Prose poetry for when life doesn't fit inside the lines

I haven't written very much poetry in a very long time. But this career thing, these interactions with families, with need beyond my ability to heal, with figuring out the faces of a slew of new-to-me people (sarcastic? happy? angry?), with wanting perfection, and the words beginning to roil as I am looking in another direction, and suddenly the water, the words, are hissing across my mindscape until I have to take the lid off, write them down in order to save the vessel before it boils dry, scorched beyond usefulness.

I did some things today.

And then I read this piece on young mothering and community from Part-time Working Mummy, remembering young motherhood, sitting at a backyard BBQ, belly huge in the sweltering Chicago summer, my new husband chatting joyfully and drinking cold beer. I left early. Of course.

And then I wrote this, because community needs storytelling:

In sing-song, six feet of my son calls to me in a raspy bass, five minutes, the same I love you, but we need to get this shit moving voice I've used with him for fifteen years. And I need it, this warning, my mind a circling drain of last night's ER shift: ceaseless crying of a baby's brain on fire with blood. A sing-song five minutes to bring me back, to think I might be failing at adulthood, but I think he might be winning at adulthood, which might mean I'm winning at parenting, which I'm pretty certain means we're all winning on at least one level. And then he drives us, seven minutes late, he notes, across town to the house of friends. Where he and his fellow teens swell my heart with a kick-ass rendition of Jimi Hendrix, another kind of fire, while I dig up ferns from the yard below. The house where, tomorrow, my friend's first baby, his own brain sparked nineteen years ago with the fire of a too-soon entrance into the world, will be celebrated as he enters adulthood, brain now on fire with engineering and college and so much good. The ferns move from her yard to mine, to pretty up the bare dirt where my last baby played trains, the selling of the house where I heard his heart stop. My man is across the state, creating art sparks in a Detroit more alive than you know, and the teen sparks life out of a fire-red bass, and my eyes spark intermittently with sun-fire and tears, because there are baby robins in the lilac bush, their eyes still swollen shut, and there are babies not too far away whose eyes will never open again, and it is so fucking fragile, all of it, and so exhausting, and so much more beautiful than anything I could've imagined when I was twenty-three, smoking what would become my last cigarette, as I waited, terrified, for the spark of fire, red bled of its color, pink lines across the white horizon of life.

In Which the Adventure Continues... Callooh Callay!

As many of you know, I am heading to St. Petersburg, Florida to complete my child life internship, the last step before I take the certifying exam to be a bonafide CCLS (Certified Child Life Specialist).

For the last few weeks, I have felt resistant to preparing for this major life transition - and one must get ready to move half a country away for four months. It took some deep-soul digging to unearth the root of my concern.






The self-interrogation went something like this:

• Did I want to complete this internship? Yes.
• Was my family going to be okay? Yes.
• Was I excited about my chosen profession? Yes. 

After some time reflecting, I realized that I had started to tell myself the imagined story of 'Others,' and had stopped paying attention to my own story. The story of the 'Others' involves me not being a good mother or a good wife, because I was 'leaving' my family to do my own selfish bidding. Once I recognized that old story, I was able to get back to the real story, the story of MY family and our joy, the story you'll find below. 

In order to maintain balance during my physical distance, I know it will be important for me to have creative time, writing time, so I picked up a lovely green leather journal and the book Wild Women, Wild Voices by Judy Reeves. I have been writing two pages every day, creating a realistic, achievable ritual that meets my needs and that I will carry me through four months and longer. 

 While The Mancub spent time with unschooling friends in New York recently, The Esquire and I traveled north, to Traverse City. This was our first weekend away, together, since the January before Isaiah's death eight years ago. In part, that is because we both enjoy home a good great deal. In other part, I think we both forgot how good and relaxing it can feel to move in paths outside the norm - and how amazing the food can be!

So, many of you may be wondering what The Mancub's unschooling days will look like while I am away. I assure you, I am excited to find out. We have approached this as a family adventure, and one that will benefit all three of us, both in the short run and in the long run. J. has some really interesting avenues to pursue while I'm away. Last year found him playing the drums in a band, but this summer has found him at Open Mic nights, playing bass guitar in a cover band with friends. They're moving into creating more original music, so he's learning to write bass lines.

