Be Not Afraid

If you pass through raging waters in the sea, you shall not drown
If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be harmed
If you stand before the power of hell and death is at your side, know that
I am with you through it all

Before Tom and I first became pregnant, we talked a lot about having a baby. We talked about the money. We talked about who would care for the child while we worked. We talked about how wonderful it would be to become parents. What we never talked about was what we would do if the worst thing happened. It never occurred to us. I did hear about bad things happening – in pregnancy or life – but not to us. When your pregnancy is going along swimmingly, you have this blissful ignorance that you’re beyond the reach of grief and tragedy. You have to remember, this was before the internet. Anything we needed to know about pregnancy was only available in books or by asking friends, family and physicians. 

When our first child, Andrew, was born severely developmentally disabled, I remembered thinking: “This is a nightmare. I’m living every parent’s nightmare.” (For those who haven't known me very long, you can read Andrew’s story here. If you want to see photos of Andrew through the years, you can watch this video.) When I look back on that time, 32 years ago, I was so young and so naive. I had so little life experience to put this tragedy in perspective.  Honestly, I’m not even sure I could have put it in perspective. How do you wrap your head around the fact that a perfectly normal pregnancy resulted in a child who was profoundly disabled? 

(Interesting side note: I was recently told by a doctor, that if that pregnancy had happened today, physicians likely would have seen, via ultrasound, the Vesa Previa that caused Andrew’s problems. In other words, they could have prevented everything that went wrong. But if that happened, I’m not sure we would have had our second son Dan and that seems unfathomable today.)

I remember being sad…and sometimes angry. I will admit, I got REALLY angry. I remember going to Mayfair Mall and seeing young women, a LOT younger than me, with healthy children. I remember asking God: “Why do THEY get to be parents when they are still children themselves?” But you quickly realize that anger toward something unfixable is wasted energy. In any case, along with the grief that came from knowing that our child was so horribly disabled, came a strange sense of peace. Perhaps it was simply resignation. 

Yes, I was sad and angry, but I was never afraid. I’m not sure why. One reason might be because I was young and pretty unaware. I had no idea the depth of this calamity. I guess I wasn’t afraid because family surrounded us and enveloped us in love. I wasn’t afraid because the staff at St. Joe’s Hospital did everything to walk us through the nightmare in a gentle, caring way. I also wasn’t afraid because I had Tom. I wasn’t alone. We were a team and we were inseparable. 

As we approach our 35^thwedding anniversary, I think back to momentous events in our life and realize that I made it through the bad parts because I was the luckiest girl in the world. I made it through because my husband became my rock when I was a pile of mush. When I was weak, he was strong. THAT’S how I made it through. That is why today, when I go to weddings and the vows are being recited, I always wish I could shout out: “PAY ATTENTION TO THE SICKNESS PART! SHIT HAPPENS. MAKE SURE YOU’RE THERE FOR EACH OTHER DURING THE WORST.” Of course, I never do. But I think it and I wish and pray that the couple will love each other no matter what. 

Nevertheless, Andrew is forever a part of our family’s story. I know that religious people have told us: “God chose you to be Andrew’s parents.” I don’t know if that’s really true. (Can you tell I’m having a bit of a faith crisis lately?) I feel like Andrew did more for us than we did for him. Perhaps I appreciated parenthood a lot more because of him. Perhaps I understood a little more about the fragility of life because of him. Perhaps because of the fact that, in his quiet, gentle way, he touched so many lives, I received a broader understanding of how all of our lives are intertwined. For that, I’m very, very grateful. 

Now that I’ve matured, I’ve unfortunately seen tragedies. I’ve known parents who have lost their kids to accidents or suicide. I’ve seen families live through the horror of cancer and other illnesses. Who’s to say which tragedy is the worst? Ours was just one story among many.

32 years ago, on November 18, 1986, our first child was born. It was a tragedy. But tucked inside that tragedy was beauty that is born out of grief and love. Happy birthday, Andrew. We love you. 

How Motherhood Defined Me

Fold my heart up small
Or break it into pieces
Find somewhere and keep it there
Take it when you go

- Jonathan Coulton "When You Go"

Is it any coincidence that bleeding hearts are in full bloom around Mother's Day? To me, bleeding hearts always seemed like nature's perfect metaphor to explain the joy and heartbreak of motherhood. 

The moment that I held my baby sister, I knew that I wanted to become a mother. I was a naïve and selfish 12-1/2 year old and suddenly, in that moment, I was forever changed.

