He Will Rock You

Oh my sweet, crazy, little Charlie,

A week ago, I found myself sitting on the front steps thinking, “how in the world are you going to be four next week? Four. 4! You’re going to be 4!” And those happy little tears of joy, they came right along with those thoughts.

The following day, I found myself sitting in on a panel, sharing your story. Almost four years worth of your story. Projecting your hells and your victories, to a room of strangers. And every person in that room listened with “Awwws” and “ohhhs” as I shared. None of them fully being able to understand the pain and triumph those hells and victories hold for us.

Sometimes, I let my brain forget all of the hells, it’s rare, but it happens. Like yesterday, when you played for your biggest audience yet at your birthday party.

That was gold, and my heart, for that small bit of time, let all of those hells take a back seat.

And this morning, when you added your metal touch and screamed “blood on your face, sick disgrace” as you jammed out to We Will Rock You, all I could think was, “boy you’ve rocked the shit out of a lot of things.”

The truth is, for you, getting to 4 wasn’t easy. We’ve gone to battle. Time and time again.

I’ve handed you to a surgeon, knowing what could happen, knowing the odds, praying for miracles as I let you go. And every time, you rocked it. I’ve watched your sats drop as you became lifeless, trying to catch your breath, fading into the night, but you weren’t done rocking. I’ve listed to you scream as I held you down for procedures. I can still picture every detail of your tiny body withdrawing from narcotics, as you just kept swimming. I’ve lived in a hospital with you, protected from the outside world, when all we needed was each other (and all the medical staff). We’ve celebrated holidays with hospital staff and enjoyed visits from hospital Santa. I’ve carried you flailing to and from appointments, when your PTSD was winning. There are countless days and nights we’ve spent hooked up to machines to watch your breathing. I lost track of the ambulance rides we’ve taken and the amount of ER visits we’ve made. You have never stopped rocking it. I’ve watched them shock your heart, as your tiny body jumped off the bed, again, a hell no one should ever have to endure, and you continued to rock. There is not one moment of those hells that I can’t recall. Burned painfully in my brain, images, smells, sounds and all, they have made you strong.

There is also not one victory I can forget. I remember the saving words the doctors said to me. I remember walking back into your room after I thought that was it, and the weight that lifted when they told me you were stable.

I’ve held you for hours as you slept, because I was your security blanket, and that made everything better.

I’ve fed you as you learned to eat, and relearned, and relearned some more.

I’ve cheered you on as you finally began to roll, and then crawl, and then walk, and then terrorize everything in sight.

I’ve watched you start to dance and perform for audiences.

I’ve watched you slug a ball at three years old, farther than some six year olds.

I’ve left you at the door to preschool, ready to learn and explore.

I’ve listened to you talk to doctors, check yourself in at appointments, and talk to others about your experiences.

I’ve watched you rough house with your siblings, punch your sister in the face, and join in the chaos, like every little boy does.

I’ve watched you be a little shit, more times than one would think is possible. Then flash your shit grin to try and escape your demise.

I’ve watched you love. You love with all of that little broken heart, as if it was never broken at all. You give the best hugs. And you’ve mastered the super kiss.

I have watched you live. You live every day as it comes. For all it is. Not worrying about what is to come. I hope and pray you always do that. I’ll handle the worrying enough for us both.

I’ve watched you become four. A number that still seems so unimaginable to me.

I want you to know, no, I need you to know, that you are a rockstar. You are more than I could have ever asked for. Your chaos inducing, life altering craziness, it changed me. It changed everything, in the scariest, most amazing way. And on your 4th birthday (that still can’t be right), I need to tell you thank you. Thank you for making me do things I don’t want to, thank you for scaring the living shit out of me, time and time again, thank you for insisting that I have patience (in so many many ways), thank you for forcing me to be better, thank you for trusting me, and thank you for letting me be your mommy.

You just continue to rock, I’ll always be two steps behind.

With all of my love,


We Meet Again

November 23rd, 2 a.m., we meet again.

Of all the days and all the trials, you are by far my biggest nemesis. I fear you.

I hate that after seven years you still have immense power over me. You can control my thoughts. I surrender my feelings to you. This year, you have not only grasped me mentally, but have physically left me powerless at times. For weeks prior to your arrival, you haunt me.

I end up right back in that hospital room with the plastic couch. Bright lights glaring at me in a daze as I’m told to leave the room. “He needs to be intubated or he might not make it through the night.” I hear the doctor say as a nurse walks me out and more medical staff rush in. I’m left to wait in question, wonder, and shock. Terrified. Utterly terrified. Unwilling to reveal those feelings. I must always be strong, I must not crumble, I can’t crumble.

