Remember When Blogs Were Like Stream-of-Consciousness Confessionals?

Here is the deal: I think I live in my head. I do not understand how to use TikTok. I think I have an account. My boys were embarrassed when I SnapChatted. So I stopped. I have developed an outspoken Twitter persona. Forgive me now! I also confess that I really do not mind falling down a Reddit rabbit hole, when I remember to read Reddit. I am pretty active on Instagram. I would do one of their stories, yet after my recent eye surgery, I am too farsighted to read any posts. Instead I squint and admire a friend’s something-doodle dog daily Instagram posts and another friend’s daily here-is-my-booty shots. Sure, I could get my glasses so I could read the accompanying and very tiny text to these Instagram stories. Alas, I am in bed where I am warm and all snuggled all up to Dave. My glasses are sitting in the cold, crisp office. 

It is now hours later. I am out of my cozy bed, in my office, sitting at my desk and wearing my glasses. As I stare at my laptop, I start to think about memory, writing and the past. My mind drifts and I realize that I sort of still believe we live in the pre-social-media, blog world of yesteryear, when blogs were a little strange, people were still apprehensive about using their credit card online, and we were fascinated by some girl named Jenny. She, known as a “lifecaster,” aimed a camera at herself and we, the public, could watch 24/7.  It was really weird at the time. Ok. I still think blogs are also a little strange. I also think people are apprehensive of using their credit card online, because now we use credit cards for everything online and our information gets stolen. I do not know what ever happened to Jenny. 

I was no 24/7 Lifecaster. That is why long ago I let go of the notion that I could be a web-based voyeur-enabler, a social media influencer or top mommy blogger. Yet, as far as blogging, I still hold on. Then and now, I need to let the stuff out of my head. Blogging and writing help me do that. (You should see all existential my notes in my iPhone. They could fill a book.)  I also think journaling is important and a way to preserve our stories. Selfishly, I like an audience. Often that audience is just Dave and I am totally ok with that. These days, however, I am definitely a little lonely and feeling a little disconnected. Writing makes me feel like I am talking to you. If you are also reading, thank you. It actually means a lot, especially this year when we are all so isolated, or at least should be isolated, and should be wearing a mask in public. 

So, this morning, after getting up at 6:30AM with Eli, I was laying in bed. Let me set the scene. See, I was up until 2:00AM texting with my college friend, Teb B. Eventually, Ted B. wanted to Facetime. He wanted to show me how he was “sharpening his knife.” I was like, “Ted B. this is my exit cue. I need to be up at 6:30AM for Eli.”

Then Ted B. sent me a picture of himself literally sharpening his knife.

At 6:30AM my alarm jolted me out of some really sweet sleep. Slowly I made my way to the bathroom and then down to check on Eli. I saw his light on and felt relieved. 

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m tired, but good.” He replied.

Eli has a new job at a ski resort and I wanted to see him off. I am guessing you already know about that feeling of wanting to make sure your kids are settled, that they have calculated the travel time correctly, and that they did not forget all the forms they need. Well, that urge to make sure they are OK never goes away. This morning, I had that feeling. Soon Eli was upstairs packing up his things. After getting him some bandaids and then watching him place them over his painful-looking hand scrapes he received from the climbing gym, Eli was on his way. Later he called from the resort and told me how excited he was to have this wacky new job, about all the gear they gave him and about how he will shuttle with a group of guys to work. Then I asked him a bunch of questions. He answered them while sitting in his car in the resort parking lot. I know this because I asked him if he was driving. He said,

“No Mom. I am sitting in the parking lot talking to you.”

It was really nice talking to him. I bathed in his excitement and felt very proud. 

Still sort of half asleep, but not asleep enough to go back to sleep, I reached for my iPhone. I started scrolling through all of it when I came upon an article from my online crush: CNN’s own Dr. Sanjay Gupta. Don’t judge. He’s hot. The article: “Memory Fades When We Age, But We Don’t Have To.” Thinking first about the internet’s hotty-McHotterson, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, then thinking about how many times Kyle and Eli have called Dave and me “boomers,” and finally thinking about how many times the boys proclaim, “you don’t remember anything,” I eagerly devoured the article. 

