I feel lighter and heavier all at once. In one moment, I am singing in my car. In the next, my mind jets to laying on the living room floor watching my baby breathe. Then to the day before when objects and insults were thrown at me from across the room by the baby who now stands several inches taller than me. And I fall apart. I do not understand how we got from point A to point B. 

I am an intentional parent. It would take you about 30 seconds to figure that out about me. All that trauma and fighting for my life stuff sure makes you take things seriously, especially a task like raising a child someone entrusts to you.

When the books, experts, and articles said don’t cave in to tantrums – I didn’t. When my child wailed and screamed and threw things, I met him emotionally, but did not give him what he wanted. Ever. So why did the behavior continue?  

We are in week one of our family transformation (that terminology sounds more promising than therapy intervention). We have changed very little, but the reactions have been enormous. Simply changing our words to observation from reaction elicited verbal attacks and compliance issues. Shifting our demeanors to intentionally happy caused rages and outbursts.

In an instant, the level of intensity in our home shifted back to where we were four years ago– all because of a shift in perspective and attitude. And I’ve realized the difference between four years ago and now may not have been his progress at all.

Reality can be found in reflection. And through the years, while we had not given into his moods and behaviors, we have doubled down on our efforts to prevent them through accommodations.

Instead of letting him be disappointed in not getting to do something, we had an alternative plan ready to go. Rather than deal with him losing tv for behavior, we gave him the opportunity to earn it back through easy chores. If we knew he wouldn’t like what was served for dinner, another meal was often prepared and waiting.

It was preventative defense. It was survival. And for that, I’m choosing to give myself grace. But in the end, the real world will not be standing at the ready with a hug, a plate of chicken nuggets, and an alternative option for avoiding something you don’t like.

Our priest recently spoke of the common encouragement often offered to children: You are capable of anything. The phrase is meant to be motivational, but the reality is deeper. We ARE capable of anything – good or bad.

Giving my son the choice to choose which capable he will go for and letting him live with the consequences is one of the best gifts I can offer him right now. It’s one of the best gifts I can offer myself and my family too. That doesn’t make it less heavy, but it does shift the burden back to where it should have laid all along.

Our home environment is not harsh. It is a loving home with the small expectation that we treat each other with kindness. Our children want for nothing. To find this environment inhospitable points to a deeply flawed view of reality. And while I will do everything in my power to support my son as he struggles to correct this mindset, I will no longer live as a prisoner of it. That makes this journey to transforming our family life feel oh so much lighter.

I knew it would happen. I would start a blog – I’m good at starting. I would plan, execute, and begin beautifully and meticulously writing, sharing, and convincing myself I would continue for the long haul.

Then life steps in and I stall. Two tragic deaths and an unexpected need for a cross country road trip, another line crossed by my child that sees no boundaries, and then my own body breaking down with pneumonia which was only made worse by my inability to rest or acknowledge my sickness.

I feel back at square one – waking up with anxiety at night, keeping myself busy with task after task, and focusing on everyone else before meeting my own needs. I’m climbing out, but I can’t shake the feeling that even when I get back to ground level there’s a mountain ahead.

A month ago, we were advised to enter an in-home intensive parenting intervention program to change the trajectory of our family life. I want to be vulnerable, but when I write out the details, I feel stupid for not seeing it sooner.

When you’re in the middle of ongoing trauma, it’s hard to see the way out. When you’ve come through long-term trauma in the past, it’s hard to convince yourself to quit this one now. When you’ve lived with a behavior long enough, it’s easy to make concessions for its continuation. It’s even easier to miss it getting gradually worse.

When you’re trudging along in grim reality for so long, the bright reports seem even brighter – and you question yourself and your judgement. Maybe I’m the problem again. Maybe my perspective is off. Maybe I’m overreacting.

Or maybe I’m being manipulated.

The program starts this week and the looming thought of it gives me both hope and anxiety. Will she really see us? Will she know what to do?