But I needed to. I needed to surrender my feelings in that moment. I refused to show weakness outside of that one crushing phone call I had to make, for fear that you would get me. Jokes on me.

I often feel helpless to you. I continue to wonder when you will stop hurting me, and pray you stop creeping in at the most inopportune times to remind me of your existence.

I’m working on you. I’m learning how to counter your attacks and minimize the pull you have on me. I sometimes wish I could pull out a wand and throw a Patronus charm at you. It would be one bad ass mom unwilling to quit, and you would be left to surrender, powerless. I will get there, and you will lose the grip you have. I promise you, it’s coming, and I will win.

What I have achieved in the last seven years, is aligning my emotions to my body. I’m no longer protecting myself entirely from you. I’ve let you in as completely as I can, and you suck, royally. The physical weakness you have added on to me this year, it’s my body finally feeling the pull you’ve had on me. It hurts like hell. But I’ve never encountered a mountain I couldn’t climb, so here I am.

Feel the Fear- Do it Anyway

In 2018, ironically the week before Charlie was diagnosed with Atrial Flutters and had to be again hospitalized for Thanksgiving, I got this tattooed on my arm. It has been a steady reminder to keep going. To do the hard things. Feel the feelings, but keep pushing forward.

It’s 2 a.m. and I am reveling in my beautiful boy, breathing peaceful on the couch next to me, his heart clicking with every beat. I’ve stared at him most of the night, I’d like to say it’s all for him, but it’s not. He does know you are there. He can feel you creep close and he also wants you to go away. I’ve got him covered though, and you can’t touch him. He perfected his Patronus a long time ago- he calls it Mom. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of it.

We have a day and a half to go to guarantee we’re home for Thanksgiving. We are currently 3-3 and we hate tie games. Despite the fear, we’ve got a good feeling about this one.

Thank You: Sophisticated > PTSD

Thank you.

Thank you for recognizing I wasn’t ok.

I’m really good at hiding it. Almost flawlessly at times. You know that.

Today, even through my mask, you knew I wasn’t.

I could barely spit out the words, “I’m very…” (deep breath, don’t cry) “…triggered coming here this time of year.”

And without hesitation you replied, “tell me about Charlie.”

You know, that he is my saving grace. Even if he is the reason I’m not ok. He’s also the thing that makes me better.

I flawlessly rattled off the last several months of events. You turned to your medical student and referring to me said, “Shelby is one of my most sophisticated parents, as you can tell.”

Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that the person who broke down repeatedly on the drive and pulled into the parking ramp sobbing is a sophisticated parent.

You continued your exam. We went over head to toe of my handsome, curly haired boy. We reviewed medical records from other providers. I told you I already knew where this was all headed, but I’d play along. You laughed, because you know I’m right.

We devised future, strategic treatment plans. You asked me for my input. We discussed the new providers replacing some of our most beloved. You explained things medically and on my level to answer my questions. I love all of this about appointments with you.

Just as you were getting ready to depart. You looked me in the eye and asked if I’d like a hug. And the me inside that despises hugs kind of jumped for joy that you had caught on.

Thank you. Thank you for empathizing on a level that I don’t often feel. I heard your gentle sob. I felt your deep breath. I embraced your compassion full heartedly.

Today, you were more then my son’s medical specialist. Today you demonstrated what Patient and Family Centered Care is. You did it beautifully.

And as you closed the door you added, “I’m not going anywhere.” How wonderfully fortunate we are for that.

Something About an Elephant

I’d like to start with my apologies for my absence. Life seems to be quite consuming as the children grow, and my priorities are in order. With them forever remaining at the top.

Today however, I have some feelings to share. If you wouldn’t mind, we’re going to go 6-years back in time.

I woke up to a feverish babe. Not like slightly feverish, like this child had been pulled straight out of hell. With no sign or reason for this, I rushed to the Emergency Department.

There was no use questioning me, by now we’d been there so many times only the Lord really knew the count. The ED staff knew our names, they knew his medical status, and they immediately began his routines.

Pneumonia? Maybe it’s pneumonia. They checked the X-Ray. They cultured his blood. They cultured his urine. Then they put us in an ambulance, again. On our way to our second home.

The nurses in the hallway waved and smiled as he was admitted straight to the cardiac unit this time. He was a local celebrity.

Now connected to all of his wires and IVs, they began antibiotics for the unknown.

