Adams

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Moms tell how they feel about their child's diagnosis in 3 words

I felt many emotions the day we found out about Joey's brain tumor. My mind, heart, and gut would continue to cycle through so many emotions over the nearly 14 months before his death.

The day the doctor said to me, "Bad news, it's a tumor," I felt like everything dropped out from under me. I felt confusion and disbelief, anger and sadness.

And denial. I definitely felt denial. I kept hoping the scans were wrong. I kept hoping that there really WAS something the doctors and surgeons could do to save his life.

And after his death, I felt devastation, heartbreak, and relief.

It may seem unbelievable to say that I was relieved that my son died, but his life could not go on the way it was. His suffering was truly over.

When Joey's brother Slim was diagnosed with autism two years ago, I felt relief once more. Not that my son was going to have a lifetime of social challenges and difficulties, but relief that he could finally get the services and treatments that we knew could help him achieve and put his wonderful mind to work.

When we hear the words "diagnosis" or "diagnosed" they often put a sick feeling into our stomachs - even as moms of "typical healthy" kids (are any of them without challenge though?) - because we can imagine how we would feel if that were our child. What would we do? How would we feel? In what ways we would deal with the changing hand we'd been dealt?

People say that attitude is everything. Some people, myself included, are naturally more negative thinkers, assuming the worst right away. Some are sunny sunshiners from the get know and just know everything will be just fine.

Both people's kids get cancer. Both have children born with Down syndrome or autism. A person's attitude doesn't change the circumstances, but it can color how you deal with the hand you've been dealt.

I was curious how other moms reacted to a diagnosis their children received. Not asking what it was, I took to Facebook to ask them to describe their reactions and emotions in three words or less.

Overwhelmingly, there was almost a 50/50 split between the top two responses: worried/terrified/scared and relieved. 

I think that says a lot. I think it says that a mother's sixth sense is there, and it's strong. We know our children, and we know when something is not right.

I knew something wasn't right with Joey in the months leading up to his cancer diagnosis. He was tired and not as energetic as usual. He had grown apathetic about many of the things he loved. I suppose in some ways, I was relieved to know; though I was hoping it was allergies or migraines, not a huge tumor.

Here are some of the other emotions that moms had when they found out about their child's diagnosis:

• freaked

• nervous, anxious

• protective and mama bear

"I hate this."

• glad 

• stunned, blind-sided, shocked, sucker-punched

• frustrated, overwhelmed

"My heart dropped."

• pissed, angry

• confused

• helpless

"Scared, but blessed."

• motivated, determined, resolute, focused

• validated

• devastated, sad

"Shit, now what?"

• hopeless, powerless

• acceptance

• hopeful

"Let it be me."

• prayerful

• lonely, alone

• love

I can guarantee you that anything you're feeling once you've heard your child's diagnosis is completely normal and within the range of emotions you're "supposed to" have.

And also? They will change day by day, hour by hour, and yes, even minute by minute.

There is nothing fair or right about your child not being anything other than how you dreamed him to be. It's okay to feel angry and sad and hopeless and helpless about it.

But it's also okay to feel relief and gratitude and the resolve that makes you want to kick ass like a mama bear for your child.

My favorite response I kept for last, and it's my three-word pep talk for you:

"We got this!"

#thisischildhoodcancer

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Do you know someone whose child was just diagnosed with cancer? Here are nine things you can do to help.

Do I Look Like "Mom" to You?

It was late on a Sunday evening. I was standing at the bathroom sink as Hubby and our seven year old, Lil’ C, were in the shower washing a day’s worth of grass from yard work and water play off their legs and feet.

I heard the water shut off and Lil’ C say, “I don’t have a towel.”

Then came Hubby’s voice, muffled under the cotton of his own towel, “You mean you came down here to get in the shower, but you didn't bring a towel?”

“I forgot . . .” Then, “Mom, will you go get me a towel?”

I sighed. Right in that moment I was really invested in picking at the middle-aged period zits that seemed to have inhabited my chin and neck.

“What do I look like to you?” I asked and squeezed another one.

Lil’ C poked his head out of the shower and said simply in his cute, scratchy little boy voice, “Well . . . Mom.”