Last night, I held my sobbing six-year-old. He has been largely shielded by efforts from my middle child. But he’s getting bigger and older, and now he is scared. Last night, when I was at a meeting, I couldn’t protect any of them. I couldn’t protect my six-year-old from his brother’s foot – which without provocation or warning kicked him hard, knocking the wind out of him and shaking him to his core. I couldn’t protect my middle child from trying so hard to retreat into his world of books that his body literally jiggled the pages with anxiety as he read. I couldn’t protect my oldest from himself – his impulses, his anxiety over them, and his regret after.

Whether it’s physical or verbal, this is our reality – our medicated reality – our every day. Is it as bad as it’s been in the past? No. Are we on an upward trajectory? No.  

Sustaining the current status is not an option moving forward. Either we let this control us or we set a path forward to control it. That’s what we are hoping to gain from this program.

On the eve of change, I have hope that when we start this, we can follow through. I have hope that someone will truly see us and know how to help in a sustaining way. I have hope because I have no other choice but to keep trying.

In the fall of 2013, I was zealously venturing into the next phase of motherhood. My oldest child had just turned three. We had recently returned from a week in California after the last-minute, unexpected adoption of our second child. Our home was still in boxes from a simultaneous move across the city. My husband was still in graduate school. And, for some reason, my husband and I thought this was the time to go “all in” on our consulting business. We had yet to find a nanny to help, and I was too naïve to realize we needed full time assistance. We were drowning and didn’t even know it.

I was overtired, overworked, and determined to do everything right. So, naturally, I decided it was time to explore our new community… by myself, with a newborn and a three-year-old who was (obviously to everyone but me) dealing with some extreme sensory issues.

I stayed awake after the 4 a.m. feed and got enough work done to hold things off until naptime rolled around. I speed walked on the treadmill for 30 minutes, ran through the shower, did the dishes, and prepped our bags for the day so I could greet my three year old when he  woke up at 7:30 a.m. and then get everyone else ready.

As you can imagine, the events that unfolded next humbled me in the comedic manner life often does. Here’s the recount of the day as I described it to my husband in an email:

My day thus far: I got out the door at 9:20 a.m. completely packed with the hope to go to the library and a park… I even packed a thermos with hot water for a hot bottle for the baby… I was ON TOP OF THINGS.  

Big boy decided at the last minute he did not want to go, of course, but he had already watched five episodes of Arthur. We got to the library and he does not stay on the sidewalk… I found him wandering in the parking lot while I was getting out the baby…Note to self: need to figure out a better system for child unloading.  

Big Boy decides he doesn’t want any books: “I don’t want to do nothing” and has a very sour attitude.  I finally find a dinosaur book and we decide to get it and a DVD about trucks.  He is finally happy, so I tell him we can try to find a new playground next which makes him very happy.

We asked the ladies up front about a park and we head out to “the best one in town.” Turning back onto the main road, a motorcycle cop turns his lights on behind me.  Baby begins to scream as he is hungry, and Big Boy is thrilled by this unexpected visitor…. he would NOT stop talking to the officer, asking questions, and wanting to know if I would be arrested. Of course, my inspection sticker is expired and my proof of insurance is out of date, but thankfully he sees that I’m in a little over my head and have a kid that won’t shut up about his baby brother until the cop opens the back door to look at him.  Seeing the newborn, He lets me off with a warning. I take one more dive in the giant bag I call my purse and actually do find my updated insurance card which means we can go ahead and get the car inspected right away… which is where we head to next.

I headed directly across the street… they won’t give me service because I’m actually registered in a different county. I start to tear up and they amazingly got me in right away as long as I promised to switch my registration immediately. We sat down, got situated, and took a deep breath – then Big Boy spontaneously falls over on the tile floor.  Nothing was by him… nothing… he just fell over.  While comforting the screaming child…. #2 decides to join in the action…. So we sat there, crying and screaming for 20 minutes while the car gets inspected. Before we finally get in the car, I ask the Big boy if  he needs to pee –nope – onto the park.

