8 Years

8 years

Today marks 8 years since our world got flipped upside down with the 3 words “Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy.”

I distinctly remember my tears. We made it home from Omaha after the diagnosis. Max fell asleep, exhausted from the long day at the hospital. I laid on the couch, 10 weeks pregnant and so full of sorrow that it leaked from my eyes in a never ending stream of tears.

Max was asleep on my chest because I could not bare to lay him in his bed. All I wanted to do was hold my boy. My beautiful son that a doctor had just told me would die because he had Duchenne. I didn’t want to wake him so I just held him and I didn’t sob or cry out loud, I just let the tears stream.

My in-laws were here with the other kids. I remember my father in law, very upset, and he asked, “will he still have his mind.” He was relieved when we told him yes.

After the tears quit falling, I tucked my 9 year old daughter into bed and somehow kept it together when she asked me what was wrong with her little brother. She wanted to know if he would need a wheelchair. As much as we had tried to keep the previous weeks’ conversations and concerns to ourselves, she had heard enough to be very scared.

It was the hardest day. To wake up with what I assumed was a healthy boy and go to bed with a son that had what I was told was a death sentence.

I almost didn’t acknowledge this day. I hate reliving the pain of that time period.

I thought about it all day. And I thought, 8 years ago I never would have imagined the happiness that exists in our lives today. I never would have imagined Max would be walking, acting in plays, and have supportive and loving friends.

I never would have thought we’d have another baby.

I never would have imagined so many potential therapies that could change the outcome of the disease.

I never would have thought I would say things and live things like, “count your blessings and not your burdens.”

I never could have believed that the sum of all the joys in our life would be bigger than Duchenne.

But yet, they are. I see our blessings. Duchenne made us stop dreaming of the unimportant and made us start living in the moment with the ones we love.

We learned to advocate, we learned to love better, we grew strong enough to make really hard decisions, and we became the family we were always meant to be.

So yes, that was the most painful time in my life, but out of that pain grew a beautiful joyful life. We have plenty of hard days and are guaranteed a fair share more hard days, but the good will carry us through.

#EndDuchenne #MRC

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Front Row Seats

We live it people! We live life!

Eight years ago when our boys with diagnosed with Duchenne; it was our first decision. We were going to live life in spite of Duchenne!

We go and we do. If you follow us on Facebook, I think most would agree that we are busy living it! (I’m a self confessed over-sharer).

During all this living, there are times that I have almost felt apologetic for how much space we take up when we are living it.

I mean our family of 8 is big and space encompassing for sure, but I’m talking about my boys that drive scooters. The scooters take up space. And they are driven by young boys. Young boys don’t travel in straight lines or at slow speeds. And, they use them to play and keep up with their peers.

Sometimes, I fight my urge to just let them be boys. If it were my son Chance and he was walking faster than me and got up ahead of me, I wouldn’t think twice about it. But when it’s my sons on scooters speeding up ahead they attract so many staring eyes. I get self-conscious. I start to wish we could blend in better, I wish we were smaller.

Today started that way. We were at state baseball, which means lots of people and lots of eyes.

An older gentleman sat his lawn chair right next to Rowen, who was sitting on his scooter. His chair was literally touching Rowen’s scooter. Immediately, I went to apology mode. I had Rowen move forward so the man could get to his seat. Rowen backed right back into his spot. I was ready to tell him to move and give the man some space (even though the man invaded Rowen’s spot).

The older man leaned over his arm rest and started chatting with Rowen. He asked him if he always had to use his scooter (after complimenting it, of course). It touched my heart because I know what that man was thinking. He realized that something was not right and he was hoping it wasn’t as bad as he was maybe assuming it was.

Later in the day I was caught up in the game, I didn’t realize Charlie left for the bathroom. I turned my head just in time to see him on his way back to me, burning through the crowd on rabbit speed (that’s the fast end of his throttle).Of course, I saw a horrified look on a woman’s face. We see it often. Often, it is followed by a comment like, “kids these days are so lazy.” A comment both heart-breaking and infuriating.

No comment this time. The woman watched him just a little longer and then her face lit up in a huge smile.It is happening more and more.

When I can let go of those heart breaking comments and take in the bigger picture, I always find smiles in the crowd.

They watch my boys, jovial as all get out and loving life. They see them on these scooters and most realize the boys have been dealt a tough hand. They see my boys loving and living life even though they’ve been dealt a tough hand.