Hubby’s head poked out just then. “He’s right, you know,” he said with a wink and a smile.

I sighed again. He was right.

I am Mom.

I have made ‘Being Mom’ my job for the past eleven and a half years.

As I walked up the stairs to get the towel, I tripped over toys, swim towels, and wet bathing suits left to rot the new wood floor.  I thought to myself, If this is how I Mom, I should be fired.

Suddenly, something came over me and I started to rant, “You boys get down here and get all these toys off the stairs. Someone is going to trip and fall (namely, me). And you pick up these wet bathing suits and towels. I've hung your towels up three times already today. I'm not doing it again. And who is making your baby brother cry again?”

Maybe I was just tired. I was probably PMSing just a little a bit.

I was definitely panicking that I am not raising good human beings.

In any other job you get the benefit of a performance review. You sit down with the boss, and she has a piece of paper on which you can actually see what areas you are rocking and what areas need a little more effort.

But when your bosses are tiny little humans incapable of wiping their own bottoms and cooking their own food? Well, you're kinda screwed.

Aside from the nosey eyes of strangers at the grocery store who may or may not be silently rating you on a scale of one-to-ten on how you are handling your toddler’s meltdown in aisle seven, or the teacher who is judging your home discipline skills based on the number of smiley faces that Little Johnny did NOT get on his chart this week, or the mother-in-law who seems to have “just a little piece of advice for you” every time she sees you, or the Facebook commenter who really IS the perfect Mom, there is no rating scale or evaluation period for the job of ‘Mom.’

Those tiny little humans are, unfortunately, our only markers of success or failure.

And that’s kind of B.S. if you ask me.

To hang your career success on how quickly you can make it to the bathroom to wipe somebody’s bottom or how deftly you can shove peas into someone’s wailing mouth or how easily you can divert a tween’s foul mood is a ridiculous experiment in certain failure on most days.

Do you know why? Those tiny little humans come already equipped with their own temperaments and thoughts and ideas; and try as we might to bend them, they keep growing straight and strong despite our best efforts.

They make mistakes, and so do we. But that’s how we both learn.

As good leaders, truly good teachers and guides, we should be leading by example. Placing ourselves in a supervisory role, if you will.

Because if the only evaluation our tiny little humans are getting is coming from someone who has no marker for her own job success or failure, they're screwed.

The great thing about our job is that Moms and kids are in it together. One to lead and teach and guide and love.

And the other to learn and grow and teach us back.

I think that’s a pretty sweet working arrangement; one that lends itself to creativity and innovation and the sharpening of problem-solving skills.

All of that must be good for employee/employer relations, evaluation or not.

Later that Sunday night, I was finally taking a break on the couch when Lil’ C tapped me on the shoulder.

“I brought you your water, just like you like it,” he said, holding out a cup with a huge, toothless grin on his face. “A straw, lots of ice, and a slice of lemon.”

I took the water and gave him a hug. “Because you're Mom,” he added (a perk of the job!).

Attention to detail, compassion, repayment of debt . . .yep, I’d say I've done my job today. High marks on the day’s job performance evaluation.

For both of us. 

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Dear Mom, You Will Find Grace

Hail Mary, full of grace . . .


I say this prayer almost nightly, yet I never really thought about what grace actually is; that is, until people kept telling me I had it.

I’d never thought of myself as having grace. Yet when my son Joey was battling terminal cancer at the age of five, people’s favorite thing to tell me was that I was handling it all with grace.

I was taken aback at first. How does one handle the imminent death of her child with grace? Is that even possible?

If it meant not crying in public, I was handling it with grace.

If it meant crafting words that made other people feel better about a child’s death sentence, I was handling it with grace.

If it meant not curling up in a ball and rocking in the corner, I was handling it with grace.

I really had no other choice but to handle it with grace.

And you would, too.


Here's the kicker though: do you know what grace actually is? In Christian terms it is "the free and unmerited favor of God, as manifested in the salvation of sinners and the bestowal of blessings."

Being told that your child will die of cancer is the exact opposite of this. I was sure I was being punished for some past life sin, or a sin in this life. I definitely wasn't being blessed with anything.