But helping out with my baby sister was a very saccharine and unrealistic view of motherhood. I was able to dress her, feed her, take her on walks and show her off. (Sounds like playing with a doll, right?) I never dealt with nighttime feedings, illnesses or overwhelming exhaustion. I was well-prepared to love a baby, but woefully unprepared to deal with my own.

The birth of my own motherhood was less a bundle of rainbows and cuddles than a giant storm cloud filled with unexpected bursts of painful lightning and downpours. Our first child was born severely developmentally-disabled. Nevertheless, as you do with all storms, you weather them and you do, eventually, find the rainbows. I was forever changed by Andrew’s birth and existence in this world. Throughout his 20 years, his life would teach me that every life touches others, no matter how fragile and/or broken.

Dan came along 11 months later and taught me that there was still hope. But sometimes, in that hope, you realize that, as the saying goes: “Motherhood is the hardest job in the world.” I thought back to helping out with my sister. Where was the constant joy and excitement? Oh yeah, it’s buried inside my sleep-deprived self. Eventually, we figured out how to parent. Honestly, who sends people home with a human with no instruction manual? For God’s sake, you get more information when you buy a new bike!

When Maria came along, our little princess, I was beyond the moon with excitement. And, with a bit of experience under my belt, I learned to go with the flow and not sweat the small stuff. There was joy and energy in our house and a LOT to do. Just because there’s a new human in the house, doesn’t mean the others take care of themselves.

Oh yeah, and I had a full-time job.

I was born and raised in the 60s and 70s. By the time I went to college, we were constantly given strong messages of female empowerment and “having it all.” I’ll even go so far as to say that not wanting to have it all would have been frowned upon. I wanted it all, but at what cost? Eventually, I decided to abandon my career for family. My brain was on overload and I was doing no one – my kids or my employer – any favors for keeping up the charade of being “well-focused.”

Here’s the big problem with becoming a stay-at-home mom. In the age of empowerment, having it all and “leaning in,” it doesn’t make for great cocktail party introductions. How do I answer the question: “What do you do?” Some days, who knows?

Once I stayed home to become a homemaker, I had high expectations of myself. I was no June Cleaver, but I felt a step above Carol Brady. (There was no Alice living in our house.) I wasn’t much of a cook, didn’t sew and wasn’t very good at volunteering for committees. What’s that old adage – “Fake it till you make it?” That’s a good way to explain how I muddled through motherhood.

Although I was a stay-at-home mom, I didn’t want that to define me. I wasn’t ready to go back to work, but felt like I was more than the mom in the carpool lane. Sometimes I’d ask myself: “What the hell am I?”

Years went by, effort was put forth, children were educated and eventually fully raised to adulthood.

And just when I was ready to figure out who I was without kids, my parents moved in. Suddenly, I was mothering my parents.

Mind. Blown.

My life has been a strange series of small events – some beautiful, some heartbreaking, many boring as hell. I’ve sat through recitals, doctors appointments, teacher conferences, kids’ sporting events and graduations. I’ve held onto my son, my dad and my dog as they passed away. I’ve comforted my children, my husband and my mom as they dealt with transitions. All in all, I sometimes feel like I’ve seen a little bit of everything…and handled it all clumsily.

Motherhood did define me and change me. I put 23 years of energy into it and although I’m still a mother, it’s time for me to figure out who I am. My kids have happily completed college and moved 3,000 miles away to follow their dreams. I couldn't be more excited for them. 

Yet, here I am today, once again, asking myself: “What the hell am I?”

I’m a wife, a stay-at-home daughter, an empty nester, a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend, a tennis player, a beer drinker, a sports fan, a book and movie lover, a foodie, a cynic, a writer, a mediocre cook, a couch surfer, a poor sleeper, a laundress, an awkward conversationalist….a really odd human being who keeps trying to figure it all out.

I will never be more proud of anything in my life than I am of being a mother. But the time has come to try out a few new things. Stay tuned.

(Originally posted 5/9/15)

Votesplaining

I’m the least qualified person to write this. I’ve never been very interested in politics until this election. Truth be told, I’m writing this to myself…to explain what happened. I’m having a hard time making sense of the election results. I know, logically, that it happened. But I guess I wanted to try to sort out WHY. 

Full disclosure, I’m a Republican who voted for Hillary Clinton. After this election, I’m not honestly sure that I’m still a Republican. I’ll take some time to decide.

