The perfect drug.

There’s this thing we all do, the most important thing we ALL do … MOVE. Moving seems like so very little, but truly, it’s the most important phenomenon. The ability to move is a gift that many squander. Whether you take moving for granted or you were a mover and shaker your entire life, every living thing feels that ache and yearn for movement when they have limitations.

I have been blessed to be acquainted with many great examples in life and I listen to them! My dad is a man that was born with congenital heart disease. He has had many a surgery and many a surgery complication. I have seen him on life support twice, once in a coma for a week. My father has organ function slightly higher than that of a cadaver. Still, every single day he is working, moving, producing and creating with all that he has. He once told me ” if you don’t use it, you’ll lose it.” My dad sure knows how to use it!

In this chapter of my life, the “life creating” chapter, I have lost the “it” my dad was referring to so many times. I lost movement by choice. I lost it because being pregnant was more important. I lost it because sitting around breastfeeding my miracles was WORTH it. I lost it because cuddles and book reading was worth it. I lost it because they ARE worth it.

Regardless of why I lost movement or whether it was worth it … it SUCKED to lose it. Something starts to eat away at me when I’m not moving, like an orca in a swimming pool. I crave movement like a drug.

I need to run like a kid, as fast as I can. To run like I’m running away from everything and everyone that bothered me recently. I can actually feel that moment when the endorphins start running through my veins and I become me again. No longer am I my circumstances. No longer am I that awful day I had. No longer am I that dreadful bill I can’t stop thinking about. No longer am I just someones mom, someones daughter, someones friend, sister, employee or wife. I am ME for ME with no one else to report to, feel responsible for or please. I am on that journey of movement all alone. The rewards are my own. My body is my own. Pores that have been soaking everything in and laying dormant open up and push everything out. They push out the harsh self criticism, the self doubt, the situational anxiety and the fear. I’m left with myself. But fresher. Stronger. Clearheaded. Brand new.

There is a healthy balance in life, a strength in getting what you want and being patient for what you can’t have (yet). Through this chapter of life, I have learned a patience that I never knew existed within myself. I have learned discipline, routine and structure in it’s most selfless form. I am amazed at what my body has accomplished and I love it more than I ever have. I know I will always crave movement, but more importantly, I have proven to myself that I am strong enough to be still.




Bomb Baby.

What is it like to have a BABY with type one diabetes?

It’s like being a nurse, a first responder, a service dog, a pancreas, a negotiator, a nutritionist, a calculator and a bomb defuser all at once. The latter is really the most accurate.

Kids are really all a little “bomby” aren’t they? The difference between a kid without type one diabetes and one with it is that the type one parent needs to be on their game 24/8 because diabetes never sleeps.

There is also a difference in consequence between myself and a bomb defuser. When a bomb defuser fails, the bomb goes off anyway. The bus explodes, the building explodes, hell, maybe even the city explodes. If I fail and that bomb goes off, my entire world will explode. There won’t be a second chance. There won’t be the option to rebuild.

I have this itty bitty human that is stronger than an ox but as fragile as an egg shell. I have seen her run, jump, push, throw and hold her own against older siblings and animals four times her size. I have also seen her body pale, cold, unresponsive and drained of all life. It’s a scene that no mother should have to witness, yet only a mother could.

It is not a burden to constantly watch over this child, in fact it’s the greatest gift I have ever received. I love every single thing about my little cyborg bomb baby and I accept this challenge because she is still the girl that I gave birth to. It is my pleasure to walk this journey with her because a journey without her is NOT an option for me.


Perfect Imperfection.

How long does it take to make a perfect carrot cake from scratch?

Find the ingredients … crush the nuts … bolus the two year old … grate the carrots … Freeze dance around the island … “Mom is the cake ready yet?” … measure the brown sugar … snack time .. prep the pan .. “Mom is the cake ready yet?’ ..

Making my perfect carrot cake with my children bothering me constantly is probably the only way I’d have it. I genuinely can’t remember the last time I felt comfortable standing still and silent. I have really always found calm in chaos. I also have always enjoyed being alone.

Things are a little different now. Yes, please, if you see me leave me alone. But hell, if for some very unusual reason I find myself alone in my house during the day you better believe I’m dying on the inside FOR REAL. Without the pitter patter of little feet, the shouting, the laughter, the whining and smashing; I’m completely lost and planning my escape, like I am running from a hippo.

I feel broken and so whole at the same time. My life hurts without them and that’s exactly what I know that every parent needs to feel. That moment to realize how much you miss your kids, that is the moment! The diapers, the tears, the dirty faces, the sticky fingers, the bum wiping, the mud puddle you didn’t know was there until somehow it’s all over your child’s forehead, the sibling rivalry … this shit is so REAL .. and the list could go on for days.

It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed, stressed and annoyed. The important thing is to remember that it’s normal and okay to take time away from your kids … and when you do .. listen. Listen to that silence. I guarantee, in that silence, you’d give anything to hear a little voice say “Mommy, can you read me a story?”

My carrot cake is perfect. I’m not perfect. But as long as I can still hear those kids in the other room, I’m all set.