In Holland, he continues to volunteer with the library once a week, but is switching days to accommodate another volunteer opportunity. A friend who lives five houses down from us runs a non-profit that rehabs houses in the neighborhood and they also host a tool lending library. J. has expressed interest in carpentry, so he'll be volunteering with, and learning from, the mix of people that work with that org. He'll have more time with Miss Pip, the pictured lab/pitty and he has running and swimming plans he wants to keep up on.

In Grand Rapids, The Esquire has some connections that The Mancub is looking forward to exploring, including possible volunteering with The Michigan House during Art Prize (a project The Esquire developed at SXSW last year, involving a showcase of Michigan arts, music, etc.). The Esquire also works with a local recording studio, StoneHouse Records, set in an old stone house right downtown, where J. can learn some of the recording/local music ropes.

Together, they have plans to practice J.'s driving skills, take in lots of classic movies/discussions, and go to see as much local music as they can fit in. J., even as a child, has liked a great deal of independence. He knows that when he's ready he wants to move to New York (I see reflections of his father). I see this four month adventure allowing him to explore further independence in a safe space - and after working through some challenges on my end this summer - I trust in who he is, in our ability to navigate whatever life brings, and most of all, I trust in the connection that I have with him as his mother and as his friend. He's pretty freakin' awesome.

So, the story is that we're all going to be learning a lot. This four month sojourn is a period of transition for all three of us. The Esquire is transitioning into life without either of his parents and pondering what the future may hold. The Mancub is transitioning evermore into the life he envisions for himself, one full with friends and music and service. And I, I am transitioning into life as a mother who has a lot less hands-on mothering to do but is still ever-present, as someone who has a career she is passionate about, as a wife who, after 15 years of everything life could throw at us, knows that a four-month pause in physical presence is not going to break us.

I'm also transitioning into life as a ukelele player - because four months of nights without my menfolk, folks. Four months. This is not good bye. This is just life on steroids.

"Leaving is powerful medicine that I’m doing my best to open to. I’m trying to let it open me, dissolve the places I hold back, the stories I hide about people not liking me, me not belonging, and most of all, to remind me that every moment is a goodbye of sorts.

Maybe saying goodbye is just life on steroids."  Jennifer Louden

How do you do it?

It is a question I am asked often, in various forms. How do you walk back into the hospital? How will you remain emotionally stable among intense medical situations? "Some people return to the hospital setting as therapy...," the question both veiled and valid.

Today marks eight years since Isaiah died. Last year, I didn't mark the anniversary with a blog post because I was in a children's hospital, engaged in the work of a child life practicum. This year finds me with space, in between a child life conference and an internship interview, and writing feels right as I trace the imprint Isaiah has left in our lives.

When I walk into the hospital, I am not walking toward Isaiah, though I carry him with me always. I am walking forward with clinical skills and academic knowledge in a field where I am uniquely suited to supporting the journey of other children, teens and families in medical settings.

I do not sit and chat with mothers about the difficulties of life in the hospital, because professional boundaries are very important to me, and because those boundaries allow me to support families to the best of my ability. However, I am able to listen with empathy - to understand the frustration of a family waiting to be discharged, the fear of parents when doctors don't have all the answers, the difficulty of balancing the needs of well children and a sick sibling. I know the multitude of stressors, and I carry the memory with me so that I can meet a family with respect for their situation, patience in the face of their frustration, understanding when they don't want one more person invading their space, even if I am the "fun" person. And when it is time, I am able to walk away, because I have learned the importance of self-care - that I am better able to meet the needs of families if I care for my own.

Just before we signed on to Hospice of Michigan's pediatric program with Isaiah, we spent one week with him at Helen DeVos Children's Hospital, in the PICU. It was the only opportunity we had to interact with a child life specialist at that hospital, and she made it special, bringing the boys backpacks filled with fun. I ran into her at the conference this past weekend, and was grateful to have the opportunity to thank her, both as a mother and a professional. She recalled that the mancub was called "Joey" then, and that Isaiah was called "Zaya." Today, I remember all the people who walked with us through life and death with Isaiah, and I give thanks as I walk forward. Most of all, I give thanks for the two beings who made me a mother, both of whom continue to influence me as I move through the world. It's a gift to walk with them, in spirit and in presence.