So why did people say this thing about me? This thing about grace? What exactly did they mean?

I took it as a compliment anyway, a life jacket that buoyed me up above the dark water in which I was drowning. Would my son's death be so bad if I could just manage to handle it with grace?

Regardless of how I was going to handle it or not - head held high, writing words to make cancer sound graceful, or leaving rooms to cry and shake my fists at God - it was going to happen anyway.

I didn't cry at his funeral. Not during the service and not when mourners cried in front of me.

Grace.

Maybe God did do me a favor by giving me some sort of courage I could summon. After all, according to Ernest Hemingway, maybe I always had grace; and once pushed to the limit, it became courage.

Honestly, I'm still not sure what grace really is. I think it looks different to every person who sees it. You see, I've come to realize that grace isn't something that is strived for and perfected. Rather, it is something that comes to you when it’s needed the most.

As women and moms, there are definitely times when grace eludes us.

The day of major screw-ups on our job when all we could manage to do was hide in the bathroom and have a good cry before attempting to fix anything.

The times in the grocery store when we are hauling our entire brood of kids on an epic trip to buy a week’s worth of food and toiletries; and after an hour of whining and begging and continuously searching for our lost toddler in the aisle we just left, WE have a meltdown. Grace definitely eludes us.

And you know what? That’s okay.

Because grace even comes in the form of knowing when we've blown it, blown up, and blown our tops. Knowing that we've been human and made a poor choice is a form of grace, too. Don't kid yourself about that.

Its easy for us to look at someone else and how they are managing a situation that seems hard and say, “Wow, she’s rocking it. She’s handling it with such grace.”

But what grace looks like to you is not always what grace looks like to me.

And how you handle a tough situation is only known when you are facing it. Right in the thick of the crappiest thing you have ever had to face, you will find grace. 

Even if you have to pull it from the depths of someplace you never knew existed, even if you have to do things you never thought you'd have to do, and ask people for things you promised yourself you never would, you will find grace. 

You will find grace when you need it the most.

Not necessarily when you are at the store with a spit-up stain on your shirt and a Hello Kitty sticker on your butt and your toddler is pulling every can off the shelf in aisle 3 and you think EVERYONE is looking at you (newsflash: they're really not).

But during the super important times.

The first time out with your new baby.

The first day of kindergarten.

The last day of high school.

The first broken heart.

The family crisis they can't know about just yet.

The diagnosis that you didn't see coming.

Grace will find you and buoy you up in it's soft embrace. 

And they'll say of you, You are handling this with such grace. I never could. 

And you will smile knowingly and say, Yes you could. 

I promise you, if I could find grace, so can you.

Just when you need it the most.

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Has social media made us selfish and uncaring?

Welp, here we go again. Something else "went viral." This time it was the tweets of two sisters who allegedly caught a wife cheating right in front of her husband. They took pictures on their phone of the supposed sexting and slipped the guy a note.

Okay, if they truly felt sorry for the guy and wanted to help, that's one thing.

But why post it all over social media? 

The answer is simple: because everyone wants their fifteen minutes of fame and sees social media as the way to do it.

With iPhones at the ready, we're always looking for the next opportunity to post something amazing that will go viral and bring attention to ourselves.

I realize how ironic this sounds coming from a blogger who uses social media daily. However, I have always eschewed click-baity titles and gimmicks because I want to keep things real.

I get really discouraged and disheartened when I see social media being used to deliberately mislead and trap people. It's almost as if we have to walk on eggshells 24/7 because someone might record some innocent mistake we make and then post it online. Then the molehill becomes a viral mountain.

I truly believe that in many cases instead of shrinking our world and bringing us together, social media does the exact opposite: it creates a gaping hole into which we all fall - nameless, faceless, and inhuman.

Because if we know names and see faces people are actually real people, right? People with feelings and emotions and experiences and families and dreams and a history, just like us. We can't be bothered with that in a world that is moving at the speed of a click, can we?

Shame on us. 

Maybe it's just my nice Midwestern gal values speaking here, but why do we think it's fine when it's someone else, but not if it's our feelings, our rights, or our privacy being violated? Then what? Why can't we handle that?