What I want to do here is try to talk to friends and family on both sides…and maybe myself. Like I said, I’m not at all qualified to write this. If I were you, I’d ignore this and go back and play Candy Crush.

Also, to be honest, my coffee just kicked in so, here goes:

To my friends and family who supported Trump: Congratulations. Some of you were all in on Trump’s campaign…some voted as a lesser of two evils. In either case, here’s what you need to know to deal with those grieving over the election results: It’s not about losing. I said all along, I fear Donald Trump far less than I fear his followers…the “deplorables” that Hillary famously called out. (That was a HUGE mistake, by the way. I’ll get to that later.)

What my gay, black and minority friends are TERRIFIED about is America returning to a racism and hatred we naively thought was gone. Look around the nation this week. Look at the hate crimes that are occurring. Imagine being a black person once again called the N word. Imagine being a Muslim woman having your hijab pulled off. Imagine feeling like you are no longer welcome in the country in which you were born or had recently become a citizen. THIS is why they/we are grieving the election results. THIS is why they are protesting. (Click on the word THIS to the left for examples.) 

So, here’s what I’m asking: Please ask the president-elect to condemn the senseless acts of violence.  He needs to speak up now or he will lose the electorate. Perhaps sign this petition to demand this. 

And, for the record, I personally, condemn ALL acts of violence whether it’s against minorities or Trump voters. Not cool, America.

Like you, I actually do hope Trump creates all those jobs and sparks an economic revival. But what will a vibrant economy do for those who are dealing with hate crimes? To me, America was always great. I’m for immigration reform, not immigration brutality. Like it or not, we are a nation of immigrants. My grandparents emigrated from Poland. They fled their country to escape oppression by one of the most horrific dictators in history, much like the Syrians are fleeing their war-torn country. 

It's also about the hundreds of thousands who are afraid that they will lose their health insurance. A friend of mine has a sister who is on Obamacare. If it's repealed, because she is a cancer survivor, she's afraid that she won't qualify for insurance. Put yourself in her shoes for a moment. 

It’s about climate change. Many of you are global warming deniers. But many of those who voted for Hillary Clinton hoped that we would continue on a path that would, hopefully, preserve the environment for our children and grandchildren. That now seems all but impossible. One of my kids texted me this: “I would be more ok if it weren't for erasing all of our progress on climate change, basically dooming my future kids.”

Also, I get why you might be pissed about the demonstrations. I, too, wonder if it might be a tad hypocritical to protest when Democrats were beside themselves when Trump said he might accept the results only if he won. But peaceful protest is, literally, the constitutional right of all Americans. What they are protesting is the hatred seemingly allowed and encouraged by Donald Trump. They are protesting an America that seems willing to allow racism, sexism, sexual assault (it’s NOT “locker room talk”), misogyny, homophobia and anything that tells people of a vulnerable population – you are not worthy. THAT is what is being protested. If you're not part of that vulnerable population, you probably don't understand.

Also, stop telling people to “move on.” When you feel like suddenly your nation isn’t the free and open and accepting country you thought it was, this is a tough, tough pill to swallow. Instead, listen to what concerns them. Reach out to them instead of dismissing them.

To my friends and family who supported Clinton: Shit. Talk about a blindside. Most of you were Democrats, but many of you were Republicans, willing to take a leap of faith for a historic moment – a woman president. Well, we got history, just not the history we wanted.

Here’s what you need to know about those who voted for Trump – many, many, MANY of them did it for one reason – abortion. They voted for someone who said he’s anti-abortion. They want to save unborn babies. That’s right - humans who have not yet left the womb. To them, for many reasons, they will ignore everything else to save children. It was about Supreme Court vacancies and saving babies. You can scoff, if you want, but they (and I, to be perfectly transparent) believe very strongly in this, just as you believe very strongly in women’s reproductive rights.

Also, Hillary ignored blue-collar rural voters. I think she got caught up in the dazzling celebrities (Beyonce, Bon Jovi, Springsteen) who stumped for her campaign. In every city she went to, famous people were on stage with her. That’s the problem. America is made up of a lot of anonymous people spread far and wide. These people, who felt that they had been called “deplorable,” were working hard on their farms or going back to school after their factories had closed. They felt dismissed by the Democrats because they weren’t the shiny pennies that Democratic voters were. They were dirty, worn pennies that sit in the bottom of pockets. While you were trying to ignore Trump, he was reaching out to them with promises of jobs and a better world.

