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The Great Outdoors

This has been a stressful week. Nothing extraordinary happened at work or at home. The library was very busy for the first few days and I was finally able to be productive for the last two. Home was the usual hectic schedule of trying to squeeze in making dinner and taking the boy to basketball practice and do my own workouts and laundry and all the other stuff. But there was nothing more stressful than usual.

And yet by Friday afternoon, I wanted to hide in my home and never talk to anyone again.

Typically I enjoy working with the public. People can drive me crazy but I usually find humor in odd behaviors or just roll my eyes at those that irritate me. But not this week. I had reached my fill of humans and I needed the day and week to end. I knew I had my son’s game to go to this weekend, as well as a visit to my mom, yet I wasn’t sure I could face either event.

I got up this morning WAY too early and a little grumpy. I still refused to think about the day ahead and just read a book for a while. Once my husband was up, we talked about my frustration with people and needing a break and about the courses I started to look into, possibly for a career change. Maybe something I could do from home or just something *not* with the public and with very few people. He was surprised but just let me talk. My son woke up then, so no further conversation was had, but that was ok. I needed to do a little self-assessment and figure out what’s going on in this brain of mine.

A while later, I bundled myself up and went for a run. It was 28 degrees, plenty warm and dry enough, but my face still froze. And yet it was a very enjoyable run. I just listened to my music and pushed myself when I was able and didn’t really think at all.

Once I got home, I stretched and did a few chores then showered. My kid got ready to go and we were off to the game.

No anxiety. No anger. No frustration.

Huh.

How come?

Did I purposely say to myself, “Ok, Hol, get a grip. You’ve got to do this, so just let it go”?  Of course not. That would probably be a very emotionally healthy thing to do, but I’m not there yet.

Was it the run?

Yeah. I think so. There’s something about a bit of heavy breathing and sweat and fresh air that does something to my brain. Something really, really good. Not only does my body feel better after a run, but my mental and emotional health is vastly improved. Endorphins are the absolute best drug.

But I don’t think it was *just* the run, but being outside.

All I want to do in the winter is stay indoors and sleep and read and not interact with anyone outside of my household. It’s cold and my body hurts when I’m cold, so leave me alone and let me stay inside and bake blueberry muffins and cranberry bread. I walk and run on my treadmill and lift weights and watch exercise videos, therefore my fitness level is still maintained, so why go outside?

Maybe because there’s a lot of life out there. It may be winter in Maine but there are birds and deer and rabbits and turkeys and squirrels and I get to see them right here, in my town, on my road, in my yard!  The trees may be bare but the snow and ice make them beautiful again. The spruce and the pine are always gorgeous, too, and just seeing them brings me comfort I wasn’t aware I needed.

Photo courtesy of Stephen LaRochelle

Photo courtesy of Stephen LaRochelle

Hearing and seeing all the life that is out there, makes me want to live. Makes me want to be a part of others’ lives, too. Even those annoying humans.

Well…some of them, anyway.

Do you ever just want to hibernate? Or hide? How do *you* keep going? I’d love to know.

 

 

 

 

 

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My one intention

Typically I love the beginning of a new year. It’s so full of possibilities. This is the year I’ll finally [fill in the blank]! So many people scoff at the “lose weight” or “exercise more” resolutions that are made, but you know if that’s what you want to do in the upcoming year, then screw the naysayers. Some people just want to see you fail, no matter what your goal is. So don’t worry about everyone else, just do the best you can for yourself.

In the past, I’ve made some of those same resolutions and I eventually succeeded.  I lost over 50 pounds one year and have kept it off. I ran over 600 miles in 2012 and completed a half-marathon in 2013. But I’ve also said I’d try something new each month, which I’m pretty sure never happened, or to be happier with myself, which will just be an ongoing battle.

This may be the first year I don’t have any kind of resolution or goal for myself. There are things I would  *like* to do or become–I want to be physically stronger, I want to write more, I want to run a smidge more than I did last year, I want to bake gluten-free bread in my oven successfully–but if these things don’t happen then they don’t happen. No harm, no foul. Honestly, right now there are other people’s lives that will impact my own in such a manner that I don’t really want to have any goals. Not any personal ones, anyway.

Instead I have hopes and wishes for others.

I want my mother’s memory and health to stabilize for an entire year. I want my brother’s heart and health to maintain a good state. I want both my son and husband to enjoy moving their bodies.  I want my best friend to find true love.

