Dayenu

Dayenu- it means 'it's enough'. It was enough, it'll be enough. Enough.  It gets thrown around during Passover or in Jewish grandmother imitations. It gets said with a shrug of the shoulders or a palms up gesture.

I've lived the not-Dayenu life a lot more than I've lived Dayenu but recently I'm feeling Dayenu quite deeply.

But first some catch up:

Simon had his regular cardiology visit last Wednesday. It had been 4 months since his last and included 3 med changes (dropping 2 and cutting one by a third). It required some weight gain, and generally was a little more weighted than a visit had been in years. We arrived a little early and were spending some time with our old friend the puffer fish when we're called in for our echocardiogram. It's a new tech and Simon does splendidly even helping move the wand around at one point to get even better pictures of his heart. We are making friends in the waiting room and charming old friends that know us so well. All in all a typical visit (that of course I have been stressing about for weeks).

Captain HunkyPants, I mean Dr Rosenfeld, only keep us waiting a few minutes before meeting us and strides in with his usual greeting of "he looks great." Only this time it's followed by "so, his numbers are really different than last time....".

Thud.

Crash.

"I looked at the Echo and his heart looks the same but his numbers are really different."

Me- "Do you want to tell me what they are?"

Pause.

I am mentally packing the hospital bag in my head, thinking of who to call and in what order.

"I'm going to just go look again."

He doesn't even want to tell me the #'s and walks out. 

It's almost like the first time we heard the diagnosis. Almost.

We've been so stable for so long.....what the fuck is going on? I know how possible this is, I know it can happen. I know that numbers and echos can change long before there are symptoms....i know way too much about all the possibilities.

Longest 5 minutes ever.

"I think the echo tech wrote the numbers down wrong. I did a recheck and the computer even gave me new #'s that matched what I thought. His ejection and shortening fraction is are the same as last time. EF is 50 and SF is 28. I think they were 55 and 29 last time so that it could just be reader error and his heart looks the same so we're in a great place given that we decreased his meds last time and he's holding steady."

No blood draw. No changes. No problem. Except for the few minutes of feeling my world turn upside again, and then be righted, it was a simple and sweet cardiology visit. We don't go back for another 6 months! (which by the way will put us back on August 1st, the 4th anniversary of Simon's diagnosis- sounds more like a party than a visit to me!)

The week ended on a high note with Simon eating a full ounce of food by mouth (Trader Joe's Tomato Red Pepper Soup!) and a return to sleeping through the night after almost 6 weeks of transitions, rough nights, and stomach/chest infections.

Whew. I think I took a breath! 

Then, about a week ago. Something changed. Simon learned and has begun to own 'I don't want it!'

It's a combination of words sure and for many toddlers/pre-schoolers, it's a way of life.

Their little selves are developing so fast and they are taking in and understanding so many new and exciting things that often, they themselves can't keep up with it. In Simon's case, it's so clear that he is understanding and wanting so much more than he can express, and it's frustrating the hell outta him.

I do not use that euphemism lightly. It is like my child has turned from a sweet easy going kid to Satan's spawn. He's like a demon child but with a feeding tube and gross and fine motor delays not to mention pragmatic language concerns and that dang heart condition.

So while I appreciate the low muscle tone when it comes to him lashing out and trying to swat me as I attach or disconnect his feeding tube, I am heartbroken over the lack of understanding that seems to be present around not hitting, cleaning up, moving from point A to point B, and generally not getting to sit and watch TV whenever one wants to (him not me- although I'd love to catch up on Top Chef someday).  I think about all the other parents going through this and still....I feel so sorry for myself for all the other work that us 'parenting plus' parents have to put in. Really, it's a pity party over here.

And then I remember. Dayenu.

And it's not a theoretical Dayenu. It's real, just next door, with names and faces attached to it.

Dayenu that Simon is moving, however painfully, through this typical developmental stage.

Dayenu that he's cleared to go to school to see and be around other kids. 

Dayenu that he can string those 4 words together.

Dayenu that we all share a bedroom so that he can climb from his bed into ours for 1:30am snuggling (and that it's not us sharing a hospital room together.)

Dayenu, that his medications are administered through his g-tube and not a central intravenous line.

Dayenu that we've had the last 3 years and 3 months not wondering if we need to head back down to Stanford for another heart transplant consult.

