The Adventures of Truman and Fletcher- boy

In about 2 weeks my sweet Fletch will turn 7, a joyous celebration will occur much like the day he was born.  Much like the day I found out I was expecting.  Very much unlike the day about 11 months prior to his arrival when I could no longer carry the child growing inside me. On the day when that child stopped growing, but could not safely, or naturally leave my body.   I see the signs that say “value them both” and my blood boils.  This argument, while based in what I truly believe is a good place, is flawed.  It only assumes that life is made and life is born.  But we all know that life is messy.  It's not clean.  It's not easy.  Creating a life, and especially a healthy one, is a miracle.  It requires a million things to come together at the perfect time.  And when I see those signs, I am angry.  Because I am alive, and my child is alive and we deserve to be alive. So why not honor my existence and that of my child because without the necessary medical intervention that was

A penny for your thoughts.  I’ve got a million. But as I grasp for the thoughts I find myself still reaching, coming up empty.  Feeling lost and like I’ve lost.  Except I haven’t.  I’m one of the lucky ones.  My heart hurts, but not in the same way as a mother who has lost her child. Not in the way that a mother plays back the last words, the last touch… the last everything.   I sit here sick with grief for this village we call parenthood. Sick with anger, and sick with fear. Sick of posts like this.  I sit here with a million thoughts and questions.  I sit here helpless, yet always hopeful. Hopeful for healing. Hopeful for change. Hopeful for safety.  It’s naive to a certain degree, I’ll give you that, but without that hope how else do I find the courage? The courage to fight. The courage to raise boys to become men who recognize their emotions and do not flee from them, but to speak to them and face them.  There’s no politics to debate here tonight, and even if there were, this isn’t

22?  So who finds it ironic that it’s 2022,  22 months since the world shut down and we are again looking at a school closure due to Covid?   Heard these lyrics earlier today from our friend Taylor Swift.  “don't know about you But I'm feeling 22 Everything will be alright if You keep me next to you” Well I know about me, and so far I’m not feeling ‘22.. January is generally a dark month for many. It’s gray, we take down our Christmas decor and did I mention it’s gray? And then in marches Covid, yet again, to remind us that we’re still in this.  That it doesn’t matter who’s next to us, because right now it’s not alright.  ( and this is NOT a post about severity of disease, vaccine efficacy, etc.  This is a post about MY feelings ) A text came through on Sunday afternoon stating that school would be canceled for a few days.  We’re too short staffed to operstd our schools. Thank goodness only a few days and not indefinitely like before.  But still my heart fluttered.  I instantly