They are doing something special. On some level they are showing us all that there is always a reason to be happy. They show us how to enjoy every day.

If these boys with an awful disease can laugh and play and enjoy and live, then we all can! I think that is what they show people.

When we are out living it, in spite of Duchenne, they are showing people how.

Maybe that’s why God chose us, he knew already how on the go our life would be.

I think they are making others more comfortable around people with disabilities.

First, they are too cute to be intimidating (my opinion). Second, they have so much fun and laugh so much, it is hard not to join them in laughter or meet them with a smile.

I think they have a special ability that makes their disability disappear. All you can see is the boy.

I never imagined we’d be that family. I never imagined 3 sons in scooters/wheelchairs, but that is how God blesses me.

He gave me a life with a front seat to some of the most beautiful things I never imagined.

I took the dog to the vet today. She needed an allergy shot. For just a quick minute I thought, “if this is biggest thing I have to worry about today, I lead a pretty charmed life.”

Then I laughed thinking about how other people might react if they heard me say that out loud. I laughed as I remember the stress level I’ve maintained this week.

Duchenne is heavy and hard.

Results of what I consider to be a scientific breakthrough in the treatment of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy were released this week. A promising new therapy is on the horizon! It is truly an answer to prayers. It makes me so happy and yet I’m grieving.

It has the potential to save Duchenne lives. I want my kids on that therapy.

My kids are already on another therapy. One that 10 years ago was a scientific breakthrough of its own. One I feel blessed to have access to and have fought hard for. It is helping; but it is not doing what this other therapy appears to be doing.

I feel panicked. I’m worried that because we already have access to the first, we may have put our boys in jeopardy of having to wait years to have access to the new therapy.

I know nothing for sure. I’m playing a game of life or death chess in my own head with limited amounts of information.

Next week I will spend several days in Arizona at a conference with the most influential people in Duchenne. There will be the leading scientists and doctors, industry representatives, and hundred of advocates and parents attending this conference.

This will be the place I will absorb enormous amounts of information, ask my questions, and form new ideas about the best way to care for my boys as they get older and as more therapies become available.

I’m scared.

I’m scared I will not be brave enough.

I’m scared I will not be brave enough to make a decision.

Do we stay on the course we are on and risk losing access to new and better therapies? Do we stop what we are doing and try something new and risk losing all the benefit we are currently experiencing? Is there an in between? What if we choose wrong?

Will I be brave enough to make a decision and live with the consequences?

And I realize there are parents whom have lost their beloved children to Duchenne and never had access to any of it. To them, I must sound so damn spoiled. They would have done anything to be in my situation.

I haven’t slept. I think I feel an ulcer, or at least a huge knot in my stomach that is making eating very difficult.

So today, when the worst thing I was worrying about for a few moments was the dog’s allergy shot, life felt pretty charming.

But as I thought a little harder, scratched a little deeper…

the fact that I can forget for a few minutes,

the fact that I can celebrate a mundane task,

the fact that I have decisions to make about a disease that had no options 15 years ago…

There was magic in those few minutes. There was something very simple in that task. Magic and simplicity for a few minutes in a life too full of complicated and stress was really quite charming while it lasted.

Let Joy Outweigh Sorrow

In my prayers the other day I made note that I haven’t been able to write. Writing is such a therapy for me and it just wasn’t there. Yesterday though, there was finally something on my heart.

It was the thought that it sometimes takes courage to be joyful.

I think that joy comes from the little things like a cup of coffee on the deck listening to the wind blow through the chimes. That was my start this morning. Or even before that it was the pre-set option on the coffee maker that allowed me to be greeted with the scent of fresh brewed coffee when I woke up.

Joy is simple.

Joy can come from scents and sounds and flavors.

Joy is available to everyone.

Sorrow is not simple.

Sorrow is overwhelming.

In my life, I think my greatest sorrows stem from the boys living with Duchenne. It’s watching them struggle to get up from the floor, or watching them fall, or listening to their own fears and grief. Max admitted to me already this summer that he will miss when he can no longer ride a bike. And the biggest of all the sorrow and fear for me is being scared of losing my children to Duchenne.

Joy is a choice, a decision, even a mindset; even in the midst of pain and sorrow. If it is not a conscious choice, it is easy to let the heartache, fear, grief, pain…consume you.

Joy needs to be searched for while hoping and praying for our miracles; like a cure for Duchenne. Joy needs to be celebrated even when our hearts are broken and hurting and we mourn or suffer.