Tonight, we order Z's favorite, Papa John's cheese pizza with "special sauce", our annual ritual. This morning, Joe attended another meeting as a board member of Hospice of Michigan. A week from today, Joseph interviews for a teen volunteer position at Gilda's Club Camp Sparkle, supporting kids who have experienced cancer or loss. The coming week finds me in Ann Arbor and San Francisco and Tampa, interviewing for child life internships. We each of us walk forward, touched by Isaiah, together. It is, as always, a beautiful, complex journey.

Kiss Me, I'm Cute

Photo shows three infant onesies designed for girls. The first one is turquoise leopard print and reads "Love to Be Glam." The second is hot pink and reads "Kiss me, I'm cute." The third is pale pink, and is adorned with a crown, reading, "Princess."

While grocery shopping at the local grocery store, Meijer, this morning, I was stopped by the three outfits above, all lined up in a row. I posted the above photo to Instagram and Facebook with the following words: "When the messages start so young, the conversation is still not big enough.  #letstalkabout  #consent #patriarchy #rapeculture #notsocute #wordsmatter #sodoourdaughters #meijer

I was happy to see several parents joining the conversation, some with important questions that highlight the many facets of the conversation around the socialization of girls and the treatment of girls and women in our society. I wanted, and needed, to more clearly explore my own thoughts and questions on this topic, and perhaps lay bare some more of what I was thinking when I posted the photo above. 

CONSENT

My very first thoughts went to consent, because messages about consent - including who gets to give consent - are being delivered from a very young age.

According to a government survey completed in 2011, 1 in 5 women has experienced a rape or an attempted rape, with 40% of those rapes perpetrated by an acquaintance. 

Let's look back at the those onesies and the messages they're sending. The first reads, "Love to be Glam." In Merriam Webster's online dictionary, 'glamorous' as defined for kids, means "excitingly attractive." Does a toddler really love to be excitingly attractive? Do we want to convey that message about our youngest, most vulnerable girls? Most of the rapes reported above occurred by the time the women were 18. 

The second onesie reads, "Kiss me, I'm cute." I find this one disturbing on several levels. First, this is placing adult words on a child's body, without no regard to the child's temperament or wishes - and trust me, children from a very young age can have a temperament which is not keen on lots of kisses, particularly from strangers. Second, this shirt implies that this female infant or toddler is worthy of physical affection simply because of their physical appearance - not because they are human and worthy of love. Of course, "Hold me because I'm small and vulnerable and need a secure base to attach to and to keep me safe so I can develop appropriately" doesn't exactly fit on a onesie. No, what this onesie says is feel free to touch me, because I'm cute and I deserve it. And what I am saying is that as adults,  we should be honoring a child's right to consent or decline physical interactions as soon as they are able to, whether that looks like watching their physical cues (crying, stiffening for a baby might mean a little too much contact) or allowing them to voice their "no" to a hug, and then honoring it. That is what consent looks like. 

If you're still not sure I should have tagged the photo with #rapeculture, I encourage you to check out what rape culture looks like at www.onlywithconsent.org

PRINCESS CULTURE 

Allow me to confess I don't have a girlchild (I have a 6 ft. tall manchild, but you likely already knew that) so why do I care if you dress your daughter in a onesie that says Princess? Well, honestly, because I care about the well-being of all children, young girls - your girls - included. I am not going to vilify any parent that purchases any of the above articles of clothing. I don't see that helping anyone, or opening up the conversation for those new to it. 

I do believe it's important to look at what message is being sent via the princess culture and to ask questions about it. What do we think of when we, as a society, consider the princess? A damsel in distress? A woman waiting for her prince? What does a princess value? How did she get to be a princess in the first place, anyway? What does a princess look like? What have real princesses' lives looked like? 

These are conversations we can have with our daughters - and maybe, just maybe,  we can wait to put those clothes, that label, on them until they're old enough to join in the conversation. 

ON THE MATTER OF CLOTHING - "SKIMPY," "MODEST" OR OTHERWISE

The conversation on Facebook turned to the types of clothing available for girls at chain shopping stores like Target, specifically about short shorts being the primary type of shorts available for girls. A question was raised about whether it's a problem if a girl likes short shorts. This is a whole other can of worms from that of infant clothing. Girls and women have the right to wear whatever they want without "sending the wrong message," "asking for it," or getting raped. These are things we need to be teaching our sons - not forcing on our daughters. And in regards to the words above, when we as women use words like skimpy or modest, we're not just using words that describe clothing - we're using words that pass judgment on the wearer of the clothing as acting appropriately or inappropriately. I myself sometimes wear scrubs and a sweatshirt (it is Monday, folks) and sometimes wear heels and a form-fitting dress. I am no less an appropriate woman, no more deserving of rape, for either choice. I think we're having a different conversation when we're discussing toddler onesies - but sexualization is a pervasive trend at every age.