Dayenu that Jaime and I can still find love for each other in this time of parenting plus
Dayenu
Dayenu that we are moving from his braces to simple orthotics. Yes he will wear high top sneakers with his dress suit at the Passover  Seder, but he will rock that look and no doubt trends will be set.
Dayenu that he took 5 bites of food at lunch. Dayenu that those bites are the size of one spaghetti O or a grain of rice- they ARE being chewed and swallowed.

I could keep going on but the reality is that it's still hard. When Simon is done eating and throws his food across the room, it's not the same as your typical food throwing pre-schooler. There's the food that I've carefully chosen and prepared for him/us to eat during a therapeutic meal, there's the food that I've prepared for him that I know he'll enjoy playing with, there's the food that I know is appropriate for him to be able to chew and swallow (that he may not like as much as the chicken bone slathered in bbq sauce), and then there's the blended organic whole foods that I have carefully measured out in terms of volume to calories that I have the benefit of pushing through his G-tube and not worrying if he likes the texture and flavor of but is a bitch and a half to monitor (and smells so foul when it gets brought back up.)  So when that tiny little handful of mac and cheese goes flying and the low toned arm lashes out to hit my face, it hits the frustration button a little harder than it might for most.
Dayenu that he is expressing himself right? .............right?
I know it is. I pray/ know it's just a phase and an essential one at that. I do my best to take a deep breath and tell him over and over, time and time again that it's not ok to hit. I don't like it. It hurts me ( I don't go in to the emotional pain versus the physical pain, that will be for when he's 4- besides I don't want him to get a complex about his low muscle tone- that's for when he's 4 too).

Still, it sucks. It hurts so much more than I can express when we're sitting watching TV and I have to turn it off because the tube feeding is done and it's time to get to the dr/therapy/special Ed class and I get a tantrum that brings on a barf..
When we're sitting down for our therapeutic meal and I have actually chosen everything that has been asked for and don't even get to the table before hearing "I'm done" and pushes himself back from the table, swatting at my hands while I'm not fighting him but simply trying to unbuckle him from the high chair so that he doesn't get his feeding tube  pulled when he gets down...
 When we're walking down the street, he wants to stop for something, can't express it in words, and simply throws my hand away/pushes me aside/ says "I don't want you Mommy"....
I breathe it in. Try to separate the smoke from ash, work on not letting it burn and figure out the next step in getting to Trader Joe's to pick up more snack foods for the child.

It's what we do, we moms and dads and aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas and all other form of caregivers to little ones. For those of us with Littles that have that 'little' something else going on, those of us that wait months and years to hear our names spoken, take that first walk, enjoy that first shared meal...it's just that much harder.

I have wished and prayed and cried for Simon to have 'normal'. All I want for him is to get to go through life with the same chances and choices that anyone else might.

Is it so much to ask to have that happen without him ever questioning anything I say to or ask of him. I don't think so. Dayenu.................right?

A boy and his dog

A boy and his GG

A boy and his new bike trailer

A boy and his band

A boy and his extended family

 A boy, his Mama, and some tall trees

A boy and his new friends

A boy sleeping

So grateful for this boy

Never Out of a Job

These are tough times. Unemployment. Inflation. Debt.
And, I will never be out of a job.

Today this thought makes me want to jab 60ml syringes full of blended food into my eyes (and for those of you in the 'know', those are big syringes). It's a day where I cannot figure out what to do with myself or for myself. It's a day where Jaime is off work and wanting to be there and help and take things on, and does, and I still feel myself spiraling down into the depths of despair. The 'work' that I speak of, that beautiful boy that is growing and changing in leaps and bounds (in small but relative ways), that amazing boy that has lived when so many thought he wouldn't. That boy that is giving love in new and wonderful ways, that's the 'work', the job, that is so secure in these troubled times.
Today, that 'work' feels laid out before me, a road paved with poopy diapers, miscommunicated owies, unattended yoga classes, feeding therapy groups attended, developmental milestones missed, medical appoints never missed and a career finally found and off to a wonderful start.... halted.

I took Roxie for a long walk Saturday, tooled around China Town and San Francisco with Simon and Jaime yesterday, and repeated the Roxie walk today. My body hurts. I pulled a muscle last week and can't seem to get it better. I have had a pain in my achilles for months now and have not taken care of it. I have a herniated disk in my back that some days is so unbearable that to bend down and unlock the ChildSafety on the toilet almost doesn't seem worth it. (read that one again....take it in. I'm not kidding.)
I have at least 10 pounds on me that are not helping and probably 30 total that should come off to stop making Jaime worried that she'll be pushing me around in a wheelchair during those old people adventure cruises. (Please note that Jaime is not in anyway pressuring me to 'lose weight' only to take care of myself so that I may be around as long as she plans to be and that we may someday enjoy retirement living long and wonderful lives together - how selfish is that?!)