In my lifetime there may never be a cure for Duchenne, my relationships are never going to be perfect, my days will continue to have their challenges. There will always be sorrow, I know that, I feel that.

But I don’t have to live in the sorrow. I can’t out run it, or wait for it to end before joy.

Joy doesn’t wait for the bad to be over. It remains always. It is there in the beginning of the day and at the end.

That’s where the courage comes. I need courage to choose joy. There are so many many more little joys than there are great big sorrows. I want my joy to outweigh my sorrow.

Let there be silver linings when our hearts are aching. Let there be little breaks of laughter when our eyes are leaking. Let there be joy always present in our lives.

Find joy in the journey.

…Joy continued

My mood today can be summed up by telling you that I’m wearing the same pair of jeans I wore the last 3 days and the Earl May sign that reads, “now is the right time to treat crabgrass” made me mumble under my breath “you can kiss my butt.” Like it was adding one more thing to my list of things that aren’t going to happen.

We had a clinic visit last week that didn’t go well. I shared it all on our MRC Facebook page so I will quickly sum it up here, using a word I really don’t like and don’t let my kids use, but in short, it sucked.

Like, literally, I think it sucked some life right out of me. And yesterday we had to put our very loved, wonderful dog down.

I know I keep saying that these last 12 months and now I am amending it to the last 15 months have been rough. But, is has been, one thing after another. Just as soon as we are about to get our legs underneath us, something happens and takes them out again.

I realize that at times I’m losing sight of the joy along the way.

The last two weeks have challenged me and even as I write this my eyes feel swollen and dry from all the tears and physically I am just drained.

But every time I’ve stopped to find the joy, the source of joy has been the same.

My husband.

A year ago as he was losing and had just lost his dad, I can be honest and share with you that it was rough for a couple of months. We had to learn news ways to be there for one another.

After the loss of my sister, he had to hold me together for a couple of months.

And now as we navigate the changes with our boys and prepare for a different future than we had imagined when we first said, I do, we are in sync.

This is the strongest we have ever been and the strong foundation our family needs. I’ve always thought that we were one of the lucky ones, we found each other when we were 19 and have been smiling together ever since. But what we have now is beyond what I knew could be. We know each other better, we are softer with each other, we try harder to make the other laugh, our hands feel better when they are holding the other’s, and there are times we don’t need words to communicate.

I never knew a love between parents like I experience as a parent. It is a gift given to us that we can give to our children. We may not be able to fix their muscles or give them a big house or fancy vacations, but we can give them a home full of love. That is a great joy to me always, when my heart is aching, and when my heart is rejoicing. It is perhaps one of the greatest joys of my journey.

Neon Lights, Purses and Metaphors

I want a flashing neon light pointing me in the right direction answering my questions.I ask Him often for one, but God has yet to send me one.

This week he sent me a purse instead. Let me explain.

I have a friend that has great purses. This week at a dinner I shoved my disheveled purse under the table and didn’t think about it much until I saw hers. It was beautiful. I think what I liked most was that it was clean and sat there nicely. I didn’t look inside, I’m sure it was organized though. I was jealous of that purse.

The more I thought about it I was almost embarrassed of my own. For one, there is a blue paint stain on it. I have no idea where from. It is as old if not older than my youngest child, I think it is closer in age to my 7 year old actually.

It was old and tired looking, just as I’ve felt the past couple of weeks. My friend’s purse, if it is a thing, looked like it had energy and was ‘put together.’ I wanted to feel put together, not old and tired.

I wasn’t going to buy one. We are a large, single income family, and our budget doesn’t have a “mama needs a new purse” category.

I didn’t look online or go to a nice store to look at one. But…as I was getting groceries at Wal-Mart yesterday, I perused through the purse isle. I saw a cute little purse. It didn’t look like my friend’s purse, but it was small and would lay across my body and I would not have to worry about it falling off my shoulder when helping kids and carrying everything else I carry. Better yet, it was on clearance for $7! It came home with me.

I didn’t have time to switch it out before I picked up kids from school. When we got home, I put one backpack over my shoulder, my old purse on the other shoulder, grabbed my water bottle, coffee cup, and a lunch bag. I walked around the van and used one arm to help my son out of the van. As I put him down, he was on one foot and couldn’t hold his weight. He fell to the ground. My son with weak muscles fell because my hands were full. I didn’t even realize how full they were until I set everything down to help him up. He was okay, but I felt horrible.