I want all of us, all of you, to be happy.

But the only thing I really intend on being this year is sane. If I can balance my day to day life–the work and parenting and keeping in shape and caring for Mom and making dinner and doing laundry and taking care of the house and being a wife and a friend–and still find a little time for me to read and write? Then sane I will be. Or rather become. I’m pretty sure I’m not there yet.

So happy new year, my friends. May all your resolutions or goals or intentions come to fruition, and may all of our wishes and hopes and dreams come true.

 

 

 

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Calvin and Hobbes and Santa Claus

I always get a bit nervous when I see my son’s teacher has sent me an email. I’ve gotten a bunch over the past few years. Some good, letting me know about something spectacular he had done that day (especially with writing, since that’s something he constantly struggles with), and a few that were not so good. Mostly about his behavior or a scuffle on the playground.

And this week? This week I got the email informing me that my child was telling everyone in his class that Santa didn’t exist and it was just their parents putting the gifts under the Christmas tree.

Oh shit.

A few months ago, I briefly mentioned in this blog, the evening my boy found out the truth about Santa Claus from a Calvin and Hobbes comic. He cried himself to sleep that night, and kept repeating, “I’ve lost a friend! I’ve lost a friend!” The day after this happened, he went into complete denial mode and I just let it go. It was in the summer and I didn’t feel the need to discuss it anymore at that time, and he definitely didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

I started thinking about this again a few weeks ago but was really unsure how to bring it up. I really, really wanted him to face the truth. I hate lying to him and I wanted to stop the charade. I don’t think he ever noticed the different wrapping paper or hand writing or any of the other tricks we implemented, so why even bother? I wanted him to figure this out himself, I guess. Although is it better to tell your child, “Hey, I’m sorry but I’ve been lying to you your entire life,” or is it better for them to figure it out (or read about it) and feel betrayed? It’s all just icky.

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Instead of finding a way to bring this up, my son did it on his own. He mentioned Santa a few times last week, and I just looked at him and shrugged my shoulders. He knew the truth and I wasn’t going to flat out lie anymore, so I let him think about it. At that time, I had no idea he would say anything to his friends. NO IDEA! I thought he hadn’t completely admitted to what he really knew, so there was no sense saying anything about keeping it  a secret.

After getting the email from his teacher, I told my boy that he needed to keep the information about Santa to himself and he asked why. I told him that it might upset some kids and they didn’t need to know this right now and they didn’t need to hear it from him. He kept whispering, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know, I didn’t know. I’m really sorry.” I let him know that it wasn’t his fault. I was responsible for this. I never told him not to say anything. Apparently when my kid learns something new, everyone needs to know about it.

I asked my son why he told people about what he learned. “Some kids were talking about Santa and I thought they should know the truth. They don’t know, Mom!” I told my son if any of his friends asked him about Santa and the presents, that he needed to tell them to ask their parents about it and let those parents deal with it from there. (And if any of you are parents of children in my son’s class, I AM SO SORRY!)

In a weird way, I feel proud of the kid. Even though he hated the truth, he felt others shouldn’t be left in the dark. And maybe he didn’t want to feel so miserable by himself, which is exactly what I would have done. Misery loves company, right?

I thought I’d feel really sad when this little piece of Christmas magic died out, but I’m not. If you know me, you know that I *love* Christmastime. I love the music, the lights, the gifts, the movies, the stories, the whole shebang. And I love Santa Claus. I love the entire idea of him and what he stands for. Giving because it feels good is a fantastic thing. But I don’t like telling my child that this old man sneaks into our house once a year and leaves boxes in our living room while we’re sleeping, nor do I like telling my child that it’s ok to sit on that old guy’s lap. Seriously. All of that is really creepy.

Now my child will know that his parents stay up way too late on Christmas Eve and wrap and put things together and make everything appear picture perfect, all because we think he’s pretty darn great.

Star Wars figurines? $20

Video game?  $50

Knowing how awesome your parents are?

PRICELESS

 

 

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Surprise!

Visiting my mom these days tends to fill me with trepidation. What will I find this time? Each visit brings something new–cuts on her face from falling out of bed, an unpaid bill with possible consequences, confusion about the location of her hairdresser she’s been seeing for nearly 20 years.

At this point, Mom still knows who I am and isn’t confused in any way about me, but I worry that one day soon she won’t know my son. He’s growing so quickly and looks so much older already. I’m afraid that one day she won’t recognize him, and who will be more heartbroken when that happens? My son or my mother?

