Frolicking Outside

I feel like you need to zoom in on this image to appreciate it on IG. Also, we finally cut his hair and I was quite sad about it. But hot summers with a mop on your head... I get it. Boy do I get it. 😅💁🏼‍♀️🌞🔥

Favorite Month

June is my favorite. We’re at the peak of long days & late sunsets. The temperature hasn’t skyrocketed. The world is still green instead of fading to brown. Wild flowers are blooming in the mountains. Evenings outside are cool and peaceful. Beautiful, happy June.

Tunnel Vision

We went on a family bike ride/walk the other day. My boys showed me their favorite tunnel. It has steep hills on both sides and they like to start at the top of one of those, gather as much speed as they can, and come flying down at 100 mph with their feet off the pedals. 🙈 But sometimes that kid joy is just what you need, you know?
*** Inspired to try this tunnel shot by the work of a couple of other amazing UT artists that live by me: @bluehillimages & @summer_murdock 💛

Happy Juneteenth

Happy Juneteenth! I didn’t know about this holiday until this year, but I am grateful for it! May it be full of gratitude and appreciation for the perspectives & experiences of others and all that we have and can overcome. 🙏🏻💛

The Happiest

Oh my lands, she’s a bucket of joy 😅 I included a short series of clips from Lydia learning to climb up on the couch in my stories. They are worth it—turn your sound on. Almost every time she learns a new skill there are giggles, galore. We were dying. My mom pointed out today that she epitomizes joy in the journey. 💛😁 #misslydiefaith

Please Stop Time

I keep looking at my boys and realizing that they aren’t going to stay this way, forever. Their funny little phrases, discoveries, and all the things they need my help with now... they’ll grow out of them. I’m sure their next stages will be beautiful and delightful in their own ways, but every summer I can’t help getting a little bit wistful once in awhile about the fleeting nature of life. Maybe because as a child time seemed so very different to me—longer... and now I know that in 3 quick months they’ll grow out of all their clothes and learn new skills and I’ll hardly recognize them from these pictures of today. So I keep taking pictures, somewhat selfishly, so I can in some way keep these dear little boys I love alive as each version of themselves, forever.

After my daughter with Down Syndrome was born, one of the first things I noticed was that she did not resemble any of the pictures of babies hanging on the hospital walls. Her demographic was not represented. I had never experienced that feeling so personally, before. It wrecked me.

After we took her home, I was delivered reading materials from a well-meaning person that were incredibly degrading to her and our family. I threw them away, crying uncontrollably.

I have witnessed online discussions (local groups) where parents evaluate the pros and cons of putting their disabled children on birth control preemptively because these girls are so commonly victims of sexual assault. Seriously. That was the reason.
I have watched parents, some my own online friends, advocate for their children by introducing state laws that allow individuals with Down Syndrome to even be eligible for organ transplants.

I know of cases in which church groups have been unwilling to accommodate disabled individuals “for now.” Of moms who have cried in anguish because their disabled child has been looked over for birthday parties, play dates, or job opportunities—despite being fully capable of participating. Of innocent children who have been bullied by people at school because they look different.
I know of many special needs parents who feel the need to hide any hard or painful realities of their lives, in spite of the fact that they desperately need and would appreciate extra support, because such expressions only contribute to the negative assumptions surrounding the child they love unconditionally.

These are not hypothetical experiences. I can put names and faces to each of them. Real people. That I know.

I am not Black. I don’t pretend to know what it is to be Black, nor do I (because some idiot will go there) equate being Black and being disabled. All I want to say is this:

For those in marginalized groups, the system is not perfect. The hurtful experiences are many and they are real. Even in America. Even in your own town and neighborhood.

Can I advocate for my daughter—her rights to opportunities, respect, or even basic decency and fail to acknowledge there are others who exist with different experiences than mine, but who hurt as well?

No. I cannot.
Maybe there are some things you can never know until they apply to you. But when that thing that “only happens/applies to other people” one day makes its way around to you in some form or another—you are never the same.
And all you will want is for someone to listen, to see, and be kind.

Edit: I’m not trying to detract from the BLM movement or make this about my daughter/our family (although the struggles she faces are very real). We live in a very predominantly white community with very few POC, and some here believe that systemic racism does not exist. I am hoping to convey that, although I am not a person of color, I have experienced prejudice on a systemic level and know that it exists. Maybe you don’t know a black person, but maybe you do know someone of another minority group that can confirm: yes, these things are real.

May 2020

May: trees and shadows. 😁

Lydie & Daddy

All her unposed sweetness. I hope, by the end of this life, to live as wide open, full, and generously as she does. If the art of life is to truly see, love, embrace and share all the most meaningful parts, this girl is miles ahead of me and the greatest teacher I could ask for; the one I never knew how much I needed.

Summer Begins

By the end of the summer those little white legs are going to match that basketball 😁☀️ .

Happy Memorial Day! It’s very low key for us—not the usual people-packed holiday we are used to—but we’ve got some great food planned so 👌🏻

Precious

I hope I never forget opening doors to stumble on your tiny frame waiting on the other side.
The soft thump thump thump as you scoot down the hallway to my room.
My fingers entwined in your strawberry hair as we wrangle it into shape for the day.
How sweetly and well your hair fits in the day’s fresh braids... until your bangs softly slip out, and your afternoon nap renders the whole work electric.
And may I never, ever forget the sacred honor I feel every time your little voice repeats your one clear word... your first word... your favorite word... “Mama.”

Capture

And then it was summer. ☀️ And you all make me want to get back to writing every day, so thanks for that. 🙏🏻

Enneagram 4

“Fours sit with you in your pain.”
I read that about my enneagram type the other day and felt so. seen. I have received criticism on occasion, from outside and within, that I am too pessimistic and wallow in hard things—when in reality, I am most often trying to stare big, hard feelings in the face so I can experience them, honor them, find purpose in them, and eventually move past them.
Some people are good at being optimists (I married one!), and thank goodness. We need their sunshine and can-do attitude and cheerful perspective that perpetually lifts and encourages. But others of us are called to hold hands at the bedsides of the broken-hearted, and offer comfort or even just presence when things get hard. To get real—down to the bleeding, desperate, barely breathing parts. There have been times when I have felt guilty about that role; when I have felt devastated and even judged. I have wondered what I am lacking, and whether I am somehow broken—LESS for pausing to acknowledge and peer into the depths of the shadows we all sometimes walk in. But I have met so many angels there. I have seen true goodness, fierce courage, and real heroes.
It is rocky, sacred ground, and it has changed me for the better.
So. To the fours. 💛