Our day went on. Eventually, I switched my purses out. I found 4 little people princesses, 20+ grocery receipts, 13 or so pens, dollars worth of loose change, 2 toy cars, gum, glasses. The worst though was a piece or several pieces of disintegrated gum had left sticky residue over everything in the bottom of my purse. That left over residue was holding everything down. I cleaned up what I could, tossed the rest, and put only 4 things in my new small purse. It felt therapeutic!

This morning with my new purse slung crosswise over my torso, I used both arms to gently and easily lift my son out of the van and put him securely on two feet safely on the ground.

It hit me just at the moment. It wasn’t a flashing neon light, He didn’t use the purse to hit me on the back of the head to wake me up, it was just a simple thought.

When you don’t carry so much, you don’t drop things.

In full disclosure, this happened after a therapy appointment for my son. I am the mom that hijacked some my son’s therapy appointment. I love when health professionals see the whole family. She reminded me that our situation is unlike just about anyone else’s. When I need help, it is because I have a lot and it’s okay to need it. I knew everything I was being told, but it makes me feel better when someone licensed says it.

But that conversation, my new purse and my literal and metaphorical lighter load all were telling me the same thing. When I don’t carry as much, I don’t drop things.

Holding everything yesterday and still thinking I could help my son out of the van is a metaphor for what I’ve been doing the past couple months. I’ve been holding everything and still thought I could help everyone. Maybe I didn’t get the easy flashing light answer I would prefer, but maybe then I wouldn’t have learned from it.

Acceptance creates Accessibilty

I am not an expert on accessibility, culture or acceptance. Before my sons were diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy I didn’t know what I didn’t know. After 8 years, I am still learning, but I have meaningful insight.

Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD) is a progressive muscle disease. Children living with DMD can walk, run, climb, some can even jump or ride their bikes as toddlers and young children. As their muscles weaken however, they lose those abilities and during various stages of the disease will slowly lose the ability to walk and levels of independence and will use strollers, scooters, manual wheel chairs and power chairs to maintain mobility and independence.

It doesn’t happen overnight and is a gradual process. For the first 4 years of my oldest sons life he walked, rode in the cart at the grocery stores, or was carried. Once he was diagnosed and we learned more about his muscles and preserving them, we incorporated a medical stroller, he now uses a mobility scooter and someday, unless better treatments or a cure is developed first, he will need a power wheelchair, as will his brothers.

We have been fortunate enough to travel with the boys and of course are active participants in our own community. Our boys are still mobile, but at times need their scooters, especially for lots of walking or long distances.

The things we encounter as barriers to accessibility are limited parking spaces for vehicles with handicap placards, buildings with steps at the entrance with no other accessible entrance, limited amounts of seating for individual using mobility devices especially in theaters and gymnasiums, blocked accessibility like cars parked illegally in handicap accessible parking stalls, or door buttons that are blocked or disabled, narrow isles, curbs, accessible entrances that are awkward to get to, hard to find, and often send you on very scenic routes through buildings and back alleys.

Some of those issues are policy issues or programmatic issues as individuals we may or may not be able to impact alone. I encourage everyone to look at the structural barriers to accessibility though and make suggestions, advocate, and make future plans that will remove those barriers.

As a mom, and that is where my experience begins and where my heart remains, an attitude of acceptance has either been then deal breaker or maker.

When we travel with all 3 scooters, especially outside of our home town, people stare at us and they make rude and insensitive comments, like, “kids these days are so lazy.” People avoid eye contact with the boys and sometimes avoid them all together. Traveling out of state, airports, and vacations all can be anxiety provoking. We figure out how to navigate airports, accessible transportation, elevators, and hotels and restaurants with 3 scooters though; we have plan B’s and C’s. It is poor human behavior that is the greatest barrier to accessibility.

I can tell you this, our good experiences have probably been greater in number than our bad experiences, but the bad ones are hardest to forget and steal some of the joy from the good ones.

I truly believe that more often than not, the people that hurt us with their stares and comments are not bad people. I think when people are uncomfortable or scared they lose common sense. Because all it really takes is a smile or a friendly hello. It is okay to say you like their scooter or introduce yourself. It would be fine to hold the door open. Those are common-sense thing, use your common sense. Meeting new people that use a scooter or a wheelchair does not have to be unlike meeting any other person new to you.

Do for others what you would want done for yourself. It’s the golden rule. It’s not rocket science. It’s common sense and it is kindness.

