It’s been a decade.
Since I took a leap of faith, borrowed $1000 from my big sister, signed a lease on an apartment I hoped I’d be able to afford, and took my life back into my own hands.
I had no idea how I’d pay my rent, didn’t have a job, had two kids that were making the move with me, and I was terrified.
Of my husband at the time, at how to untangle myself from his web, about how to pay for it all, and about our well-being and our welfare.
My health was in shambles, my…
The breakfast bar in my kitchen faces northeast and looks out over the front yard. In the morning the sun arches through the beveled edges of glass in the windows and rainbows cast themselves across various surfaces of the kitchen. I live on a relatively quiet street that I’m certain has more foot than vehicle traffic. Some mornings, while I sip my coffee, a flock of turkeys will appear on the lawn. I think the word is out amongst their families; if they gather, we’ll come out with the corn. …
That’s basically the answer to every question I ask myself, when it comes to how I safely reenter this world we now live in.
I’m a full-time single parent to my 21-year-old son who is disabled. Prior to the outbreak of the Coronavirus, I had a team of caregivers in and out of my home, allowing me to work, cleaning private homes and businesses. I had a balance of allotted respite hours and providers that allowed me the necessary self-care many in my position don’t receive.
I was just starting to find my groove in this new phase of raising…
I should know better than to make such broad strokes with the expectations brush. I got excited. I mean, 2020, just look at it! All round and robust, fresh and crisp, even and new. A blank canvas just waiting for my perfect new self to paint a better self-portrait.
I think I forgot one thing when I was gazing ahead to the crisp new year, tying up the laces of my brand new expectations kicks; a flip of a calendar doesn’t bring change. Dammit, growth and self-discovery, why you gotta ruin the fun in self-deprecating behavior?
Truth is. Remember that…
I showed up.
I clipped in.
I fell in love.
That’s the long and short of it. In order to get there I had to lose sleep, exist with a many-days-long bout of anxiety, research Peloton late into the night, experience Peloton-induced dreams, join some Peloton groups on Facebook, follow a few Peloton Instructors on social media, ask question upon question of friends who already ride, and then actually talk myself into taking the test ride.
In a wire-enclosed kiosk.
In the middle of a shopping mall.
On a Friday. At 4:00 PM.
I love how I feel…
It’s in my dreams. In my Search history. It’s attached to the butterflies on apparent high alert in my belly.
It’s a goddamn bike, you say.
But it just might be life changing.
I’m doing something I think my former self, as in me like two weeks ago, would probably never do. I’m testing out a Peloton bike in their showroom today. What’s the big deal, you ask? …
Autism is relentless.
Unlike a toddler who becomes a child, who then drags you with him through the teenage years, eventually spreading his wings to fly from your nest, a child with autism is forever. Fifteen laps around the sun since my youngest son’s diagnosis, I’m finding forever to be a mighty long time.
Autism is hard too.
Like pulling the third shift for the hundredth night in a row hard.
Without enough sleep.
And existing only on gas station roller food.
Need. Nutrients. STAT.
Autism is not for the weak. It will force you to possess strength you…
My seventeen-year-old son catcalled a forty-eight-year old woman the other day. Okay, so he didn’t technically catcall her. And I don’t really know the exact age of this particular woman, but I’m pretty sure she was older than me. If only by a year.
Walking alongside my son in the parking lot of the hardware store, talking about birdseed one second, and then in the next, I’m basically witnessing what can only be described as his blatant equivalent of catcalling. …
His small hands, the only notice of what was to come; tiny fists clenched tight and shaking from the sudden storm of rage brewing inside. The yelling, incoherent screams of anger. His hands, now unclenched, his index finger waving wildly, signifying blame to an unknown source an arm’s length away. I wonder just how bad it will get this time. How long will it last and how will it end? I complete a quick scan of the room looking for possible items in his path I fear cannot be replaced. …
To the family completely in my blind spot as I almost backed into them at Target today,
I’m so sorry, and boy am I glad I saw you when I did, phew! To the Dad rocking that fancy dress coat on the weekend, well done on that super protective dirty look you lobbed at me for a solid minute as I waved my hands and mouthed, “I’m so sorry!” to you. You weren’t buying it; you are Daddy Dawg, protective and well versed in the dirty look. …