I'm taking on the hashtag #sorrynotsorry over on Her View From Home today - another social media phenomenon that disgusts me. Click here to read and please share your opinion. Are we overusing social media? Do we have the right to post anything we want? What are our responsibilities? What do you think of the hashtag #sorrynotsorry?

If you were here, I would tell you I'm sorry

If you were here, I'd tell you I'm sorry.

For a lot of things.

I'd tell you again how sorry I am that I slapped you in Target's parking lot.

I'd tell you I'm sorry I didn't sign you up for t-ball,

or invite your preschool friends to your fourth birthday party.

I'd tell you I'm sorry that the tooth fairy never visited you.

I'd tell you I'm so very sorry that I didn't believe you when you said you were having headaches. I'd tell you that yes, in fact, it is possible to have a headache every day.

I'd tell you I'm sorry that I never talked to you about death or Heaven. I'm sorry we never said prayers at night.

I'd tell you I'm sorry for a million other missed opportunities and first time parent flubs and for the fifty percent of the things that are inevitable in life that you had to learn about way too soon.


But you're not here, so I can't say I'm sorry for those things.

I can tell you that I'm sorry there was one monster that I couldn't protect you from.

I'm sorry that your grave on the hill is lonely because we hardly ever visit.

I'm sorry that your brothers are growing up without you.

I'm sorry that our house has turned angry and sad and mopey and sometimes joyless.

I'm sorry there is someone who lives with us now whom you never had the chance to know.

I'm sorry that your family is not running races in your honor or starting foundations or writing books about you.

I'm sorry I haven't learned to live as vibrantly as you did.

And I'm especially sorry that I still haven't grasped that sometimes it is too late to say you're sorry . . .

 . . . or 'I love you' . . .
 . . . or 'let's try again' . . .
 . . . or 'I'm listening' . . .
 . . . or 'I appreciate you' . . .
 . . . and 'I'm proud of you no matter what.'

If you were here, I'd ask you to help me remember those things. Remind me with your smile, your quickness to forgive, your willingness to accept.

If you were here, maybe I wouldn't even realize that I have anything to be sorry about. But that's the irony of losing you. Your absence makes me realize that I do have things to be sorry about.

And things I need to learn.

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Here's the deal about childhood cancer and autism

The first words out of my mouth after the doctor told me Joey had a tumor were, "How does a five year old get a brain tumor?"

But sadly, it happens. It happens to children younger than five. It happens to babies. Some babies are born with cancer and other terrible diseases. 

But why? And how? Most people never even see it coming. One day you're at prenatal water aerobics class, and the next day you're on your couch bawling your eyes out to your mom over the phone because you've just been told something is wrong with your baby.

And all the doctor can say is, "Sometimes it happens."

Sometimes it happens. And most of the time, we don't know why. Or how. But dammit, we do know that things happen for a reason, so we must find out why. It's human nature to believe there's always a reason. Whether that reason involves science or divine intervention, we all seem to be in one camp or the other.

So we pray and read the Bible. Or research and read medical reports. We talk to people who are like-minded in order to add fuel to our theories. Then we make our conclusions. And we stand by them NO MATTER WHAT because, after all, there has to be a reason. 

We put ourselves into two opposing camps, opposite sides. The Sharks and the Jets. East vs. West. Vaxxers vs. Anti-Vaxxers. SAHM moms vs. Working Moms. Men vs. Women. Blacks vs. Whites.

Someone has to be right. It's not right if no one is right. 

There's a third camp, the rebel camp. They refuse to believe either theory. They will not take sides. Their explanations are simple:

"This is just the way things are." 
"He was born with this."
"I love her for who she is."
"We are all doing our best." 
"There is no right answer."

The message is beautiful, embraced, shared, shouted from the rooftops - YES, YES, acceptance is King! It's the only answer!

And then we go right back to blaming each other.

For the measles. And peanut allergy reactions. And racism. And dog poop and cat fur and stealing someone else's place in the parking lot at pick-up time.

I'm sure it's always been this way - parents judging parents, people hating and resenting other people for their beliefs and actions.

But it just gets to be so much, don't you think?

We live in the information age. Because we know so much, we think we should have ALL the answers. But we are actually afraid of answering the biggest most important question: What if there is no answer? 