We found the park… After meandering through a long windy road, Big boy asks “Where are we?”  That’s what I was thinking too… it’s the middle of the summer and no one is here or at the pool right next to the park.  We’re in the middle of this big community park and no one is here.  Weird.  But I see it… in the middle of the field… t takes us sevn minutes to walk in a crooked, meandering line with baby carriage and toddler in tow across the field to the playground. (Why would anyone put a playground for little kids in the middle of a field so far from the parking lot?) 

And when we arrive – Big Boy declares that he does indeed need to pee. No one is around so I point to a tree for him to pee on and he is thrilled. He pulls up his pants just in time for a car to pull up. A middle aged man with big broad shoulders gets out. Maybe he is here to clean the pool that no one is using…. or maybe he is here to murder us because no one would hear our screams out here in the middle of nowhere… I keep my eye on him and he disappears behind the pool building.

That’s when Big Boy announces he has to poop. Now someone is here. I can’t let him poop in the grass because whoever that is might see him. So, we pack everything back up and start the long march over to the pool bathrooms, but they are locked of course. There’s a porta potty on the other side of the building. Thankfully, it’s unlocked. Big boy refuses to go in. It’s dirty. I grab my baby wipes and clean the potty. Nope. Big boy won’t sit on it and he needs to go. Bad. I suggest we head home, but he doesn’t want to go home either.  

I finally make an executive decision – we are going home. I end up dragging the screaming child who needs to poop to car.  The baby has fallen asleep from the drama of it all.  And we start the drive home—exhausted – but finally quiet and calm.

Just as we pull onto the main drive, I see something- a roadrunner! I point it out to Big Boy… and almost instantaneously…. THUMP…. The roadrunner decided to try flying and instead hurled itself into my windshield. That’s right: I killed a roadrunner.

At that point, I started crying. So, on cue, Big boy starts crying again too. He declares he doesn’t want to be a big brother anymore.  We get home. I convince him to poop and watch another video.  I got some food in him and he started feeling better.  I fed the baby, and then I fed myself.  

I put the sleeping baby down on a blanket and walked to the kitchen for some water.  When I return, Big Boy is holding baby by the head trying to get him to sit up…. by. the. head.  I rescue the baby and make note to always put him in a safe place from now on. I educate Big Boy on how to safely hold his brother, who then proceeds to have yet another meltdown…

I hold him, rock him, and build that child back up because he is really a good big brother and we just need to learn how to hold baby right. And then, magically, I found out that nap time actually came early today. My smartest parenting move of the day… and it isn’t even 11 a.m.

On days when I feel like everything is too chaotic and falling apart, it’s good to look back and remember that one day this may also be a funny survival story and all I need to do is make it to nap time.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I was lucky enough to find a path to healing for my family and our journey with DMDD. I was honored to be able to share that experience with Revolutionize DMDD – a group working to bring awareness and support to the brain based therapy that helped my son so much.

You can read the article here.

It happens every Christmas. I start early with planning, organizing, and decorating. We take family photos in November for Christmas cards and photo ornaments. I give thoughtful consideration to everyone’s lists, help them compile ideas, and coordinate with everyone to prevent duplication. I even compile photos from the year and compose a special album for each Grandparent.

I put on festive music and read Christmas books to my children. We attend advent services and light the wreath at night. I play piano and sing carols…

…then I lock myself in my bedroom and have myself a little breakdown.

Every. Damn. Year.

This year was going to be different. I had built myself up with therapy starting last January, exercised, and had a game plan for keeping my cool. I didn’t have the stressors of out-of-town guests and we had no major plans. We didn’t take family photos because of a bad fall my youngest had that left his face in stitches – and I had willingly let the idea of a perfect family Christmas card go.

We had a shorter than normal school break and my husband had more days off than normal. I was extra prepared with gifts – even spending long evenings watching cheesy Christmas movies and taking apart and re-sorting a giant $200 lego star wars ship gifted to us by a neighbor so my lego-obsessed 9-year-old could rebuild it. This year was going to be calm, relaxing, and magical.