He was getting sicker by the minute.

They found a blood infection in his broviac line. The line coming from his chest.

The worst part came later. It wasn’t just contained to that line, it was in all of the blood. In his entire body.

He was septic.

I was scared. Which is the biggest understatement you’ll read to date. Let’s try again.

I was out of my mind terrified.

If you’d been there 6-years ago. You would’ve complimented me for how well I was handling everything. Told me “I just don’t know how you do it.” You would’ve seen me calm and collected. And I was.

I could mask my feelings of terror and sadness beautifully. Now some of you won’t believe this part, but even my frustration was pretty minimal on the outside.

I was numb. I had trapped in and shut off any pipeline that could present outward emotion. I was inwardly preparing my defenses.

Turns out, while I was busy turning off pipe lines, my body was making some core memories. Like the ones in Disney’s Inside Out. Except I didn’t have a pink, cotton candy elephant in an outdated suit and a wagon to help me access those.

I just had me. And me wasn’t touching it.

Me now however, has a lot of things to feel about that.

Turns out, opening those pipes back up isn’t as controllable as one would like. Imagine it something like turning on the garden hose. You forget that the sprayer setting is on jet. So you quickly try to turn it to sprinkler and end up at flood before you can make it back around a couple times to the right setting?

By then the water has shot off the house a couple of times, sprayed dirt into your face, and you’re soaked in water and there’s really nothing you can do but finish the task at hand. The next time you try again, and again, and again, for as many times as it takes. And maybe, just maybe, one of these times- you’ll show that PTSD who has gained control of the sprayer.

One morning, waking up to a core memory won’t feel like a stab to the heart. Today wasn’t that day, but the pink elephant is telling me we’re going to get there.

If Ever Murdered or Kidnapped

You know that meme, the one that says, “If I’m ever murdered or kidnapped, please don’t make up lies about me.” (If you don’t- go find it.)

This meme makes me laugh, unnecessarily hard actually. I find it extremely relatable. Upon growing older, despite my sweet daughter’s insistence that I’m 23 or 28, or anything under 30, I’ve been taking a lot of time to reflect.

Here’s how I imagine mine goes:

Her smile did not light up a room. It was often uncertain if her smile even existed. Upon meeting her, you questioned your status immediately. If you made it through the screening process, you would learn, there was a smile hidden there. If you wanted to see it, you had to earn it.

Her mouth, it was pirate worthy. Her filter broke the day she learned her child’s heart was broken. That was the day she learned everyone had feelings, and sometimes they need expressing.

She learned feelings needed expressing. However, it would take her years to learn how you do that the right way. She did not do emotions. They made her feel weak and uncomfortable.

She feared failure, failure in any capacity it came. Parenting. Friendship. Marriage. Work. Life. She failed often, or at least she always felt like she did.

She was difficult. In communicating. In compromising. In changing. In existing.


If it was important to her. You knew it. She was an advocate for everything she held value in. And she held value in a lot.

She believed in the good of others. She believed that progress was always possible. She believed that everyone deserved a chance, or several. Even, when those chances personally hurt her. She believed in people.


If she loved you, you knew she loved you. She gave everything in her. Everything. All of it. She didn’t know the word no. If you needed her, whatever it was for, it mattered more than her.

“Why did they make me like this?”

“Why did they make me like this?”

There it was, the bomb had been dropped in front of me. The detonator was seconds from going off. I could tell by the quivering lip and the tears that were seconds from bursting out. It was now up to me to disarm it.

I was helpless to it.

This bomb did not stand alone. It was fused together with the one that has been sitting inside of me. Only mine, was programmed to detonate merely seconds after the other was dropped in front of me.

Those seconds however, they seemed like several minutes as I tried to remember what the disarming code was. I’ve been working on this for just over 5 years. I knew the day would come I’d have to utilize it. But in those long, painful seconds, none of the codes felt right.

And just like that, before I could finish thinking, both bombs went off simultaneously. The strong boy in front of me, with the quivering lip, who had been fighting so hard to keep it together as he asked his question, he burst. And so did I.

We sat snuggled in my bed under blankets, perfectly intertwined, just as our bombs had been. We have always had a way of speaking without speaking in moments like these. Although this time felt very different. He felt bigger, well, older, he is Charlie size after all. He was old enough to notice he was different. And now, he had asked me that long awaited question. One that he wanted an answer to. I thought I had a good couples years left until I’d need to have perfected the answers to it. But, Charlie has always been his own keeper of time.