Rape culture is teaching women not to get raped instead of teaching men not to rape. - See more at: http://onlywithconsent.org/blog/rape-culture#sthash.32IjyJeK.dpuf

I think ideas about the "right" clothing for girls and women to bleed into the realm of benevolent sexism, and in case your  wondering what the hell that is, lucky you, I wrote a paper about it not too long ago. "Benevolent sexism is defined by a reverence toward women, who require the protection of a man and deserve the care of a man; although their rightful place is in the home, that place is a very special, very elevated place (Hammond, Sibley & Overall, 2014). (Perhaps you can see how princess culture might play into this as well). The scary thing about benevolent sexism is that it is an ideology held by both men and women - and an ideology that tends to punish, in very real ways, women that do not conform to traditional, conservative norms in dress or action. Masser, Viki and Power (2006) found that there is a relationship between the use of rape myths to excuse abuse of women and a belief in traditional gender roles.

All told, it's a complicated conversation - all the more reason to have it. Because sexism is real even when it looks pretty and rape is rape, no matter what she was wearing. 

That was a weighty conversation, and I'd love to end on a humorous note. Not long after I returned from the store, I found myself surprised by a brown kraft envelope, a card left for me by husband.

 Inside, I found the following card, highly humorous and just a skosh ironic, after the conversation I'd just started about infant clothing and sexist messages. I thanked my husband for the card, after which (in a lovely display of emotional intelligence) he apologized for being offensive. But here's the thing, and the reason I'm sharing this - he wasn't offending me. I previously mentioned that this past fall, I was in a graduate class of all women, in which I was the only student to identify as a feminist. Some of the women thought that being a feminist meant you  were anti-men or didn't like things that were feminine or that had to do with the home, like cooking. 

But here's what being a feminist means to me, from a HuffPost article, "It is about speaking out and acknowledging instances of misogyny. It’s about fighting for equal pay or against rape culture. It’s about ensuring that women have control over their bodies, that they are fairly represented in leadership positions and in the media. It’s about demanding change to the systematic prevalence of unequal power relations between men and women. It’s about respect."  I was not offended by my husband's card. I'm not offended by his appreciation of my derriere - he's the one guy to whom I've given consent as a mature, sexual being. But more so, when you read his words, they're about looking past the physical, and loving me for my "love of the work" that I'm doing. He sees me - beyond the sweatpants or the heels - and that is respect. 

Hammond, M., Sibley, C. & Overall, N. (2014). The allure of sexism: psychological

            entitlement fosters women’s endorsement of benevolent sexism over time.

            Social, Psychological and Personality Science, 5(4), 422-429.

Masser, B., Viki, G. & Power, C. (2006). Hostile sexism and rape proclivity amongst

            men. Sex Roles, 54, 565-574.

Home Base, Take Two

Recently, a yoga teacher I follow on Instagram posted a picture of her daughter, a young girl around age 4. In the photo, the young girl is clearly distressed, and is crying. Below, the girl’s mother, the yoga instructor, has written about how her daughter took scissors and cut her own bangs. The picture, the mother tells us, is taken just after the mother has told the daughter that now the mother will have to shave her head. It ends with the comment, “I hope this makes you smile.”

I briefly scanned the comments, hoping I was not the only one to whom this picture did not bring a smile and a “Right on, Mom.” Instead, I found a lot of individuals laughing and supporting this move on the mother’s part, and a number of posters referring to someone who disagreed with the picture as a hater, a dumb individual who probably doesn’t even have kids. I considered composing a thoughtful response, but did not want to give my time and effort to a forum that was likely to cause me stress and add to the already ugly comments on the thread. Nor did I want to have to revisit the picture of the crying girl repeatedly in order to respond. I unfollowed the yoga instructor, which will likely go unnoticed, but felt right.

There were several reasons I found this photo unsettling, and I’d like to touch on several of them. Before I do so, let me assure you, I have children, one living, and one deceased. I do not, and have never used, punishment. My son, now age 13, is a lovely human being.