This last visit, though, I wasn’t worried about that. We already knew what special surprise we had waiting for us. We had a task that needed to be accomplished. The search was on….to find Mom’s teeth.

Common-Dreams-Losing-Your-Teeth-2

Doesn’t this sound like a Janet Evanovich novel?  Crazy!

But it’s what needed to be done. Apparently Mom took her teeth out sometime in the middle of the night. She found her bottom teeth somewhere WAY behind her bedside table, but no top teeth. So the hunt was on!

As my son and I looked under and in the couch, I started to wonder if he’d remember this one day and how he’d look back on it. Will he remember it fondly or just shake his head and think how bizarre things were? Or maybe both?

After the couch there was searching under the bed, behind the bed, under tables and bureaus and chairs. But still no teeth. And this, my friends, was over a week ago. Mom can chuckle about it, but I know it bothers her. She keeps saying how funny it feels not having her top teeth in during the day. Where the hell could the teeth be?!? She has a cat, and honestly, I even looked in the cat box just in case he dragged them in there. It would be horrible if they were in there, but at least they would have been found!

I am really trying to find humor wherever I can. I think when you love someone who has dementia, you *must* find humor and happiness wherever and whenever it’s possible. There are so many bad days and bad visits and dreaded phone calls, that when I have a good afternoon with my mom, I hold onto it with everything I have. I must remind myself that there are still good times ahead. They might not be like they were before and they won’t be as frequent. There will be more good moments than good days.

But that’s something. And right now I’ll take it.

 

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A gift

A few weeks ago as we sat at the dinner table, my son picked up his napkin and put it to his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, “I’ve got a new tic.” He removed the  napkin to show us his eyebrows raised on his forehead. Then he waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx…except my boy didn’t do it on purpose. This might have seemed amusing if it wasn’t a tic. If he just wiggled his eyebrows to be funny, then we’d probablygroucho2 find him a hat and fake glasses and show him YouTube videos of the Marx brothers to explain who he looked like and why it was funny. But as my son continued to sigh throughout dinner and kept his napkin covering his face, it was no laughing matter.

 

This past summer, Bri’s body (or rather his body’s reaction to anxiety) created a tic that physically hurt him. He started to nod his head in a very quick, jerky movement. Sometimes the nodding is up and down as in “yes,” and sometimes it’s a shaking of the head as in “no,” although typically it’s the former. There are times when the nodding is so frequent, that I’ve had to ask him to answer me verbally when I ask a question. On at least one occasion, I asked him something and didn’t hear him answer “no” but he was nodding his head as in “yes.” He got upset because of the confusion, but hopefully the verbal responses will help in the future. What’s even more upsetting is that sometimes after a particularly bad day, he’ll try to settle down at bedtime but will cry out to me, “Mom, my neck really hurts!” I always respond with a visit to his room and many whisperings of “I know, sweetie, I know” and light massages of his neck.

Although my son has had transient tic disorder for a few years, it seems to be getting more difficult for him to handle. Or rather he is more aware that the tics are happening. I am grateful for at least the rotation of the tics, the fact that one particular movement will go away for at least a little while. For instance, he doesn’t blow on his hands like he used to. He might start again tomorrow, but right now that’s not what his body feels is necessary. I just keep hoping the nodding of the neck will disappear soon. The fact that this tic is hurting his body scares me. I’ve read about folks with Tourette’s Syndrome and how the various jerky movements negatively affects their bodies. How could it not?

The most disturbing aspect of all this though, was watching my little boy’s body create a tic while we had what we thought was a relaxing dinner. It had not been a bad day and it had been a good evening. I keep asking myself, “Why does his body do this? Why does it react to stress and anxiety this way, even when it’s not a particularly stressful day or moment?” I don’t have specific answers and yet I know from observation that he tends to tic more at night, no matter what his day has been like. I do think he tries to resist the tics while at school. (I’ve seen him at a birthday party try to hold his face still and open his eyes wide so he won’t squint and scrunch his eyes.) Once he gets home, he knows he can be himself and I think his body just lets it all out and it tics like mad–eye scrunching, eyebrow raising, head nodding, blowing on the hands–the whole kit and caboodle.