What if no one is right, and we're all just speculating?

Sure, a lot of our lives have been tested and quantified and hypothesized and we can definitively say what the right answer is. Last night, Knox was studying times tables and there was doubt in his voice every time he gave an answer.

"Are you asking me or are you telling me?" I would say.

Slim chimed in more often than I would have liked him to and blurted out the answers. "The theory is that Knox needs to figure these out himself, " I said, trying to sound smart and authoritative.

"Math facts aren't a theory, Mom," Slim stated. "They're facts." He punctuated the word "facts" with a "DUH" just like tweens are so good at doing.

He had a point. Some things we just know because they are proven and no one would ever bother to argue over whether seven times eight is really fifty-six or not.

Because it doesn't matter. It's not sexy and controversial and proving it wrong isn't going to win you any accolades or fame or make your blog post go viral.

image by Vlado

Here's what I think I know about childhood cancer and autism:

We've experienced both in our house, and they both totally suck fat disgusting maggots. Both, while seemingly empathy driving, are lonely as hell to go through because no one understands them like you do. Unless you seek out a group; but even then, no one has your exact same experience. And after all, it's exhausting enough just focusing on your own experience.

They are complex and often misunderstood. I still don't really understand either of them. While I can't speak with certainty about what caused Joey's cancer, I do know what caused Slim's cleft lip and palate and his ADHD and his autism. A gene deletion. Because of his birth defect, he has been poked and prodded and tested and studied and YAY, we get to know why our kid is different. We get an answer. 

But you know what? That answer only leads to more questions. Why does he have a gene deletion? How did he get it? Did Joey have one, too, that was known to cause cancer? Was this because they were fertility babies? Was it because I fed him too much non-organic milk and carbs or red dye #40? Or was it really caused by vaccines and I was just too stupid to do research before giving them to my children? 

Believe me, I don't need any other person to make me feel guilty about anything. I can do that just fine on my own.

We survived childhood cancer and the death of someone we loved. It was hard, so incredibly difficult; and it will be for the rest of our lives. Most days it feels like no one understands, but we are making it through to the other side.

We are living with autism in our house; and it is hard, so incredibly difficult and lonely, but we are managing it because we love our son. I don't think any GOOD parent, any truly loving person can say they love their child any less because of a disease or disability. And no matter what their stance - pro or anti vaccine or stay home/work away/free range/helicoptering/breast or bottle fed would ever seriously wish a terrible disease or affliction on a CHILD just because we don't happen to agree with how their parents are raising them.

So here's the deal about cancer and autism and the measles and birth defects and lice and the freaking stomach flu that just won't go away: sometimes we know how kids get them and sometimes we don't. We can take our knowledge and do the best we can to make decisions that jive with our faith and beliefs and morals and conscious, and we can love our children as best we know how. We can share our facts and information with others because that is our right in this society.

But it is also our responsibility to speak and act in the best interest of others as well. None of us is an island entire of ourselves. We live here with everyone. We must be kind and considerate and think of how our actions and words are affecting other human beings before we put them out there. We are seeing less and less of that in our world, and that makes me sad for my children's future.

The real deal about childhood cancer and autism is that they have made me less willing to fight with people over whether they feed their kid organic food or eat at McDonald's, whether they vaccinate or not, or co-sleep or take their kid's puffy coat off every time they put him in the car. Childhood cancer and autism have taught me that no matter what you do, what decision you make for your child, there is always a greater force at work that seems to say, "But anything can happen at anytime when you least expect that it will."

Childhood cancer and autism have taught me to simply forge ahead and do the best that I possibly can for my children because at the end of the day, that's the only deal that matters.

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We Can't Look Back, Only Ahead

I will never forget sitting at my desk in my office at the University staring at the ultrasound pictures of my first two babies. Baby A had such a perfect profile, but there was something off about Baby B's slightly sideways profile.

We would later learn that Baby B would be born with a cleft lip and palate, something that we much later learned was caused by a deletion in one of his chromosomes. I beat myself up for a while for not pointing out my suspicions to either my husband, an oral surgeon, or my OB/GYN.

But what would it have changed? Nothing.