Back to the “deplorable” thing: When Hillary first said it, I was stunned. I know she was TRYING to say that she condemns racism and sexism and homophobia and hatred…but the people who wondered if Trump could actually be viable felt enraged. Here was this career politician, who may or may not have been personally responsible for the deaths of Americans in Benghazi, calling voters deplorable. If she won, she’d be their president too. Never a good move.   

If we're honest with ourselves, we know that Hillary was already an imperfect candidate. She had a LOT of baggage. Think back to the beginning of the campaign – she wasn’t a home run. But as the campaign gained steam, we all forgot about the issues that a lot of other voters couldn’t forget. I read yesterday that Hillary blamed FBI Director Comey for stopping the momentum of the campaign. If she believes that, she’s delusional. I don’t think the second letter truly changed anyone’s mind. We had two very polarizing candidates. One just had a slightly stronger voter base.

I’m going to end this whole thing with the speech from the end of the 1940 Charlie Chaplin film “The Great Dictator." It’s a beautiful speech that everyone should hear: 

Stay strong, everyone. Do better. Reach across the aisle. Listen with open ears and open eyes.  Love one another.

Stop Nostalgia Shaming

I’m nearly 56 years old. I’m technically a baby boomer. I grew up before the internet and cell phones. I remember black & white TV with three, MAYBE four channels…and no remote control. As a child, I rode my bike without a helmet. When my parents wanted me to come home, my Dad would whistle…loudly. I played the music I liked on records (we didn’t call it vinyl) and hoped to hear it on the radio. If I got in trouble at school, my parents would likely believe the teachers instead of me. Blah, blah, blah….

This is for old people like me: STOP NOSTALGIA SHAMING. Stop telling young people that the way things were done in your youth is better than the way things are done now. I’m tired of hearing it and it’s making your kids and their kids tune you out and it's making you sound old. Just because it was great when you were young, doesn’t mean it’s the right way or the only way.

You know what? My childhood was pretty good, but it’s not better than my kids’ childhood or my theoretical grandchildren’s childhood. (Still hoping those will exist someday.) Why do the middle-aged and elderly think that because their telephone had a cord and they had to see their friends IN PERSON that they had better phone calls, friendships or relationships?

News flash: Things change. Some get better. Some get worse. Stop telling young people that the newfangled way of doing things is bad, confusing, worse, misguided, artificial, impersonal…in other words, STOP JUDGING.

Look, I get it. Nobody likes change. We all get snuggled in our comfort zone. Change is confusing and difficult. But we older people should embrace change…at least the idea of it. It’s OK to not like the new version of something. But don’t tell people who like it that they’re wrong or bad.

Maybe there are too many selfies in this world. But maybe it would be cool to look back in 40 years on those selfies. Maybe there’s too much sharing on social media. But maybe being able to share helps a new mom or a depressed teen feel a tiny bit better when they feel alone. Maybe people are staring at their phones too much. (OK, I have no rebuttal for that one. We all need to stop doing that.) Maybe young people don’t know how to read maps. But I, personally, love voice-guided GPS.

Think about it this way: Technology will happen. Change will happen. Improvements will happen. Some of this will make life better. Some of this might make life worse. But have faith that humanity can sort it out.

And here’s the good news: On their own, young people are getting nostalgic for the way things used to be. This is why craft beer and cocktails are all the rage, why farm-to-table is a giant food movement and why vinyl has never been more popular or expensive. Basically, homemade is IN. How else to explain why people spend HOURS staring at and trying to recreate Pinterest projects?

My advice to fellow oldsters: Put down your gavel, quit judging and relax.

The Kids Ruled – Confessions of a Pushover Parent

We live in an age of memes and proclamations. It’s a time when we boldly state our beliefs via social media and thereby ensure our legendary status as best _____ ever. No, not really. (Perhaps not the ensuring legendary status part but we definitely boldly proclaim lots of stuff.)

But as it pertains to parenting and, especially motherhood, the internet is rife with peer-shaming and outrage. Hardly a day goes by when people aren’t sharing articles saying this person is a great parent or this person is a bad mother. There sure are a lot of high horses and soapboxes out there.

In any case, I recently stumbled upon something I created when my kids were probably 11 and 7. I don’t remember because it’s not dated. However, I’m guessing that I was tired, frustrated and mad when I wrote “The Kid Rules.” I recently posted it on Facebook for friends to laugh at. Most did, but a few applauded my rules as a tough, no-nonsense approach to parenting. Here’s the thing: I’m pretty sure I didn’t enforce most of these.

