My day.

I am tired/I am thankful.

I am lonely/I am madly in love with my family.

I am anxious/I am at peace.

I am fearful/I am hopeful.

I am never enough/I am more than enough.

I am not ok/I am ok.

I am theirs/I am my own.


This is Love

These moments are slipping through my fingers. Just when I think I have a firm grasp on the present it is the past. I close my eyes and notice the weight of your head on my chest. I smell the lotion and detergent. The milk and soap and sweetness. I listen to the sound of you breathe in your sleep. I feel the skin on your cheeks. I pray that somehow this very moment will be etched in my mind so that when the day comes I have trouble remembering who I am I can close my eyes and feel this. For this is Love. I pray it will be my anchor to a life well lived.

I know you are growing. That one day you won’t want to be rocked to sleep. It both feels me with anxiety and reinforcers how precious this moment is. And in this life this moment is always the most important one. It is all that truly exists.

I am thankful you were planted on my heart so many years ago. I didn’t know then it was you, but I know now. You have grounded me in ways I could never have imagined. You bring me to this moment and hold me here. You show me every day what human connection looks like. And feels like. Your heart is pure and your love is without expectation. Every day I strive to be worthy.

Twice a year is not bad…

I’m back. I find myself drawn to this space once every few months-but then I freeze before ever writing a word. I’m struggling with the privacy of all I want to say. And the blandness of what is left once I sort through it all. And yet, here I am. Mother of 3. Wife. Social worker. Daughter. Person. 
I am still soaking things in. I smell this baby on the regular because I simply can’t get enough. He reminds me to hold the other two a little tighter. I remind myself that today is the most important day. I try to say yes more, but fail often. I try to approach the monotonous tasks of housework with a perspective of gratitude. But fail there too. But not always. I try to look in their eyes instead of my phone. But sometimes I forget. And sometimes I’m just tired. But sometimes I’m not. And we laugh and love and connect.
I am still overwhelmed with the sense of time never stopping. It’s too fast. I want to hold on to this day for as long as possible:


It has been 6 months since I have written anything here.  Partly because I have lost my definition of this space.  It started as a way to share the antics of my children with our family.  Facebook now fills that need.  Also my kids are older and have a desire for privacy.  I no longer write about many of their antics.  They seem to frown upon it.  So that just leaves me—and in all honesty I am not very comfortable writing much about me.  And I am not sure how much of me exists outside of our kids.

And yet… Here I am.  Tonight I had a desire to come here and just be in this space.  It reminds me of when my kids were little.  It reminds me of the time before Facebook.  It feels safe and warm and cozy.  I am not sure I can ever abandon it forever.

A lot has happened in the past 6 months.  The biggest of which is that we adopted again.  We now have a newborn and are soaking in every second with him.  This time around we registered with the National Down Syndrome Adoption Network.  Maybe I will say more about the journey later.  But for now I will just say that my heart is full.  I am completely in love, not just with this baby, but with my entire family.  I could never have imagined this amazing life.  When I find myself frozen in fear with the realization that I only get to do this life once I stop and look around.  While I doubt myself on an hourly basis, somehow I have no doubts when it comes to our family.  I am working on being present in order to soak in every moment of childhood with each of these amazing humans.

Perhaps I will come here more often as this journey continues.  Perhaps not, kids keep you busy.  Either way it helps me to know it is here.  It, too, has become a part of my time in this place.


36.  It’s just a number.  Just a year.  It shall not defeat me.  But it has tried to.  This year has included a ridiculous increase in the amount of gray hair, sudden sun spots on my face and legs, the appearance of varicose veins, and an end to getting carded.  

I haven’t found a good antidote yet, but I’m working on it.  

I bought some wine.

And 36 ends in 3 weeks.  I raise a toast to 37, may you treat me kindly.


Over the past year I have become increasingly fearful.  Of a lot of things but mostly the state of things.  But over the past two weeks I have begun to realize that many of the people I fear are also operating from a place of fear.  

Fear is a powerful emotion.  When you are neck deep and sinking you begin to grab at others to pull yourself up.  That is what is happening.  And I, too, am guilty.  When you are afraid it is easy to make assumptions, use labels, call names, all to keep from sinking.

But in the end it doesn’t work.  Everyone drowns.  

Today I am choosing to relax and float for a second.  Get some rest so I can swim stronger.  You see I have these children at home I have to protect and I need to be strong for that.  I need to make them strong.  Because people will pull them down and they must be strong enough to resist without retaliating.  That is my job.  

Today I did two absolutely amazing things.  I stopped and just stood in complete appreciation of this Earth.  This overwhelming rebirth that is spring.

Then, I did something that leaves me choked up every time I do it.  I voted.  Despite all of our differences—-despite all of our FEAR—we walked into a polling place and voted.  AND we were respectful to each other, greeted by the sweet poll workers, and we all did what we have been blessed with the opportunity to do.  We participated.


Pain sponge

I am currently listening to “What is the What” in my car as I drive to work and school and dance and wherever else my life takes me.  I am finding myself easily lost in and completely overwhelmed by this story.  I have cried I am not sure how many times and I am not even halfway through.  But I can’t stop.  And as I think about that fact I realize that I do this all the time.  I am drawn to heartbreak and pain. Not because I enjoy it. Not because I can fix it. I don’t think it’s a sub conscience effort to punish myself.  But maybe it is. Would I be able to recognize that if it’s sub conscience?

Whatever the reason I surround myself with the stories of people.  And sometimes actual people.  And I listen to their story.  And I feel their pain.  I listen to the pain of Sudanese boys in a civil war, then listen to the pain of American middle schoolers who are sometimes struggling to meet their basic needs.  The suffering is different but it is still suffering.  And I feel it. Each time.

Maybe I do it out of privileged guilt?

Maybe it is because of my ability to isolate myself in my own suffering once upon a time and my realization that NO ONE should do that.  We must have a hand to hold. Maybe I can be that hand?

But I am not holding any hands of the now grown adults from Sudan.  I am just listening to their pain.  Maybe the purpose of that is to carry the story and make sure it is not forgotten?  Perhaps there is no purpose.
Either way I will not stop.  

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