Our beautiful little Baby B would still have been born with a complete bilateral cleft lip and cleft palate. Looking back would have done no good. Only looking ahead would help him . . . and us.

Sometimes I feel that way about Slim's autism diagnosis.

By the time he was four years old, we noticed some strange behavior. He would begin every day by running in circles around the house. Or he would be watching television, get excited about something, and would have to run laps around the house.

There were the plastic play spoons he would always have to carry and his obsession about sharks. There was the way he would walk the perimeter of a room at a party or a new Gymboree class.

There was the way that he would memorize and parrot back commercials, television shows, and books. The way that he didn't really interact with other children his age.

And there was the way that he didn't really hug you; he just "leaned in."

He was enrolled in an Early Childhood Special Education Preschool program with other children who had speech issues for various reasons. Some had autism. I didn't want to believe that he had autism. After all, he talked to us and other adults all the time, he looked us in the eyes most of the time, and he didn't have some of the other severe behaviors that autistic children had.

But I asked anyway. I asked the preschool teacher and the pediatrician and the speech teacher. Then I asked the kindergarten teacher and the first grade teacher. Everyone said no, he's not autistic.

Though it was the answer I wanted to hear, something kept nagging me. Every time he said something that we didn't know how to answer or had a meltdown about something that we didn't have a strategy to handle or every time my heart broke watching other kids faces as they looked at his strange behavior, I thought: This isn't fair to any of us. 

They all said no until one day we accepted yes and they agreed. And we were relieved.

Only now I am mad and sad and upset. I am mad that no one saw it sooner. I am sad about all the time that has been wasted on the wrong kinds of therapy and treatment plans and all the times his Dad and I have yelled at him for being HIM. I am upset at myself for not demanding it sooner, for not "Google-educating" myself on how to better handle some of his quirks a long time ago.

Looking back, I wish we had started autism therapy so much sooner. Maybe things would be different. Maybe they would be better.

Slim knows that he has autism, and he has been reading up on it. He probably knows more about it than his dad and me combined. In fact, he said something very profound the other day about it and let me share it on Facebook.

He's eleven, and he talks of acceptance - something his fortyish-year-old mother cannot do. In the struggle to accept what is,  I must place myself firmly in the present with my eyes to the future because those are the only things that I can change. I can work on those, make those better.

April is Autism Awareness month; though some people would prefer it to be called "Autism Acceptance Month." That makes sense to me. I believe every parent in America knows what autism is and what the characteristics are. We all trained ourselves to look for those characteristics in our developing children.

We also all know an adult who is a little odd, but we never knew why. According to autismsociety.org, more than 3.5 million Americans live with an autism spectrum disorder, and that it is never too late for an adult to be diagnosed with ASD. We often look at people we think are strange and talk about different things and want to distance ourselves from them.

I want to share a story with you. My sister-in-law works on the campus of a major university in our town. She was walking across campus the other day in a hurry to get to a meeting. As it was a gorgeous afternoon and she is such a friendly person, she saw a young male student on his way across campus as well and commented to him about the lovely day.

And this young man stopped and began to tell her many details about the barometric pressure in the air and the exact weather patterns that aligned to make this a perfect weather day. She contemplated smiling and moving on as he was talking; but then she realized that she was looking at our very own Slim, a mere decade into the future.

So, meeting tardiness be damned,  she stopped, turned to the young man, and really listened to what he was saying. He stopped himself abruptly and said, "Oh, I'm not supposed to go on and on like this. You must have somewhere to be." She smiled and said she'd love to hear more about something he was obviously so passionate about.

And there we had a glimmer of Slim's future. A look ahead, past acceptance and straight on to what things will look like once his therapies get in place.

No use looking back. We can't change that. We can only look ahead and have hope for good things in the future - learning, practicing . . .

. . . and accepting.

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Marriage is Like Football: You Can't Cross the Goal Line if You Keep Fumbling the Ball

Around this time of year is the anniversary of my first date with Hubby 15 years ago. Sometimes we can't believe we've made it this far. We've actually known each other since we were in second grade. We attended the same huge Catholic elementary school together. Despite having been in the same class of 35 kids together three times, our paths rarely crossed.