In my experience, the right attitude can overcome any barrier to accessibility. The right attitude can overcome a structural barrier.

Kindness and acceptance creates accessibility.

We chose a small private middle school/high school for my son that was not accessible. That’s right, my son with DMD goes to a school that IS NOT ACCESSIBLE. And we love it. That’s right, WE LOVE IT!

I don’t love the stairs to the lunch room. I don’t love that there is a wing in the school that he won’t have access to in years to come. But, I love the way he is accepted and treated. He is included. He is wanted. He is blossoming in that environment.

Once the school district knew Max was coming, they fundraised thousands of dollars to install a lift in the school so that he would have access to the library and upstairs classrooms. I didn’t ask. They did it. They had an attitude of acceptance.

There are stairs to the lunch room with no lift, so they used common sense. They offered to bring lunch up to him. My son wanted to be with friends so when we offered to carry him up and down instead, the school said yes.

The kids at this school have an attitude of acceptance. When I carry Max they don’t see a middle school boy getting a piggy back ride from his mom. They see Max getting the help he needs however it will work. They are kind to him. They smile at him. They hold doors open for him. The school and it’s students help him. I can’t say often enough that kindness and a dose common sense have made this building accessible.

It’s not perfect. Parents park in the handicap stalls when they pick up kids. The gym has no space for someone sitting in a wheelchair to utilize. These are things that I challenge all of us to do better at and plan better for. Be advocates!

Just as important though, this mom says be kind and remember to smile.

Dog Crap Kind of Day

It’s been a day. After reflecting on my yesterday, I should have seen it coming.

I cleaned bathrooms yesterday. I hate cleaning bathrooms. But I cleaned them. I even painted the basement bathroom before cleaning it. I literally scrubbed them both so hard that my arms and shoulders were sore this morning.

Later in the evening I sat down to read with one of the kids and our little dog jumped up with us. I started to pet her until I realized she was covered in her own crap. If not her own crap, then the crap of her dog brother. I had to give her a bath in my clean bathtub and then clean it again. That is 3 bathtubs in one day; my least favorite chore ever.

I woke up this morning to a press release that informed us that the FDA had denied approval of Ataluren again. There is still a path forward and boys will still get medicine. All good news. Except after months and months of the process, after waiting for months for the answer…that is what I wanted, an answer!

Now we will wait, I can talk to the drug company or other parents, but it still means we wait longer for an answer. What if the answer is no again? What do I do for my boys at this point? Wait!? It is not what I was expecting despite having an understanding that it could happen. I can’t process it today. It worked out because today was not done with me yet.

Max has been home for 2 days now and today it was confirmed that he has Influenza B. Yuck. He’s going to miss school and play practice. 3 of his 5 siblings are starting Tamiflu with him. I’m washing bedding and have cloroxed the entire house and have the diffuser going.

I have a headache and can’t decide if I’m getting sick, tired, stressed, sore or all of the above. I also forgot to eat lunch until 3:45. Food helps.

Mister Charlie asked me if he was going to die when he was 13 as we pulled into the drive way after school.

(( This is the silence in my heart for the few moments before getting out of the van, walking around to his side and giving him a big hug ))

It hurts as bad as you imagine it does if you are fortunate to have never been asked such a question. I know other Duchenne parents read this blog so I know that some of you know the feeling too.

Another first grader told him that. I want to be mad at that kid, but he’s a first grader and probably overheard something he didn’t understand. I’m really not mad.

It didn’t happen today, but today is when Charlie asked me if it was true.

We had a good talk. I told him we are doing things that have never been done (no thanks to the FDA) and we are changing the outcome. I told him that no one knows how old they will be when they die and neither do we.

Rowen ended it with, “We are Duchenne history makers!” I’m glad he felt like a warrior about it because I mostly felt like a pile of mush about it. Not a conversation you can prepare for.

I’ll have to see about going in and talking with his friends again. Still stings.

So now, I put a hold on all homework doings. We are watching Teen Titans, eating yogurt (Charlie in his underwear) and putting off the real world for an hour. Except me, I am processing or trying to as I write this…it’s the only way I know how to process a day such as this.

There were good things today, I’m sure. I paid preschool tuition on time. It’s the only bill I am responsible to pay and this is quite possibly the first time I’ve paid it on time all school year. So there’s that.

I may not clean the bathrooms again for awhile.