But this morning? This morning I wasn’t thinking about anxiety or body tics or deep breathing exercises or any other kind of stress reliever.  I was only thinking about getting our four cats outside so they’d stop bugging me. And as I let them out, I heard my son waking up. I didn’t know it, but I was about to receive a very special gift.

Typically my husband, the early riser, is already awake but this morning he slept in. I whispered to my son that he could get up if he wanted to, but we had to be quiet. So we went into the kitchen and quietly talked about what we dreamt the night before while we made tea and coffee for ourselves. (Don’t worry, decaf tea for him!) Then we tiptoed into the living room, sipped our drinks in front of the lit Christmas tree (yes, you read that correctly) and talked about video games, my sister’s 50th birthday, our freaky cat we secretly think is Batman, and ghosts. And near the end of this lovely conversation? I realized that my sweet boy hadn’t tic’ed once.

Not once.

I love my son more than anything that has ever existed in this world. I’ll love him if he dyes his hair purple or turns into a yeti. I love him and all his eccentricities and goofiness and bad jokes. And I love him with his tics. But I also love him without his tics and can appreciate those few moments when his body and mind are calm and happy and in sync.

 

 

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The Comforts of Food

Since I was 7 years old, I have turned to food to ease my anxiety, to diffuse my anger, to make me feel good…or at least better. I have eaten away every emotion until only what appeared to be happiness remained. Looking at it now, I’m sure it was the sugar and fat that gave me that euphoric feeling.  And yet knowing this, and after losing over 80 pounds to finally get out of the fat lady’s clothing store, I *still* turn to food when the going gets tough even though I promised myself I wouldn’t ever again.

These past few weeks have been extraordinarily stressful. It’s not the best excuse, but there it is. Fortunately, my food choices have at least changed since my big girl days. I used to eat lots of chips or ice cream or leftover Chinese takeout as my binge foods of choice. Now, when I’m feeling blue or need to take the edge off, I eat rice mixed with canned peas and shredded cheese and a teaspoon of butter or a big bowl of Cinnamon Rice Chex with almond milk.

I know, I know, I’m so naughty!

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Me, 4 years ago, eating a scrumptious gluten-free cupcake from Babycakes in Orlando.

It may not seem like a big deal and honestly, in the big scheme of things it’s not. Since I lost this weight, I’ve been obsessed about keeping it off. I still intend to keep it off and I’m sure I’ll keep counting those calories and running when I’m able, but I also realized this week that I have to start making some kind of effort to let this go. It won’t be easy, and it won’t be overnight that’s for damn sure, but I have to find a way to make myself a little happier and a lot less stressed. That may mean I’ll skip a morning workout and read instead or maybe have a snack between breakfast and lunch so I don’t maim any of my co-workers.

Does this mean I might gain a pound or two? Maybe. Will I freak out if I do? Of course I will. I’m not naïve enough to think that just by saying, “Hey, I won’t get stressed by that little bit of weight gain!” that I *won’t* get stressed. I most certainly will because that’s who I am. What I’m shooting for, is to not get AS freaked as my normal. To try to take it a bit in stride and realize that it’s not the end of the world.

This past week I thought a big chunk of my world really was about to end, and gaining a pound or two doesn’t feel like that at all. Gaining a bit of weight can be resolved at some point by eating less and exercising more and going to bed hungry more often than not. It’s a serious pain in the ass, but it’s not the apocalypse.

 

So tell me, what are YOUR comfort foods? Anything funky or boring (like mine)? I’d love to hear it if you’d like to share.

 

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The remedy

Hope is a funny thing. It can help you sleep, allow you to smile and laugh when you didn’t think you could, and can even push you out the door and get that bit of fresh air and exercise that you so desperately need.Hope

This has been a weekend filled with tears and stilted conversations and many, many spoken “I love you’s.” My family is scared and sad and feeling helpless and attempting to prepare for the worst….but have decided to say “Fuck this” and instead we’re hoping for the best.

 

My brother has been in the hospital for nearly a week. What we had hoped would be a 3-day stay with one cardiac procedure, has turned into a life or death situation that we were not expecting. My brother’s heart is an anomaly anyway, and we should have known it wanted to throw everyone a little surprise.

Through medicine, we hope the issue will be resolved and the original procedure can take place without a hitch and my big brother will be as well as he can be. This is the hope and the wish and the good thought and the prayer and the good vibe we are putting out into the universe. We expect it to be fulfilled.

So if you have control over these types of things, consider yourself put on notice.

Do NOT disappoint me.