He went to an all-boys high school, and I went to an all-girls high school, and again, our paths rarely crossed. He went to all the parties (had some of the parties) and I stayed home . . .a lot. When I did see him out and about, he always greeted me with a huge smile and a "Nice to see you!" Hubby is just a really nice guy.

It wasn't until much later in our twenties that we met up again and, well, here we are. But the unbelievable part is that we even made it this far because of all the fumbles that were made along the way, mostly by me. After all, a guy can't cross the goal line if one of his players keeps fumbling the ball.

Fumble #1: When he finally called me to talk, I called him a loser. He called me on a Friday night, so I called him a loser for not having anything better to do.

Touchdown: I said yes when he asked me out.

Fumble #2: While on our first date, I told one of his female friends that we were not on a date. In fact, I kept insisting we were not on a date. She kept insisting we were. I still didn't think it was a real date.

Touchdown: I accepted a second date, and I picked him up wearing really short shorts and a tight t-shirt, I might add. Not a date, my former skinny ass.

Fumble #3: While watching our state's football team at a bar with all of Hubby's friends, one said something to me about Hubby being my boyfriend. Now, you have to understand how much I hate when girls go out on one or two dates with a guy and start calling him her boyfriend right away. That gives us all a bad name. So I said simply, "He's not my boyfriend," because I didn't want Hubby to think I was a psycho.

Yeah, that backfired.

Hubby still has his Hanes in a bunch over that. Every time he tells the story, and he does a lot, the emphasis will get bigger. It's grown from, "He's NOT my boyfriend!" to "HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND!"

Touchdown: I decided about a week later that he really was my boyfriend.

Fumble #4: (This one was Hubby's.) We had traveled to Kansas City for the weekend right before Christmas. We were having such a wonderful time, the mood was right at dinner, and I felt he was on the verge of proclaiming his love so I leaned across the table and I told him I loved him. He said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa . . .I wasn't thinking that!" Screeeeeech. Crap.

Touchdown: He got up in the morning and warmed the shower up for me. It really is the little things that give away how they feel.

Fumble #5: A couple months later we were sitting in the airport waiting for our flight to Chicago. I was taking him for his birthday. We were talking about this and that, and he asked me who my best friend was. I started rattling off some girls from college and asked who his was. He said, "Well, you, of course." Awww . . .

Touchdown: I took him to Chicago for his birthday. Duh. We had an awesome time!

Fumble #6: I almost missed my proposal. It was New Year's Eve 1999. We went out and had a great time. We watched fireworks downtown, met some random people (whom Hubby told we would be married someday and I didn't get it), and spent time with my family. The whole time, I am drinking bottle after bottle of wine . . .and I was feeling fine. At one point I left the party to go somewhere with my sister-in-law, and Hubby was freaking out! Little did I know, he had a plan. A plan that was to happen at the stroke of midnight on the New Millennium. He carted me off back to my apartment a few minutes before, and as the fireworks went off on t.v., he got down on one knee and proposed.

Touchdown: I said yes.

Fumble #7: A cake debacle. I insisted on having a certain baker make our cake. I had seen his cakes at the bridal shows and loved them. We were to meet with him one night after work to discuss our wedding cake. Hubby was stressed about having to take his Boards and just wanted me to decide, but I insisted he come with me. The baker, who was very flamboyant, proceeded to talk to us for two hours about other people's weddings. He drew one picture of our cake the whole time, to which we agreed. Hubby left fuming over the study time he wouldn't get back.

But here's the kicker: when the cake arrived at our wedding, it wasn't even the one we had ordered! Twelve years later, Hubby is still bitter about that.

Touchdown: The cake was lovely and delicious, and our wedding was so beautiful and fun that it didn't ruin our day at all.

So, long story short, despite some fumbles along the way, here we are fifteen years later. Neither our relationship nor our marriage are perfect, and we've obviously had our challenges. We've had low points and high points and more low points, but our current thinking is that if we can keep working toward the goal line together, even if we fumble the ball along the way, we'll get there.

Here's to many more touchdowns along the way.


*This post was originally published in August 2013. 

Did you and your spouse have any SNAFUS along your relationship road?