While I held him tight, I tried to make sense of all of the versions of all of the answers I had run through my head.

“Because I grew you wrong,” is my anxiety’s personal favorite. It seemed to be the answer every other time I tried to come up with an answer.

“Because you’re a special boy and you’re meant to make a difference.”-my logical brain.

“No, it’s because you grew him wrong.”- anxiety brain.

“Because. . .” -logical brain taking a go again, because this weeping boy is still waiting for some form of answer. There is only so long the tight hugging is going to be enough.

“Stop, no…it’s because you grew him wrong.”- anxiety brain is sure a treat ain’t she.

We go back and forth several more times. As I held a little boy, his lip quivering, continuously trying not to cry. Trying to be brave.

And then out loud, because blurting things out is the only thing that stops my anxiety brain, came the only answer that felt right, “because God DOES NOT make mistakes. God made you exactly who and how you are suppose to be.”

The passage I chose for my Charlie tattoo before he was even born reads, “I praise you, because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm 139:14 (NIV). And the one I have used so often, every day since, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.” Jeremiah 1:5(NIV)

And then he slept.

And I cried, as I sat in a place of, “what actually just happened?”

The wreckage stabbed at my heart, and pieces kept interrupting my thoughts. I wanted badly for silence. Maybe I should’ve handled it better. Maybe I should’ve kept my strong game going. But I couldn’t. He had big emotions, and this time, this time they were destined to meet mine.

This time, that painful bomb that we had both been housing for 5 years, it went off. Neither of us knew how to stop it, neither of us had the code ready. And I imagine there are many big questions to come, questions we will continuously not have the answers for. Feelings we won’t be able to contain. Moments that will leave us more confused then when we entered them. And for that my sweet Charlie, I am sorry.

But I promise you, God & I will be there for all of those moments. We will figure them out together. I do believe those are the moments meant to change us. In those moments, we are meant to learn, and we are meant to grow. Just as we have been doing since the day you were diagnosed.

On this Sunday morning, with the sun shining so brightly on his blonde bed head, his eyes glistening, I asked Charlie, “why were you made like this?”

“Because God does not make mistakes!”

Kindergarten, Ready or Not!

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. -Jeremiah 29:11 

Jeremiah 29:11 is the bible verse that was chosen for the school year. A reassuring and promising verse at that. And it is with that thought at the forefront of my mind, that I attempted to prepare myself for Charlie’s first day of Kindergarten. Not just the first day of Kindergarten for my imunocompromised, asthmatic, broken hearted child, who can’t stop putting his hands in his mouth; but the first day of Kindergarten, plus the laundry list, plus a freakin’ pandemic, for my child who can’t stop putting his hands in his mouth.

Lord, give me strength, and then some.

At 6:10am I opened Charlie’s bedroom door, his eyes shot right open before I had a chance to speak or turn on a light. I hugged him and asked if he was ready for his first day of Kindergarten! -I have never seen that boy get dressed and ready to leave the house so quickly in his entire life!

He was so anxious he declined breakfast, as I insisted he needed to have at least something. He repeatedly asked to go. He sat ready with his backpack in anticipation that Mya and I would be ready sooner than later. He was ready. I was not.img_2218

We embarked on the 40 minute drive to school- which allowed for asking, “are we there yet?” at least 20 times… It also gave opening to flashbacks…

I went back to that very first night in the hospital, the one when my world seemed to be caving in around me in that Cardiovascular Intensive Care room. Charlie lying hooked up to IVs, monitors, and the nurse in the maroon scrubs standing across the hospital crib from me, trying to keep me sane. I had a lot of thoughts that night. They began with things as simple as, “Why him?” and moved rapidly to, “how will he develop?”, “will he go to school?”, “will he live a normal life?”, “will he live at all?” How real those feelings were. How scary those thoughts were. And how much I continued to question them, for months as we lived in and out of the hospital for weeks at a time. How much I’ve questioned them every time he gets sick.

From the backseat my painfully deep thought was interrupted with, “Mom can I go into school by myself?” Going straight for the gut today eh bud? With a lump in my throat, as I tried to swallow that hospital room image, I replied, “No buddy, this is your first day of Kindergarten. But it’s not for you, it’s for me. As your Mom, I have earned the right to walk you into Kindergarten on your first day of school.”

Mya heard the lump in my throat, that refused to go down, “are you crying?”

“Yes,” I sighed, as I held back what I could. “There was a time I didn’t know if I would ever get to see Charlie go to school. There were times I wasn’t sure if we would ever have Charlie. Today is a really big deal.”