Max’s Blessings

I met Max at school yesterday at 11:05 so that I could carry him downstairs to the lunch room. It’s the same most days.

Yesterday, as he was on my back he rested his head on my shoulder and told me Wonder was out on DVD. He wanted to see it.

He told me that Mr. A (the teacher of the class just before lunch) gave a speech on being Kind. His teacher told them that somebody might be having the worst day and you can either make it worse for the person or you could make it better. Even a smile can make someone’s day better.

At that point he was almost whispering and he said, “it reminds me of me.”

We were to the bottom of the stairs and I lowered him to the ground. Lots of days be hugs me and I go upstairs to wait for him.

Yesterday there was no hug and he walked off down the corridor with one arm outstretched running his hand along the wall and holding his lunch in the other.

He was deep in thought.

Less than 2 hours later a text from his study hall teacher dinged on my phone. He was telling her he was very tired. She thought he looked a little sad too.

I had a hunch I knew what was going on. It was the melancholy deep thought he was in when I left him at lunch.

He came home. He was sad. I could sense tears just under the surface. He told me his legs hurt when he walked. He looked exhausted.

At home he surfed through the pay per view channels and found the movie Wonder. We ordered it and watch it together. At the end of the movie his eyes were welling with tears.

I sat next to him. I told him he could tell me anything.

The tears started and he told me to go away.

I was fighting back tears. I needed to make sure he was ok. So I asked him to tell me if the tears were because he was hurting because kids are mean or if they were because he felt blessed to have so much kindness in his own life.

He said the tears were because he was so blessed.

He is so blessed. He is 12. He has a rare disease that is slowly robbing him of his independence. He is the smallest kid in his class and is the only one in the building that uses a motorized scooter to help him around. He needs help on the stairs and in and out of the van. He needs help with almost everything.

With all of that in mind, yesterday when his teacher talked about kindness, he saw his blessings.

His friends are kind. His teachers are kind. He told me he never feels like people stare at him unless we are out of town and have all 3 boys on scooters.

He was overcome by his blessings. He felt so much emotion that it exhausted him.

We both cried. He were so full of gratitude for our blessings that our eyes were leaking. Kindness is a beautiful thing. Everyone deserves kindness. I’m thankful that Max is embraced with kindness.

Shrapnel, Memories, Love, Joy & Walls

I want to write about shrapnel. Shrapnel. The word I’ve decided to use when a little piece of something from the past lodges itself into the present unexpectedly.

There is also my first memory and its reality or lack there of. It’s very vivid and has been my whole life. I think I remember it through interpretation. My childhood mind trying to make sense of something outside the understanding of a child. Instead of a memory, it seems more like a story told from a child’s point of view. As an adult I see through the childhood interpretation, but without someone to tell me what really happened, it’s reality is a question.

All of these blogs will someday be pieced together to form the book I know I have to write and this earliest memory is giving that book a shape, a beginning. I’m excited and scared to write it.

I need to write about love. The amazing love I found through this blog. For the longest time, and I’ve shared it previously, I felt unworthy of love (shrapnel). I am loved though.

I realize my true struggle was always loving myself. My defense mechanism for the majority of my life was to be harder on myself, to hate myself more than the way I perceived others felt about me. That way when someone in my childhood didn’t show up or failed me or hurt me in some way, it would never hurt as bad as what I already believed about myself.

Writing it all out, my journey with joy, the loss of my sister…it all suddenly became so clear. I am the one that needs to love me and needs to be kind to me.

I read a passage today in a book about joy.

“There is a wall in my heart that I know was erected as a protection from being hurt. But I am ready to let it come down so that my heart can heal.”

This is the perfect description of where you find me today.

A big part of finding myself ready to let it come down is faith, my family, my husband, motherhood you, your gifts, the little notes, the kind words. They made me realize that if a person that barely knows me can think of me and see good, then it is time that I do so as well.

I gave an interview today. It was an interview on parenting children with exceptionalities. It was a more difficult interview than I imagined. There was conversation about what I hope for my children’s future. I cried. It is hard for me to think of the future because when I do my deepest fear of my children not part of it is there, in my future. It forces me to think about the uncertainties. I don’t like it, it hurts.At the end of the interview though, I was able to say to myself that I am doing a good job as a mom. I’m not perfect, I still beat myself up sometimes (shrapnel), but I think I’m doing a good job. I think I am not a perfect mom, but I think I take good care of my children.I might as well have moved a mountain. Love is changing me. The wall is coming down.