And I got nothing for any of it.

I have Simon's schedule down. I have his med doses and weight changes and barfage volume, and poop consistency, and ejection fraction and shortening fraction and BNP and tube feeding schedule and oral foods for play versus swallowing and fine motor and gross motor delays and appointments....down.
Ask me about any of those and I can tell you what's happening and when.

Ask me what I want to do to take care of myself, what I would do if I had the time, what I do do when I do have the time (yes I said doo doo), and not only do I not have an answer but I have a reaction that feels no less than a complete shut down (I just typed "shit down" instead and almost kept it.)

Today I am so angry about it I can barely stand to be around myself, let alone Simon and Jaime. AND IT'S A HOLIDAY. ONE WHERE JAIME IS HOME. A holiday that I love and want to celebrate with Simon in meaningful ways so the knows that Dr Martin Luther King Jr was an incredible man, part of an incredible movement, and we're keepin' on with keepin' on.

And all I can fucking think about today is how it feels like I will never ever be done with changing really messy poopy diapers because my son is dependent on stool softeners and won't ever be able to tell me that he's got to GO potty instead of me having to smell it and look to see if it's gas or solid with no consistent verbal telling. I can't stop thinking that no one will ever want to hire me again because who wants a social worker that's been out of the field for so many years and isn't up on the new systems or approaches or therapies? When will I stop buying and blending and freezing pounds and pounds of fresh fruits and vegetables so that every other day I can make two days worth of a green or orange shake that at some point will end up in my hair, on my clothes, or somewhere on the child requiring a complete costume change? When will we no longer have medications, syringes and food pumps/bags delivered to our house on a monthly basis?

I know it will happen at some point. Either Simon will switch to pills and manage his meds on his own and/or he'll start eating by mouth. I know that someday he will poop on the potty. I know that I will go out for job interviews and explain my very good reason for not being at 'work' for the last 5,6,7 years. I know that employer will be so moved by the work that I have been doing that they will offer me the job on the spot with flexible hours so that I can still be there for Simon (at the highest rate of pay possible given all that amazing experience.)   I know that is likely.
But....we are years away from that. Years. And today that feels just about the same as never. It's never going to happen.

A friend asked me how I'm doing, me, at the hardest job in the world?
I can't help but remember how much harder it could be.

And, today is feels fucking hard with no end in sight.

 I don't want to leave the company. Maybe a lateral move, a short term project. No, I don't think there's any of that in my immediate or even short term future. No pay raises, no cutbacks, not even the chance of bringing in someone just as qualified to do the work for less pay (you can't really cut $0.00 down much more).

