Stumbling Towards Perfect

I couldn't potty train Avery. She had no interest. No desire. I would attempt to make going potty on the toilet the most exciting thing ever and she would stare at me as if I were a potato sitting on the counter. And then, when she was almost 4 years old, she stood mesmerized in front of the television set watching gymnastics, something she had never before seen. Through her mostly incoherent speech, she told me she wanted to do that . "Too bad," I said. "You can't learn gymnastics until you're potty trained. They don't allow diapers in the gym." She stared silent at the TV, taking in every movement of the entire routine playing out in front of her. Then she turned, walked into the bathroom, and went potty on the toilet. And that was it. No accidents. No problems with bed wetting. She was decidedly done with diapers and ready to learn gymnastics. She was never the best, never the stand out. But she did give 110% at every practice.

I sat in Julie's kitchen. I love Julie's kitchen. It feels like family, strong hugs and honest compassion. The kitchen was filled with laughter and chatter and the most beautiful spread of gluten filled snacks I couldn't eat. In the center of it all, on a glass pedestal cake dish, stood the most amazing Red Velvet Cake any of us had ever laid eyes on. The icing was delicate and gentle, tempting me to slyly drag a single finger along it's edge. Julie sliced into the center revealing the most vibrant red. It was simply the most beautiful cake I'd ever been in the same room with. But I couldn't eat it. I have Celiac Disease and I cannot consume gluten. I wouldn't get a chance to taste this cake. Women to the left and right of me tried to describe it: it's so moist and creamy and soft. "What does it taste like?" I asked. Well, it's not chocolate, and it's not vanilla.... it's just, I don't know - tastes like happiness! I watch

"Would you like us to pick out something for you?" I snapped my head up and looked around the room. Matt was sitting next to me, completely out of his element. My Mom sat along the wall opposite the table, on a bench. I looked at my Mom. My Mom would know . My Mom knew that spraying Aqua-Net would take blue ink off  the sleeve of my white shirt. My Mom knew how to file taxes and hard boil eggs and how to varnish woodwork. She would know. I turned back to the funeral director. "Um? Can I?" I stuttered. "I just? It's, uh? I just, uh, don't want her to be stuck in a corner...." I turned back towards my Mom, pleading with my eyes, help me! My Mom spoke. I heard her but couldn't make out most the words. I heard my grandfather's name. The funeral director suggested we meet the next morning to pick out a final resting spot together. Except, the next morning I was late. I was sitting stoically in a sterile chair that was trying too hard to

Yesterday the world lost the most precious 14-month old little boy. I didn't know him. I didn't really even know his mother except as an occasional passing in the halls at school and as a picture in our yearbook. Years pass and, although we live in the same small community, we're only in touch through the shared stories of others. But I know the feeling of a mother's heart imploding. My heart was so heavy last night. Not another baby. I was angry. Didn't Avery take one for the team? Wasn't that enough? Why? I thought about this Mom - a mom now without . She is going to have to be strong. So incredibly, unbelievably, strong. She is going to need help. Our help . But how? 1.) Shut up. Seriously. Keep your opinions and your comments and your judgements to yourself. She doesn't want to hear them. You weren't there. I wasn't there. Just like I didn't want to hear your opinions about young drivers and cars without side air bags. I can beat my

I can't explain it except to say, I wish time would stop. I wish I could go back to those moments of just finding out . I know that sounds strange - why would I dare want to revisit the most horrific time in my personal history? But, well, there's something so absolutely sacred about that time. It's like that moment you give birth, and finally hold that previously imagined baby in your arms for the first time; the emotion that floods you - it's sacred. Over time that fades. Sure, you say you remember how filled with love you were; but can you actually still feel it? When you get that knock on the door, or that phone call, or however the awful news is delivered, that emotion - although sprinkled in disbelief and wrapped in sorrow and pain - the emotion at the center of it all is love . Nothing but love. Sacred love. And I don't want that feeling to fade. Ever. Time goes on. Clocks keep ticking. Calendar pages get flipped. But still, my heart aches. I try to