 

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Picture this

As I enter the yard, the lawn has been mowed and there are trimmed bushes in front of the house. When I walk into the small, but clean and organized home, there is no trace of dirt on the carpet or dust on the television. The kitchen floor is swept and Mom is at the counter whipping up a batch of cookies. Mom is a tall woman (5’9″ish), thin yet strong. It’s possible the house smells like cigarette smoke, but it probably also smells like chocolate and sugar and a hint of dish soap.

Now fast forward four years.

I walk into the yard with the overgrown bushes and am greeted with a trash bag on the walkway that has been ripped open by animals. When I enter the house, I see a rug coated in dirt and grass, and Mom, now 20 pounds lighter with the look of a frail wounded bird, is sitting in her favorite chair because her body doesn’t allow her to do much more. The kitchen floor is also dirty, and when I open the trash can to throw something away, tiny flies dart out at me as I try to slam the lid back down while covering my face. I can only smell cigarette smoke. Nothing more. Until I go into the spare room where the cat’s litter box is stored. There is no more clean litter and the box is filled with urine and feces. The cat has done the best he could with what he had.

I don’t cry. Not yet.

I sweep the kitchen floor and vacuum the rug while Mom tries on the clothes I bought her for her birthday. I scoop the cat box as best as I can and try to leave the little guy with something until I can get back during my lunch break with fresh litter. I talk to Mom for another minute before I have to leave for work. It’s obvious she’s in pain today. The dark half-moon smudges under her eyes tell me she’s hurting. She doesn’t complain, just states that she hurts. I give her a hug and tell her I’ll call her in a bit before I come back over in the afternoon. I take the trash out on my way to my car, and I have to hold my breath as I open the large trash can. It not only stinks, but maggots drip from inside the cover onto the garage floor. I stuff the bag in and try not to retch.

As I drive the 15 minutes to work, I take several deep breaths. When I get to work, I ask my boss to smell me because I think I smell like smoke and/or cat pee. She tells me I do smell like smoke….and then I cry. This wasn’t a “silent, tears streaming down your face” kind of cry. This was a blubbering, snot-inducing sob, while trying to tell my boss why I was so upset. Mom was actually doing pretty well that day. Her memory was decent and although she was hurting, she could still get up and walk around with her walker.

But…she wasn’t my mom anymore. I’ve known this for several years, but the great leap in those two images, the stark difference in “before” and “after” finally became real to me.  I know she is no longer the baking, clean-freak I grew up with (and became!) but is now an old woman who can no longer care for her home like she used to.

I am the person responsible for cleaning it now.

And I hate it.

But I think she hates it, too.

She always thanks me profusely whenever I go over and for some reason, I always feel a little guilty when she thanks me like that. Admittedly, if my visit is before work, I’m running around her house, cleaning up, not sitting down and chatting much, because I need to get to work (and typically this is after taking my son to school and running around my *own* house getting supper in the crock pot and doing laundry and who knows what else). I’m sure Mom can feel my tension but also understands my “I need to get his done” attitude, because that’s how she always was while I was growing up. I do know Mom appreciates my help, but I also know she’d give anything if she could do it on her own again.

And so would I.

Does that make me selfish or a bad daughter? Probably. But I have to be honest, at least with myself. B_wears_her_heart_on_her_sleeve_by_fangedfemut I also know I need to come to terms with all the changes. Over the past week I have had multiple emotional outbursts, some with tears and others in anger. No one has been immune–my family, my co-workers, my friends. I’ve either yelled at or cried on nearly everyone.  Wearing my heart on my sleeve is an understatement this week. I have felt just so….exposed, with every emotion I have felt being raw, painful.

 

I’m aware that the stress I have felt isn’t just from Mom’s situation but also from other health-related concerns within my family. Yet I have no control over those problems. I can only hope and send good thoughts and say encouraging words, but there’s nothing else I can do. But with my mom? I may not have control over the deterioration of her mind and body, but I can do little things like vacuum or sweep or bring her good food, and I need to take some consolation from those few things I *can* do. I need to give myself a break and not get angry or frustrated when I walk into her home and it’s not like it was a few years ago. This isn’t her fault and I need to stop acting like it is.

I need to remember that Mom is still my mom and just try to forget all the rest.