Damn that lump.

“I know Mom, maybe we should change the subject.” -If that girl only knew how sweet her heart is in those moments.

Charlie lightened the conversation with, “I didn’t know I would be so happy on this day!img_2225

-If only he knew how much his zest for life impacted those around him, and me. His smile filled his face ear to ear that entire drive. He was glowing, he was excited, he was ready. I was not.

None the less, time to take that sweet little human to school. We parked further away, and he slipped his tiny little hand right into mine as we walked- he rarely does this anymore. We took our obligatory first day of school pictures outside, his teacher had prepared some cute kindergarten signage, and then we masked up, sanitized (Thanks Rona), and walked into school.


Charlie’s always wonderful, very excited, Kindergarten teacher was ready to receive him when we got to his locker. Because of his img_2230complex medical history, we were graciously able to handpick the teacher we felt best to work with him. I’ve given her the run down. She’s read, printed, and asked questions about the letter from the Immunologist. She’s viewed the asthma action plan. She knows where his metal pieces are in his body. She knows about the blood thinner. She’s asked the hard questions. She’s aware he sleeps whenever he dang well pleases. She’s put a plan in place to keep his fingers from his little mouth. And I can guarantee you that she’s prayed for every kid in that classroom as she prepares to share Jesus, ABC’s, and 123’s with them.

I squeezed his tiny, definitely not Kindergarten sized body as hard as I could. Slipped our masks down and gave him a big embarrassing Mama kiss. He was off to Kindergarten without a second look. He was ready. I was not.

I walked back through those double doors, tears swelling up in my eyelids. I held my eyes open as big as I could as I passed children and parents going to school. And when no one was looking, I closed my eyes and I let those tears come. And they came and they came. They came out of joy, thanks, and praise to God that I was able to walk him into Kindergarten.

And then, I cried for my friends, the ones who didn’t get to walk their babies into Kindergarten, they don’t get first days of Kindergarten. They are experiencing the things my nightmares are made of. And that is one hell of a lump to swallow.

How was your first day of Kindergarten?! “It was Beary good!” You could hear the thrill in his voice. He rambled on about the bear hunt, he blurted out the friends in his class from last year, and he shared with excitement the new friends he had made. His teacher sent me a photo of his beaming smile at recess. img_2241And the lump that seemed so big in the morning, it took it’s place back in the “hidden feelings” section of my mind.

And we did it. Well, I did it. Charlie was ready the whole time.

Charlie has always been ready.

“Rock and Roll!”


Photo Credit: VanessaLyn Photograph and Design

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. -Jeremiah 29:11

Lose, Learn, Win (with respect)

I played again today. It’s been over 4 years. Some things, some things are just harder than others to pick back up again. Some things are harder to start again with someone that’s not the same someone. But it was time. So I bought a board, the closest I could get to looking just like the one I learned on (I did damn good).

And I taught Charlie.

Learning the game.

I taught Charlie the game we loved to play most. He got frustrated. He cheated. A lot. I got frustrated. He told me I cheated. We got frustrated. We kept playing. And it was just like I was sitting there 25 years ago, when Papa taught me.

We’d spend hours playing Chinese Checkers, he in the chair, me on the floor, with the board placed on the rolling foot stool between us. Which was basically just hours of endless defeat for me. He was never easy on me and he never let me win. What he did, was he taught me how to learn. I had to play to learn, I had to try to learn, and I had to be willing to be defeated. Over and over and over again. Because he was damn good.

And one day, many years later. Many defeats past. I won.

In my small little heart, beating Papa was when I knew I had arrived. Strike up the band, get my crown, the queen has taken the throne.

And for Papa, that was a proud moment. I can still see the smile on his face. He taught me to learn. He taught me to lose gracefully. He taught me to learn some more. And with that he taught me to win.

As I was teaching Charlie, he asked several times with hope, “am I winning?”

“No bud. But you’re not going to win. You’re learning. I’m teaching you how to play and you’re going to lose a lot first. But you’re just learning. The day you beat me, that’s when you know you’re good. I’m the “Papa” you now have to beat.”

In your little life, it’s my responsibility to teach you how to lose, in all of the ways Papa taught me. And how to lose often. Because you will lose often.

You can’t cheat your way across the board. You can’t double jump your marble without following the lines. And you can’t move the marble at the top of the pyramid straight to the bottom row.

What you are to young to realize and what I was to young to realize then, is that while we are being defeated, while we are learning how to lose with dignity and grace, we are learning how to win with respect. Through all of those endless games of defeat, we are winning.