Awesome.
  /   \  
 0   0
    -
  ~~~

Thank goodness my product is top of the line and really good lookin'. 

Playing with Bubbles

Practicing poses for his first school picture day- Coquette?

Thoughtful?

Casual?

Runway Ready

Where's my bike?

San Francisco Cable Car excursion

So very very cool

On the hunt for Dim Sum in China Town

It's just a rant. I'll get over it. Just give me a minute.

A Fine Year

During our recent vacation, Laura and I snatched 20 minutes to reflect on the past year.

My assessment of 2011?

It was...fine. 

Not great, not particularly good, definitely not terrible. 

Just fine.

And what a freaking miracle that is.  

We, the Fitch-Jenett family, who in each of the prior three years had moments (however brief) of terror and horror and the most godawful gut-wrenching, bone-chilling fear, had a whole year that was just "fine". If I didn't feel so tired from the pace of our just "fine" life, I might jump up and shout "Hallellujah"!

In 2011, our little guy ended his early intervention program, started a special day class for severely handicapped kids, went to camp with typical kids, made it through a whole year without ONE SINGLE hospital visit or major illness, got his heart function into the normal range, dropped some meds and just moved up to a more challenging (non-severely handicapped) preschool class.

His year was waaayyyyy better than fine. 

Mine though? Fine.  Work was fine.  Social time with friends was fine.  Family time was fine. Grandfather passed away which was sad but...fine. Nothing spectacular, nothing devastating. 

"Fine" feels kind of weird. Like coming back to earth after being on a space shuttle or something.  Or maybe coming back from war.  There are still tender spots but I'm too busy trying to keep up with the current that I can't quite stop and care for them in the way that I did when things felt broken open all the time.  When things were godawful, I felt permission to stop and mind the fragile places without the pressure to "go, go go". 

Now it just feels like there are too many things to do and not enough sleep and a child that is keeping us guessing and keeping us moving.

I guess it feels like the life of a typical Mom who works outside the home. 

And really, what a fine life it is. 

-----
Now for a moment of levity.  Our child talked at this pace for approximately one solid hour in the car while we were driving home.  It's a great example of what I call his "popcorn" speech.  A bunch of random crap strung together.  And dangit if it doesn't crack me up every time.  Also, "Thomas the Tank Engine" fans, this one's for you.

http://youtu.be/Mcqo4KEV8mA

Tis the Season- for pictures

Let's fight the cold with some fried starch

 So dainty

 Umm ummm ummmmm

One man band

Getting fancy for a Holiday Party 

Forget about lighting the Menorah, I just want to eat it.

Cute Gingerbread House- Cute Kid

Working on my Pepitas shingling

A day later it's time to eat the dang thing

Mmmm Tasty

 Ok, if there's anyone in there...you might want to vacate

He's not on the Fence, he's eating it.

Deeelish

I love you Gingerbread House

I love you so much I want to eat you!

...and last but not least

http://youtu.be/Q16HgIT6tTs

Dear Jaime

Dear Jaime (because I know you like it in public)

I love parenting with you. I love going through hard things with you. I don't love going through hard things but I love knowing that you and I will do it together. Your hard things, my hard things, our family's hard things. I love how you take care. You love Simon, taking such good care around him, of him. I love that you take care of me when I need it- like last night with a migraine. You take care of yourself, rising at ungraceful hours to get yourself to heart pumping places, sometimes at the gym but sometimes with our dog, pulling her up and down steps (we have the only dog that does the stair master) outside in the receding dark of morning. I love that you love to cook and we all benefit from recipes researched and replicated. I love it all.

Really.

I love it all.

Even the inevitable Saturday kerfuffle that we have, because we're both trying to quickly manage the distinct rhythm change that the weekend brings. I love the whirlwind changes that the house goes through as you hit new levels of frustration and acceptance around clutter, furniture placement, leftover foods in the fridge, small toy parts to step on, and lack of alone time.

I love the tasty bits and I love the bitter bits because it means that we are complete. We have everything we need to build a spectacular and extra-ordinary family together.  Every piece of it another thread that gets added to the chord. I see it as one of those super heavy mega thick twine ropes that are used to anchor the big ships in place. They are as thick as I am (and I love that you love that too) and I don't mean dumb because you know Smith is still ranked higher than Mt Holyoke- sorry just had to get that in...

 I mean like this

Where you can see each individual thread and how they join and group together to make this amazingly strong multifaceted unit. That's us (and that's the largest rope in the world btw).

 That's you and me and Simon and all the other people and experiences that have made up this time and place for this family, this Fitch-Jenett experience. Like the Jimi Hendrix experience only with a whole different category of drugs and crazy bad and good 'trips'.

But I digress.

This is about how I love you; How thankful I am for you. How I bless Kris Woolery over and over again for making me come out that New Year's eve 2001 and then dragging me along to Harbin Hot Springs the next day, starting 2002 off naked in hot tubs with my future best friends and wife.
I love you for getting dressed to the 9's every morning for work. I love you for emptying the dishwasher. I love you for wanting to go on date nights with me, sometimes double dating with friends, sometimes just the two of us, alone in a movie theater watching Bella give birth (blech).