The first clue that I probably didn’t enforce any of this is to A) Look at my house – NOT perfect – never was, still isn’t. B) Look at rule #6: “You must each have a fruit (Maria, a vegetable too) every day. My son hated veggies – mostly still does. So I already lowered the bar for him (our poor daughter got cheated on that) and only made him have a fruit, not a veggie. BAD MOM.

The second clue to my non-enforcement was #8 – “You will shower every day whenever you prefer.” It is obvious that as I’m stating the rule, I’m already softening it. I may as well have said: “If you have time, please shower.”

The final clue that proves I was a pushover is #13: “You must make your bed every day except Friday. On Friday mornings you may watch television during breakfast.” I’m not sure why I didn’t add: “Feel free to eat whatever the hell you want and do whatever you want on Friday because I’m just too damn tired to care.”

I don’t remember a lot about those days except I had a full-time job outside the home and felt like I was neither a good parent nor a good employee. I wanted to control something to prove that I wasn’t a total loss. Thus, I created the Kid Rules.

I do seem to remember that when I wrote them, I ran them by my husband who likely shrugged and said: “Looks good.” He was never as worried about the minutiae of housekeeping and kid-keeping. As the 8^th of 9 kids, his standards for most of these rules were MUCH lower than mine.

I want to point out that I did have my moments of tough love. I vividly remember when I picked up my son from day care where they told me he had slapped a little girl. (He was probably 5 years old.) I put him in the car and drove him to that girl’s house where I made him apologize while I stood next to him sobbing, feeling that I had failed my first big parenting test.

Another tough love moment, where I actually did hold my ground was when my daughter (also probably 5 years old) was being very naughty. As we walked into the local shopping mall, I warned her that the entire family would leave if she didn’t behave. Well, she didn’t, so I threw her over my shoulder and told her we were all leaving. As we walked out of the mall, she was screaming, at the top of her lungs: “I want my Mommy.” I calmly said: “Child, if you find someone who wants to be your mom today, go for it.”

But that’s pretty much it. I don’t remember being particularly hard-ass or inflexible. Other than this pretentious list, I’m pretty sure I could be talked into general lenience with a hug or a friendly smile.

However, here’s what you need to know: My kids are now 28 and 24. They’re really pretty great humans. They’re kind, they’re thoughtful, they’re smart enough to carry on a conversation, they are self-sustaining and gainfully employed and if I were their age, I’d probably want them as friends. All of this, despite likely too much screen time, us giving them a bit of assistance on school projects, letting them have cell phones too early and rarely, if ever, making them eat things they hated.

I’m here to say, from time to time, I caved. No, I’m not proud of it. But I also don’t think I’m the worst parent in the world. Yes, my kids have told me that they hated me. But I don’t wear that as a badge of honor. To me, that was a rough patch that we made it through. Certainly, not meme-worthy. (I am NOT a fan of the meme you see below. Sorry for rolling my eyes while you pat yourself on the back.)

Parenting is hard enough without judgments being made based on little or no information. Let’s be each other’s villages instead of grabbing the pitchforks and torches.

What I Miss

I miss having so much passion and so many feelings that I could write a novel, let alone a blogpost.

I miss sleeping through the night.

I miss being in charge of humans who I created and not being in charge of those who created me.

I miss waking up and not feeling pain with the first step in the morning.

I miss remembering names and places and details.

I miss mentioning that I feel warm and not having people make cracks about menopause.

I miss feeling slim.

I miss feeling so young that looking forward was nothing but excitement and wonderful things ahead.

I miss my toddler children who would cling to me and look up to me and think I was the smartest, best person in the world.

I miss the smell of little baby feet.

I miss back scratches from my mom.

I miss my dad...before dementia and Parkinsonism robbed him of his personality and will to live.

I miss having an office and a job and feeling important.

I miss riding in the car with my girlfriends singing at the top of our lungs.

I miss hugging my puppy and smelling her soft fur.

I miss that wonderful feeling of having a free moment to myself in the midst of the chaos of being a working mom.

I miss the feel of a baby kicking from inside my tummy.

I miss the belly laughs of my kids when they were young.

I miss riding my bike when I was young, looking for a place we'd never seen, in search of adventure.

I miss the world before it was snarky and cynical and doubtful and exclusionary and scary.

I miss not worrying about anything except myself.

I miss having total faith in God and not lingering doubts and questions.

I miss not feeling old.