I didn’t win all those years ago because he let me. I didn’t win because I cheated. I won, because I took the time to learn how. And when I could’ve accepted my defeat and quit. I kept learning. Because I wanted to win and I wanted to earn it.

I never thought that one day, I would be sitting at the counter trying to teach a child, much like myself, a game passed down by family tradition, when those memories would flood back in. I never thought that one day, I would be the “Papa” to beat.

So I played again today. With a new someone. A someone who needs me to teach him all of the somethings Papa taught me. And while I teach him to lose, he’s learning the valuable lesson, of how to earn that win and the respect that goes with it.

Thanks for Asking

In the last couple of months, I’ve started any number of posts. And I’ve stopped every one. I have drafts of drafts and revisions and updates and nothing seemed to be what I wanted. Nothing what I thought worthy of sharing. Nothing I finished. But I’m a blogger, so something had to come out eventually…

I wanted to be honest, I wanted to ask you to withhold your judgments on something you know nothing about, I wanted to let you know how okay I am, I wanted you to know how ok my children are, I wanted you to know the answers to the questions you keep asking. But you never asked me.

So I didn’t share.

At the end of the day, the answers you seek so desperately, even though they are none of your damn business, are never going to be the right ones. Because even with them, you’ve made your judgment.

I wanted to tell you that your judgments hold no value. And then that felt like you’d think they did. The ridiculousness of the human mind astounds me.

I hope that the versions of me you’ve decided upon in your head, are good ones. Maybe, I’m the heroic mom who made the difficult move, in the best interests of her children. Maybe, I’m the woman who left behind emotional disaster, and you’re proud of me for doing the hard thing. Maybe, you really don’t give a shit (this is my favorite version of me that you’ve made up.) Or maybe, your version of me isn’t good. Maybe, your version of me is the one you drew up in your head, with the answers to the questions, you never asked me.

I’m ok with all of that.

I don’t need you to be.

I need me to be.

And you know what version of me is my ultimate fav? The real one. Have you met her? She’s god damn amazing AF!

I can tell you, that I’m ashamed for how I judged others in my situation. And I’m sorry. I can tell you that I never knew any of the feelings they had. I can tell you that I never understood why they would put their children through that. I can tell you that I have learned. I can tell you that I will never again judge anyone in that situation. And I can tell you, that what you think is going on, is not.

Not that you asked me.

But, thanks for asking.

Pink Hangers

One of the most beautiful souls I know, and I have the privilege to call a fellow Mama Bear, brought this story to me tonight. With all of its love and straight up realness, it needed to be shared. And supporting my tribe, that is something I’ll do in a hot second.

From the beautiful soul of Megan:

“Pink hangers….

I was in the middle of doing respite foster care for a 4 year old girl and a 3 month old baby boy recently. With two one year olds of my own, I had 4 kids under 4 living in my home. I was less than put together at this point.

My in-laws had taken my girls for the night so we could have some form of “rest” (sleep through the night, not bathing 4 children at the same time, actually getting to eat supper, take your pick…) and the night was going very well.

My hubby was rocking the baby and watching the news and I was putting my girls’ laundry away. I grabbed their hangers to hang their clothes and the 4 year old was in the room listening to music. She looked and said what’s those things. I replied they are hangers to hang your clothes on. She said yeah but they’re pink, they make pink ones of those? I said yes sweetie they come in all kinds of colors. She ends the conversation with oh I’ve never had pretty pink hangers like that before.

Consider my world ROCKED. To her these were not JUST hangers.

They were PINK hangers.

Now, I don’t know the back story of this girls family situation, nor does it matter. What matters here is that with that comment, this girl knocked me down to a level so low that I looked up to her. So low that I had never even considered that my girls wouldn’t have pink hangers, they’re girls right? Obviously you get pink hangers to hang their clothes. But to her, one, we had hangers. And two they were pink.

I stood there for a minute. And she carried on with her music and dancing. And then I walked out to the kitchen to help make supper and told my husband the story. All the while still thinking it’s just a hanger but to her it’s so much more. It’s someone who is there to hang up your clothes and cares enough to care that you want pink hangers not just plain hangers or no hangers.

So- I marched right back into that room. I said sweetie where are your clothes you picked out for school tomorrow? She handed them to me. I said pick out a hanger. She grabbed that pink hanger and I hung those clothes right up on there.

And you guys- the smile that came across that girls face, my heart almost couldn’t take it.

It’s more than just a hanger.”