I love that we are far from perfect. We were at one point I think, for a brief but sweet period of time in-between living 3000 miles apart and head injuries and delightful but high maintenance dogs and kids. We had that time. I think we'll have it again...in a few decades.

 Still, I love this time. Because I get to be with you. You, my partner. The love of my life, the redhead of my dreams, the Mama to my Mommy. Together we got Simon, the perfect boy. Yes, he's great and all (see the last few hundred blog entries) but I want to make sure that you know, that I know, that I have the best partner in all of this and that I love you and me together...as adults....with adult time (whenever we can get it)...

I love you Jaime.

Talk To Me Now

Simon talks a lot. He can finish the sentences in dozens of books. He knows most colors and can correctly identify a hexagon. He can count. He requests different songs from a 50+ play list. He knows a lot of things.

Still...

We sit down this afternoon for our Mid-day meal. It's our regular therapeutic meal and usually the one time a day when I can count on Simon to sit and play with food for at least 10-15 minutes. He's just come home from his Special Day Class and almost always is hungry, asking for different things to 'eat'.  I have his chicken nuggets, a mini, taco, some spicy ketchup, and of course his beloved gherkins and soy sauce, all ready to go. Each of these items have been specifically named and requested by him. We have juice and straws ready to go.

He climbs into his chair all by himself and I am expecting another food play session  just like any other. I strap him in, push his chair close to the table and walk the 10 feet into the kitchen to get his pump and food bag.
Less than 15 seconds later I return to the table and hear "I'm finished. I'm done."
It's not the first time that he's done that; gotten settled only to immediately be done.
It's a little unusual at this time of day especially after asking for such specific and historically favorite treats.
Again "I'm fiiiiiiiineeeeeeshed. I'm doooooooooone."

Of course the feeding therapist in me kicks in and knows that we 'have' to at least get a few bites/licks/swallows in before we leave the table.
I begin the cajoling and bargaining that are also as familiar as the chicken nuggets and gherkins at the table.

I am surprised at how quickly he is moved to tears and begins what seems like truly anguished cries.

I take internal inventory and wonder just how much I should push it.

It's really more like a split second conversation that goes on in my head during which time I am watching my son turn red in the face with tears streaming down and of course come to the realization that it's not worth it.

So I begin the ending-the-table-time ritual of simply kissing or licking our food goodbye. It's something that we always try to do and are usually successful at ending our meal on a high note regardless of how many bites or licks or swallows remain at the table.

Nope. The boy is now almost in hysterics, crying out, pleading with me to me done and we are less than 90 seconds into what is usually a 15 minute lovely food play time. What is going on? I am torn between frustration (another meal opportunity down the drain) and heartbreak at watching my son be so distressed.

And then I see it.
I look down and notice that Simon's right thumb is caught in one of the plastic clip loops on his high chair. It's twisted and red from being pulled at and only caught tighter.

I help him disengage his thumb from the vise and hold him while he cries into my shoulder.

His fucking thumb was caught and hurting him like the dickens.

And he can't tell me because he doesn't have that piece of expressive language. He can't even say "Ow" or "my thumb".

His thumb is red and throbbing and my heart is hurting.

I know years from now I will laugh at how there once was a time when....
Just like I laugh now at the time when we had this boy that didn't say more than two words (Hi and Fish) and look at how he doesn't stop talking for more than two minutes.

Still.

He has a significant language delay. I'm not asking that he say "Um, Mom, my thumb is stuck in this buckle and I can't get it out and the way that I've tried has made it even more stuck. So now it really hurts and if you could help me, that would be great. In addition, Mom, I think that this experience has thrown me enough that I'd really like to take a break before working on my eating so if you could just pause the pump feed, that would be spectacular."

No, I'd just like a simple "help me" or "owwww" or "my thumb". Just 'thumb' and/or 'help' would do.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh. For the boy that has a heart condition with so many possible symptoms, language is key. How he is feeling and able to communicate that is key.
Key. Doesn't even begin to touch how important it feels to know what Simon is feeling. Essential. Core. Necessary. Salient.

I think any parent would relate. Especially during that amazing toddler/pre-school time when they clearly have more thoughts and feelings than they have words for. (I hear for some people this goes on for decades).

When you have a child that has language/developmental/medical concerns this divide is so much harder.

I remember when Simon didn't really talk but had Mama down. It was amazing to watch him get it. I was so excited for him to be able to name Jaime and have her get that feedback. I waited for months before I got my 'Mommy'. The wait was excruciating.

This wait is excruciating. This wait for any sense of pragmatic and expressive language.

Excruciating.

Especially when it involves twisted almost broken digits.
And what I try not to do is go to that heart place. That next level down where it's not just about a thumb caught in a buckle. Where it's a chest pain, or fatigue not just based on a lack of nap. Where it's nausea or shortness of breath that feels different than too much tube feeding all at once or trying to run too fast or hard. Where it's a sweat but not from warm weather or having too many clothes on.

I try not to go there.