First, the mother told the daughter that her head would be shaved as punishment. I do not believe the mother will do this, of course. But heaven and the fates forbid that one day in her childhood this little girl gets cancer, and loses her hair or has a brain tumor, like my nephew, and really does need her head shaved. Her mother has already introduced the idea of her head being shaved as punishment, and younger children are prone to magical thinking, so if in fact she experiences either of the above hair losses, it’s more likely this little girl will think her hair loss is punishment for something she has done. That is a heavy weight for a small child to bear.

Second, I think it is always important to remember that hair will grow back. She’s four. She likely doesn’t care what her hair looks like, and was likely exploring something she’s seen adults do. She was not trying to “be bad.” It would be far more effective, for the relationship and for skills development, to help the child understand the safety issues around scissors. And to get really crazy – let the child know they are beautiful no matter what their hair looks like – and if they want to give themselves another haircut, let them know you will help them, to ensure their safety.

Some of the comments referred to the necessity of punishing or disciplining a child for using a pair of scissors on his or her hair. The primary caregiver of a child is their secure base. When life gets frightening, when mistakes are made, the child returns to their secure base to be reassured, to touch safety, before returning to exploring their world. When a child makes a mistake, and the secure base shames them or frightens them, they are less likely to turn to that secure base in the future – it breaks down trust, and breaks down relationship.

Finally, I found this picture upsetting because, for me, yoga is one way in which I learn to respect and support my body, to respect and support my world, and to recognize the connection I have with every living being. When a mother takes a photo of her distressed child for the rest of the world’s amusement, the only thing I feel is disconnection – and that’s not something I want to support in my world.

In the next few posts,  I'll share some resources for those curious to know more about nurturant parenting, how to support secure attachment with your child, and how to live without discipline. 

Home Base

In two days, the three of us will be leaving for the Catskills of New York, where we will gather with 50 or so other radically unschooling families at the We Shine with Unschooling Conference. I've held many images of the past conferences in my heart, so many amazing interactions with kind and respectful parents, with children full of joy and trust. 

Which is why the following image sticks so harshly in my mind, why I've been meaning to write about it for a year now. It is only after the last year of studying attachment theory and parenting education that I have a fuller grasp of what bothered me so much about the following scene. 

      The conference is primarily made up of radically unschooling families; however, the occasional family on a weekend break is found in the We Shine mix. Such a family was lounging in the pool area at the same time as me.  The mom walked into the pool with a clearly terrified 3 year old on her hip. The child continued to scream and sob, tears flowing, asking to get out, as mom talked to her adult friend, telling the friend how the daughter needed to just get over it, had to learn to get used to the water. In between words with her friend, the mom attempted to soothe the daughter, saying, "You're okay. It's okay. You're fine. You're safe." The girl never calmed and the two, after some time, left the water. 

In attachment theory, the parent or primary caregiver makes up the child's first relationship, their secure base. This relationship, when positive, is formed through the parent's sensitivity to the child's cues, the facial expressions and sounds; as well as through mirroring, during which the parent mirrors the child's facial expressions and emotions, leading to a child who can better recognize their own emotional state and self-regulate. Having a parent as a secure base allows for a much more independent child, one who is willing to explore and expand their experiences precisely because they have a secure base to return to when done. 

I don't doubt that the mother in the pool thought that she was teaching her daughter something mother thought daughter needed to know, but at what cost? What are we saying to our children when they express fear and distress and we say, "You're fine, you're okay"? What are they learning when they feel they are in danger and the person they should be able to trust most in the world tells them to ignore that feeling? What sort of disconnect are we setting our children up for? When that girl is fifteen and in an abusive relationship, might she have difficulty recognizing those signs of fear because she has learned not to trust, or recognize, her own emotions? I know that I've taken the example to an extreme, but that is because I feel it is so very important to allow our children to listen to their bodies, to respect their emotional responses, even when a parent sees no reason for concern or alarm. 

It was Cutter who has taught me the most about this, who continues to teach me that he is not me, nor I him. He has very specific likes and dislikes in regard to his body. He does not like lotion, though the sensation of dry skin drives me crazy. If he has a headache, he'll have nothing to do with tylenol or ibuprofen, and instead prefers to drink a glass of water, put a pillow over his head and take a nap. When his muscles are sore from exertion, he chooses to take a day off, but avoids the hot epsom bath I so favor. He avoids scents and likes going barefoot (like me) and rarely wears a coat, though many an old woman in grocery stores have chastised him and me both. 