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Sometimes it’s difficult to just “be”

Lately, there have been many moments when I realize that my son really “gets” me. He’s always been one to compliment me and call me beautiful, just like his father does. That’s one thing we try to do in this house is to boost each other up and not tear each other down. (Ok…that’s not really true. We tend to tease each other incessantly, but it’s done with love and if there’s ever any bad feelings, we stop.)

But it seems that just in the past few months, my son has realized a few things about his mother and felt the need to share his observations. “Mom, you seem to be particularly cranky. Did you go for a run today?” Or, “Hmmm….I think you need a treat. You should go buy an iced coffee.”

Then this afternoon, after having an unexpected house full of family and food and fun, I finally sat down beside my boy after everyone had left. My cold was making my head hurt and my eyes sting, but I needed to spend some time with my son. I watched him play a video game and we discussed which was easier while playing, being in first person or third.  As we talked, I started to lose my voice so he entertained me with making his character on Halo do wacky things. (I personally love it when these guys dance.) But after just a few minutes, he quit the game and left the room. I put my feet up and tried to read for a bit. No matter how bad I feel, I typically hate to lie down to nap or just rest. There isn’t enough time in the day to get done everything I want to do, as it is. Being sick doesn’t change that.

But as I tried to read with my eyes watering, my son came back into the room and said, “Here, Mom. Let me tape this to your forehead.” It was an “Out of Order” sign he had made for his computer so no one would touch it. As he placed the sign on my face he said, “There. Isn’t that better?” And as I closed my eyes and put my head back into my chair, it really *was* better. I needed a few minutes to just stop. No reading, no thinking, no doing.DSCN3175

Just being.

And it took an 8-year-old boy to teach me this.

By placing a sign on my forehead.

I’d say little nuggets of wisdom come from all people of all ages. We just need to take the time to listen.

 

 

 

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Creating Dignity

“Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me why you went to the hospital?” the doctor asked my mother.

Mom starts to turn to me to refresh her memory, to fill in the gaps, until the doctor firmly said, “No. I don’t want you to ask your daughter. I want YOU to tell me what happened.”

I was sitting beside my mother with my 8-year-old son on my lap. We were packed in a corner in the small doctor’s office. While I wrapped my arms around my son, I stared at the doctor and in my mind I kept willing my mother to remember. “You can do this, Mom!” I kept saying to myself. But when I glanced at my mother’s face, I could see the color rising in her cheeks. She was staring at the doctor, too, but just kept saying, “I don’t know. I…I don’t know.”

When Mom finally turned to me, I put a hand on her shoulder and said, “Remember, Mom? You were driving to Hartland and you started to shake?”

“Oh, YES!” my mother nearly shouted. I was nearly expecting her to raise her fist in triumph as she recalled her little escapade that ended with a trip to the emergency room. And as she was telling the story, my son whispered in my ear, “I didn’t know that’s what happened.” He looked scared. I nodded and held him tighter.

Although Mom’s was not a good story, I was so happy she could remember it. During those few moments when Mom looked so embarrassed and helpless, I would have done anything to make her feel good again, to not feel ashamed or scared.

I’ve thought a lot about that doctor’s visit today, wondering if when I take my son to school tomorrow, *he’ll* be the one who needs a little protecting. His tics have been quite calm over the past few days, but today as he talked about his upcoming first day of school and how excited he is, his tics started to increase. He’s been blowing on his hands a lot and raising his arms. I remember last year on the first day of school, I cried when I drove home after watching him tic like mad as we walked into the classroom. His teacher at least knew about the tics, but this year, we haven’t even met the teacher.  Fortunately most of his classmates seem to “get” my boy and don’t seem to care about the tics, but there’s always someone new to explain it to, or some little shit on the bus who is looking for a kid to pick on and ridicule for the school year.

As my son was getting ready for bed tonight, he was telling me about all the things he wants to tell people at school tomorrow, like about the Youtubers he thinks are cool and he wants to get his friends to subscribe to those Youtube channels. He wants to make a sign to have on the playground, telling people to come to him so he can tell them all about these great gamers. And as my boy told me all of this, I was cringing inside, just hoping that no one beats him up, and also hoping that he will find his tribe sooner rather than later. Most geeks I know didn’t find others like themselves until they were at least in high school. I want my son to find his people NOW. I want him to feel like he belongs with others that he is not related to. I want him to feel safe and happy, not ashamed or scared of who or what he is.

I want to make two of the people I love most in this world to feel good about themselves and to feel safe and happy. That is all I want to do.

It’s really not that much to ask, is it?