The Parenting Imposter – What I Did for Love

I’m not positive, but, to me, it feels like every other parent has their act together. They really seem to know what they are doing and do it with confidence and without question. I never have. That was never more apparent, or more understandable, than with the birth of our first child.

My oldest son, Andrew, would have turned 29 on November 18^th. Andrew’s been gone eight years and every year, I like to take the time to write a little about him - partially, because I want to pay tribute and partially because some may not know his story.

In short, despite an unremarkable pregnancy, due to trauma at birth, Andrew was born severely developmentally disabled. There are more details here, but suffice it to say that it certainly wasn’t anything that was outlined in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

I will say this much: From the moment he was born, we, and Andrew, were surrounded with love and support. Amazing family and friends rushed to our side, propped us up and never let us feel alone. Incredible doctors, nurses and professionals were there to help us navigate the chaos and confusion that spanned the first few weeks of his life. Many of you may have spent time in a NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) but you haven’t felt devastation until you know that you’re the family for which your story won’t have a happy ending.

Unlike most parents, we had two enormous decisions to make after he was born. First, because he had almost no brain activity, we elected to remove life support. At the time, machines were keeping him alive. As you can imagine, it was agonizing. Then, when Andrew began to breathe on his own, we had to make the heartbreaking decision of what to do next. It was clear that he needed round-the-clock care. Should that be done in our home, with help? Should we choose a special needs foster family? Should we send him to Central Wisconsin Center for the Developmentally Disabled in Madison?

If you know our story, you know that we chose Central Center. It’s funny, but as unsure of myself as I am as a parent, I have never, EVER, regretted that decision. It’s a commonly-held belief that “institutions” are cold and uncaring. That was not at ALL our experience. Even though it was crushing to let someone else care for my child, I knew that his care would be so much better at Central Center than I could give him in our home. And yet, despite the fact that Andrew lived a far longer and healthier life, I still live with a fair amount of guilt over whether I was a good parent to him. At this point, I’m resigned to the fact that it’s just something that I’ll carry with me forever.

Shortly after Andrew passed away, we received many sympathy cards. One was from an acquaintance who happens to be the parent of a special needs child. I don’t know this person very well and she doesn’t know me well nor did she know Andrew at all. In her card, in what I’m sure was meant to be well-intentioned, she said (after offering condolences): “You and I have had similar experiences but made very different choices.” (Her now-adult child has always lived with them.) Even today, that comment still hurts a little – partly because her child is ambulatory and communicative and Andrew was not and partly because it’s a little true. We did make very different choices. I’m not sure she understood that they were for very different reasons.

As much as I rationalize the choices we made for Andrew and still stand by them, I have to admit that I am not always completely at peace with them. I feel this way when I remember that particular sympathy card. I feel that way when people give me far too much credit for being Andrew’s mom. I feel that way when I watch good friends patiently and lovingly parent their special needs children in their own homes. But I also think it’s possible to make the right decision and forever live with tiny pieces of doubt and questioning.

My other two children thrived and grew up in our home and loved their brother as much as possible. But there’s always, for me, that nagging question: What would our family be if Andrew had lived in our home? Honestly, I think we’d be fragile and fractured and worn down by a life that would have had to include round-the-clock caregivers. But we will never know.

What makes a good parent? Is it having great kids? If that’s the case, make me mother of the year. Andrew was awesome. My other kids are awesome, something for which I feel like I can’t take any credit at all. Sure, I did some mothering, some caring, lots of loving…but I’ve always felt like I’ve fallen short in the traditional “good parent” department. Perhaps that’s a reflection of my insecure nature or maybe it’s because I’m not like the moms you see on TV. I was a below-average disciplinarian, short on patience, sometimes, admittedly, wishing they’d grow up faster. (Be careful what you ask for.) I wasn’t much of a cook, didn’t sew or craft and I’m pretty sure I rarely gave out good advice.

Nevertheless, our family has grown up and moved on. Yes, we've ALL grown up. I was only 26 when Andrew was born - still a child in so many ways. We will, forever, be Andrew’s family. But I feel like the incredible caregivers at Central Center also get to call themselves Andrew’s family. I’m humbled to share that with them and will never be able to thank them enough.

You know that phrase “It takes a village?” That’s really the story of Andrew’s upbringing. With our first child, we chose, out of love, to let others help raise him and care for him. Even today, that’s really difficult for me to admit. And yet, because of that choice, Andrew lived far longer than he was supposed to. Sometimes the hardest choice is the best choice.