And yet, by 1 p.m. on Christmas day, I was locked in my bedroom having myself another little breakdown.

I have my reasons. It didn’t help that I stayed up late for Christmas eve service,  neglected to put out any gifts until after the kids were in bed, and invited family over that night to play games. It didn’t help that I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to cook egg casserole, waffles, muffins, and fruit salad so I could film my children’s faces as they woke up to a room full of gifts.  

It didn’t help that one child was so mad I wouldn’t let him go to a friend’s house on Christmas morning that he screamed cuss words for 30 minutes and threw all his gifts at me. And it certainly didn’t help that after I calmed said child down, I walked into the dining room to find every newly organized bag of that 1,394 piece lego set dumped out all over the table.

To be perfectly honest, I was mad at myself more than my children. I’ve put so much time into therapy and learning to cope this year, I felt as though it was all for naught. Here I was again – in the same moment that propelled me to start therapy in the first place one year ago.

Since my initial declaration that Christmas was cancelled forever, I’ve had some time to breathe and reflect. The kids are back in school and a local boutique hotel had a winter special – which my husband graciously imparted to me as a chance to regroup and reflect. It’s amazing what a walk on the beach and a little solitude can do.

Noticing the bands of bunched up little broken shells on the beach made me think of all the tasks and emotions that have encompassed my every day since November. I’ve let the crunchy, hard to navigate chaos of life crowd my world so much that I couldn’t see how to walk around it. Watching the waves wash them all away and smooth out the remaining sand made me remember to let it all go. This new year is a chance to let all that past junk wash away, give myself a fresh start, and build on the healthy habits I put in place last year.

As for Christmas, I’m debating if I’ll be sending cards out at all next year. I may not even put up a tree unless my kids insist on actually helping. I’ve already discussed a secret Santa with the adults instead of individual gifts, and plan to do the same for the kids. Each kid will still get one big gift from Mama and Papa – but not six gifts –  and maybe a few stocking stuffers to boot. Menu items will include Pizza, store bought lasagna, and everybody’s favorite cereal for Christmas morning.

The new plan: Wash away the clutter of Christmas and focus on what matters…family, friends, and – most importantly – the reason for the season.

Until then, I will commit to the things that center me: writing, exercise, and prayer. I will join a bible study and attempt to build meaningful friendships with other women. I will get back to reading fiction and attempt to break my addiction to sugar (maybe). I will relish in solitude when I can find it. I will walk on the beach and try to remember to let the crunchy annoyances of life go.

My Great Aunt Ruth never married. She was my Grandfather’s Aunt, so really my Great Great Aunt. As a child, we would play skipbo in her immaculate 55+ apartment, eat pretzel nuggets, and talk largely about family or if there was enough rain for the crops this year.

When she died, each family member received a meticulously maintained envelope with clippings, cards, or any other item that had been shared with her about your life.

On the top shelf of her linen closet was a box – and like everything else in her home – it was labeled, in order, and stacked neatly. The box was titled: Strings too Short to Use.

I’ve thought of that box often in a comical sense as well as a practical example of what happens when you live through the Great Depression. More and more, I think of those strings as a metaphor.

Cancer.

Adoption.

Politics.

Mental Illness.

Food Allergies.

Moving.

Trauma.

Keeping 3 boys alive.

Working with your spouse.

Retiring. Thrice. Before 40.

Cancer Again.

I seem to have a lot of strings.

The problem with starting a blog or a platform or whatever you want to call this sharing is finding a focus. Marketing 101. For a large part, that’s the big stumbling block that’s caused me a delay in starting.

On a daily basis, I feel like an expert on nothing but my life is a culminative experience of much.

I have a lot of strings. Some are long. Some are short. Some are colorful. Some are strong. Others are knotted or need to be strengthened.

These are the strings I want to explore and share.