My dad had hip replacement surgery last Friday. The procedure went well, and he was discharged on Sunday, with physical therapy scheduled for Monday. My mom got sick on Sunday night, and couldn’t bring him to his appointment. I volunteered to transport him to and from therapy. He called that morning and explained that he really needed bathing. Could I pick him up early and bring him to my Nana’s house so he could use her walk-in shower? An hour later, we were standing in her bathroom, unloading my dad’s Pert Plus and Irish Spring from a ratty blue duffle bag. Continue reading
It’s a What?
Dear Friends,
The following post addresses mixed emotions that some pregnant mommas experience about having a boy or a girl, when they hoped, perhaps even secretly, for the other gender.
I’ve hesitated writing this post, because I have some cherished friends in my life who have struggled with infertility or have experienced the loss of a baby. I have been too afraid they would read the post and think how insensitive the subject matter is, or that they would wonder “How could someone be disappointed with the gender of their baby when I can’t even have a baby?” Continue reading
Come Inside
The holiday season has passed, and we trudge now into the long stretch of winter. This period is a quiet one. Sleigh bells and doorbells (and that deafening bell at the grocery store entrance) have ceased ringing. Choruses of voices, lulled. Continue reading
Guys and Dolls: The Update
Hello, Friends!
I hope your Christmas was meaningful and merry, and that you’ve had a little time this weekend to recoup from the excitement.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about the decision to give my 21-month-old son a doll for Christmas. You can read the original post here: Guys and Dolls
I promised an after-Christmas update on how the doll was received by a family of three boys. Here it is… Continue reading
Grand Edits with Becky Kleikamp: Revising Life after the Loss of Two Children
One of my favorite times of the day is when I first hear my 22-month-old son Miles talking in his crib in the morning. Sometimes it’s earlier than I want it to be, and I know that when I step out of bed and walk past the balcony door, my ankles will be hit with a cold draft. I know that as soon as we go downstairs, I’ll be filling cups and cutting toast and refereeing squabbles and gathering gear for outings. Continue reading
The Only Prayer
I couldn’t do crowds and lines this year. I skipped shopping at the mall. I skipped parties and white elephant gift exchanges. It was just too much to keep going out when I wanted to keep going in. Continue reading
Give a Little
Last week, I wrote about the decision to give my son Miles a doll for Christmas. While stewing over gift-giving options, I expressed my dilemma to a friend: “I just don’t know what to get these kids who have everything.”
To this, she replied, “Do you have to get them a gift?” Continue reading
Guys and Dolls
My 21-month-old son is getting a doll for Christmas. His older brothers are getting snowshoes, a compound bow, a humongous snow tube. Miles is getting a doll.
It’s a boy doll. He’s got a charming mop of brown hair and a backwards baseball cap. When I asked my husband to choose from a couple options (without looking at price tags – hehe), he said, “That’s the one. That one reminds me of Miles.” I totally agreed. The doll is sporting a bright bandanna around his neck and the thoughtful half-smile that our Miles wears often. Continue reading
Grand Edits with Gwen Sternhagen: Revising Life with an SMA-diagnosed Child
All of life is a draft. We look ahead with expectations and hopes of what the future will bring, but often, despite our choices, despite our resolve, events or circumstances beyond our control force us to rethink our plans. We edit our pages, making grand revisions, accepting the twists and turns of our story, doing all we can with what we are given, determined to create a narrative that is beautiful, albeit messy — our own shabby, yet shimmering story. Continue reading
Brave
Me in a tree. Circa 1988.
My arms were linguine as I climbed the high-dive platform ladder at the Northern Michigan University pool. I was nine years old. My dad tread water below me, black hair stuck to his forehead, mustache sagging and shiny. Continue reading
