My silence here is mostly because I’m busy–very busy–living my life. I seem to be in a season where I don’t have time to write it down. Part of that is choices: my beloved (and I do mean B.E.L.O.V.E.D.) “stable, NED” cancer status means that I’m not actively wrestling with mental battles. Writing is my way of processing and healing; I’m feeling whole, grateful, hopeful and peaceful. I often have blog posts shoot through my mind, but I sacrifice them for other priorities: a healthy meal, time with my daughters, a phone call, a stronger body, sleep. I do miss writing. The stories are there, stored in my heart; they are whispers for another day. One day, when both girls are in school full time, I hope I write my book. At that time I’ll start with the “draft” blogs: the ones that were never “finished” to press publish. There are a lot of those. Most importantly, one day, when my girls are in school full time, I’ll remember these days that linger and wander. They’re filled with snuggles and playtime and leisure and messes. Glorious messes sort of sums up life at home with small children.
It’s Pinktober, which strikes a miss mash of feelings inside me. I remember the autumn before I was diagnosed I saw the Bengals play and marveled that they had pink equipment: gloves, socks, shoes, helmets, jerseys, banners, flags, t-shirts, hats, etc. all emblazoned in pink with the pink ribbon. At that time I remember thinking “Good grief, what if they actually spent that money they spent on equipment on breast cancer research/treatment/patients? How for would those dollars go?” That sentiment echoes as I wander through stores and see pink ribbons affixed to everything that will hold still. It’s a bit numbing to me–a person who has the worst type of the disease to see it everywhere. I seem to disappear in the pink sea. I guess I just hope that the pink ribbons and the good intentions actually do lead to dynamic research/funding/change for patients like me.
October also means that it is the high holy season of dress-up. Greta thinks it’s fabulous. She’s worn her costume(s) to the oncology office, the chiropractor, grocery, volleyball practice, and holy moly did she throw a fit when I wouldn’t let her wear it today (per the school rules) to school today for her Halloween party. It was Maren who talked her down today, selling her on “special sister costume time” today after school. Maren pays attention and is able to spin situations as well as I do when it comes to her
stubborn strong-willed little sister.
Maren is growing again and needs new clothes. We’ve officially hit the season where she wants to wear “cool” things and her mental assessment is more about “what will other kids think?” vs. “do I love it?” It’s incredibly sad to me, and I hope to help give her the confidence to choose what she loves in spite of the crowd, but my job is to help her feel confident in whatever she chooses. We’re there. Pigtails are out; ponytails are in. She now wants “jeans that don’t feel like jeans”. We’ve jumped directly from “fun” clothes to “I’m such a lame mom I don’t even know what that is” clothes. After some trial and error, I figured out that she meant knit (read: soft) jeggings, and SuperGramma found her several pairs. Phew! When we chose boots this year, I said, “What color this year, remember the pink sparkles from last year?” She pondered while I waited for her favorite-color-reveal. “I think black,” she said. “Black? Plain black? Really?” I said, wondering if my seven-year-old is really done with playful footwear? It’s official, in
jeans jeggings and black boots she’s a tween.
Growing up is a good thing. I’m loving the chats we have. There’s sophistication and thoughts-behind-the-scenes that are fun to explore. Maren clapped and waved at Greta while G rode the little train at the pumpkin farm last weekend. Greta batted her eyes and vroomed around with glee. Maren sits next to me on the bridge at the playground and we talk while Greta runs around playing. In her princess dress. I do love the stages they are in. I’m so lucky to be mama to these sweet girls.