Some days I'm more successful than others.

And I just want the kid to say "Help me Mommy" or just "ouch".

And I'll be there.

In a heartbeat.

Walking Between the Raindrops

It comes from an old story about a Rabbi who made a group of witches believe that he could walk between the raindrops. He somehow convinces them that they can too and leads them out into the rain where of course they all die from exposure to that life giving force of nature. I'll leave you all to the expounding on the patriarchal and misogynistic themes in the story (that you haven't read) and instead tell you how I feel like I walk in between the raindrops sometimes.

Thanksgiving is over. The family (mine) has come and gone. Gatherings, caravaning leftover meals, swimming, and brunching has all happened with nary a fatality. I love my family. Loved seeing them. Wish we all lived closer and could see each other regularly.

Still, I am glad at this moment to sit quietly in my home, Simon napping, and only have the curled up tiger stripes of my dog to look at.

I am the parent of a child with special needs. My son is tube fed and has developmental delays. He takes syringes full of medications three times a day and while he's not short on personality or love in any way, he lives with a condition that may or may not limit his growth, his choices, and ultimately is life- it's that kind of condition.

It's almost invisible depending on the time of day. And blessed be for that. He's thriving. He's working on running and building up his stamina. He's hysterical. I mean really funny.

 (his newest phrase when he's heading to tantrumville is "I don't want to be upset." Which is huge in that it's a complete sentence, an 'I' statement, and is expressive. The hysterical piece is that he says it usually one step into crying or having a fit and seems to be talking mostly to himself in that he wants to make another choice in the moment but can't figure out what it is- such a thinker my little mensch is)

My challenge right now is walking between the raindrops. It's raining during parenting a lot. Sometimes it feels like it never lets up really. Gotta grow this kid. For sure there are moments of sunlight, we all need our vitamin D but for me and Simon it's been a lot of getting through the showers (meaning hospital stays, medications, appointments, assessments, milestones, etc). It feels like we're always trying to get to the next thing. The next weigh in. The next age appropriate thing. The next therapist/therapy.

I want to just let him be a boy growing.

This holiday time, hanging out with cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, I felt like I mostly got to let him do that. Simon got to go and hang with the older cousins. He got to see and play with his younger ones. He got to move in and out of rooms with family members all happy to see him and give him a hug. He got to have a door shut in his face when only girl children over 5 wanted some privacy (it's important he get that too).

It was a thanksgiving weekend that was so familiar and stereotypical- would be to almost anybody- except for all the gay people :-) that when it comes time for medications or tube feedings or seeing the developmental delays in contrast to other children....I don't know what.

Those are 'normal' things for us, for our family- even the extended. Simon's five and a half year old cousin doesn't even ask anymore when we attach his feeding tube to him. There's no question about what that plastic button coming out of his belly is when we all get into our bathing suits for some hotel swimming. It's amazing. Still, I feel it. I feel the distance between me and my sister as she's getting ready to sit Charlie down in the high chair and fret over what he'll eat since he's so out of sorts from the travel and new spaces. I feel it when Simon is so excited to sit at the children's table during the Thanksgiving day meal but I am barely fitting in the space behind him holding his pump bag so that we can pair food play with a tube feeding.

It's not a painful feeling. It's not that traumatic even. It's a 'normal' thing for me in a world where that's not quite normal. But it's my family too and lord knows we've had our share of working out what's normal.

So what is it....it's not easy to describe. I think it might be like finding out that I was adopted much later in life but you've still had the amazing growing up experience that you had only now there's this new thing that you know about yourself that sets you just one degree apart from the family that you've loved and felt so close to for decades. I'm not adopted no matter how badly my sister wanted me to be at one point- so she could send me back.

I'm not sure about that metaphor or even if I believe what I just wrote....not sure.

I am glad to get back to a simpler schedule. I am glad that Simon just loved loved loved having so many of his 'people' around. I am glad for my wife's chipotle cranberry sauce and her putting up with so many leftover containers in the fridge. I am glad for another Thanksgiving out of the hospital and not even thinking about whether or not Simon should be at the gathering with 21 people and all their germs. I am glad for so many people that love my little guy and how he loves them back. I am glad for my parents, my sister and her family, and all the incredible love and support that my little triad have gotten from them for so so long. I am glad for Jaime's family and our extended and chosen family that have meshed so beautifully that Thanksgiving is just another excuse to get it together and feel the love.

More holiday mishegas coming up for sure. More walking in between the raindrops. More life. More paying it forward. More schisms. More living with and thriving through. Just more more more.

Happy Thanksgiving to you.

A family that Brussels Sprout Stalks together, stays together

Cousin Love

Maya and Simon swing series

Showin' off the Mic-Key (but look at that 6 pack!)

Where my ladies at?

There you are!

Post pig-out puppy pile

Turkey bone!!

Reading with MM and PopPop