It hasn't always been easy, but I have respected his needs for his body, while continuing to give him information. And this week, as we ready for our annual Shine trip, he has a cold coming on. I've let him know about dietary changes he can make, natural remedies I can offer, how sleep helps the body heal. I'm not particularly attached to any of those paths. If it were me, I'd be downing raw garlic and honey, astragalus and bone broth - but that's my body. He has requested clementines, is drinking lots of homemade lemonade, and has chosen to take zinc. I know that if I'd have pushed any of this on him, it would've damaged his relationship with his body and my relationship with him. Instead, I'm still his secure base, at the age of almost 13. He's away from me, from home, for large swaths of time, but he still checks in, asks how to cook things, if he can take lemonade and zinc at the same time, what time I need him awake to help with the dog so he knows when he needs to go to sleep - and he trusts my responses because he's free to take them or leave them, both of which he does, because  it's not a power struggle. 

Home base is a pretty sweet place to be.

Inked with Meaning

I always intend to write before another day marking Isaiah's time with us rolls around, but it seems on these days, his birth day, his death day, I give myself the space needed to sit with words.

And so here I am, on his death day, the small town parade of people and cars having just passed by, the wind showering me with backporch helicopter rain, the boy and man nested on the couch, the dog gently nudging me from time to time, for pet, for play, for comfort.

Last week, after many years of pondering, I went to the local tattoo shop, Pincushn's, to get inked with two tattoos I'd designed. Between the two, there are many personal meanings, which I'm finding are too lengthy to divulge over a beer in a loud bar in a way that actually conveys their importance to me. And so here I am, again.

The eight points of the left forearm represent the Noble Eightfold Path of Buddhism, meant to lead to the cessation of suffering. If I were to label myself with an ideology, it would be that of the agnostic atheist: I do not hold a belief in a deity, but readily admit that the universe is full of mystery - I don't claim to be trying to figure things out for anyone but myself and if God or many gods work for you, that's great. I am not Buddhist, but in my personal journey, the study and practice of Buddhism has been important in to me being the type of human I want to be in the world.

The two lines within the circle are symbolic of a story that holds meaning for me, though I can not recall from whence the story came. A tiger sits in the tall grass. An antelope passes by. If the tiger is hungry, it will chase the antelope. If the tiger is sated, it will continue to sit. But either way, action or inaction, a choice is made. I do not want to forget my ability to choose, that inaction is also a choice.

The small point on the right forearm represents a Buddhist proverb: If we are facing in the right direction, all we have to do is keep walking. It is a daily reminder, a daily practice, to reorient myself in the direction in which I wish to move. Reminds me of a bit Neil Gaiman shared during a commencement speech, about viewing your goal as a mountain, and no matter how far away you are, with every decision you make, you are either moving closer to the mountain or further from it.

And this brings us to the swirl on the right forearm, which holds multiple meanings. On one level, it represents the importance, to me, of living life as an exuberant animal, valuing health, play and joyful movement. On a second level, it serves as a reminder of the cyclical nature of life. And at the most personal level, at the same time that Isaiah was releasing his last breaths, a very close friend was sending me the following Kahlil Gibran poem:

“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.”

― Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

It is a gift to myself, to remember this poem, to remember my boy, to honor his joy, his life and his death, to imagine that his last breath ending allowed him freedom from the confines of his broken body, freedom to join wind and sun in playful ways.

A new friend recently asked if days like the Hospice of Michigan Walk and Remember were difficult, if it bothered me when people ask questions about our experiences with Isaiah. My moments of sadness, of melancholy, tend to be smaller these days. I miss him quietly, here and there, but most of my moments are filled with joy and fond remembering. I am thankful to be caught at a train crossing, that I remember his joy in counting the cars aloud.  I am thankful for Cutter's questions, imagining himself so young, recognizing his brother as small for his age, asking how Isaiah died. I am thankful to share our journey in ways that may benefit others.
The only question I continue to struggle with is that which comes from strangers:

So, just one? Oh, you only have one child?

 In responding, I am still a work in progress. It is a daily practice, this living. I am grateful.