To my great surprise, I found that I am already doing one of the best things to keep my memory intact:

“If you put it all together, one of the best things you can do for your brain: Take a brisk walk with a close friend and discuss all your problems.”

Quickly, I sent the quote to Dave, hoping he would connect the dots, the dots which imply,

“Your wife is the most enlightened human ever. She knew the secret, even before Dr. Gupta did.”

[insert all long enough pause here for Dave to absorb all of my inspired wisdom]

My text continues: “All of those long walks, with accompanying fights are saving your memory. You are welcome!” 

Dave’s Response: “Oh no! Now you have science to back you up!”
My response: “So, screw Sudoku!”

Science and very attractive Dr. Sanjay Gupta happily validated my need to analyze, reanalyze and analyze a few more times. They also recognize that we need to process with another human and while going on a walk. Genius! And walking and talking is a silver bullet to keeping our memories. Woot! 

I have been a walk-talk person since the beginning of my time. Who would have thought my great love is also the holy grail to preserving our memory? All I was trying to do is relieve my angsty brain cycles. As such, I needed to move and I needed to talk out all the stuff. MORE IMPORTANTLY, thank goodness for all the willing victims who agreed to walk with me regularly and in an attempt to save my mental health (and apparently also our memory):

I am grateful for all of you. I am grateful for the years of talking through all our existential crisis and exposing our vulnerability, discussing topics such as, but not limited to, deconstructing relationships, marriages, family trauma, parenting mishaps, and financial blunders. Then filtering through sex talk to sex questions and advice on vagina issues and waxing blunders. I am always game for discussions where we  navigate our political philosophies, belief structure and making peace with God, or no that there is no God. Finally, most walks also include a little circle-of-trust talk, or better, straight up gossip, which I like to call, “processing.” 

Let me end where I began. I am grateful for you online folks who listen to me ramble (like you are doing now). 

Happy New Year!

I know myself. What I know is that I am not one for New Year’s resolutions. 

I know if I say resolve to lose weight that before the end of January, I will eat my way into gaining ten pounds. If I resolve not to swear, I will develop some sort of psychological compulsion to explicate every other word, thus filling the damn-hell swear jar before the end of the week. Then there are the relationship goals. They are the worst! If I set  an intention to be a better friend, sister, mother, or wife, for instance, I will certainly self sabotage, thus alienating myself from the entire world, being blocked from social media, removed from group texts and chastised by a relative. Oh, oh and if I rededicate myself to doing more than going for a walk each day, I will most certainly be forced into an online-streaming binge, unable to shower, brush my teeth and get off my couch. 

The truth is when setting any sort of resolution or goal, I am filled with crazy performance anxiety and a shuddersome dread (obviously). This fear would most definitely lead me right back into therapy, a place where I can safely unpack the root of my goal setting angst.

Maybe my goal-avoidance-performance-anxiety is genetics. I really and sincerely know that if I diet, I gain weight. I am so freaked out with failure that I make myself fail to prove I cannot succeed. You know what’s weird? My self sabotage response is like a reflex? It takes me until I go up a few pants sizes until I am like, 

“Woah, Beth, diets really stress you out.” 

So if I said something to myself like, 

“Hey, Beth, you cannot eat sugar,” 

I will fill my dream board with the message: You must devour all the sugar!

I have — devoured all the sugar, that is.

What I am getting at is why goals freak me out. I am not sure why. Ok. Sure, I could argue that goals freak me out because I am afraid of failure. Then again, I do not think I am really afraid of failure, but I am afraid of letting people down. What I think I have is more like a twitch/reflex. And here and now the twitch is my ability to set  goals. And the letting people down part is the completing goals part. Consequently, when I am focused on the twitch, all I think about is that I will let someone down. 

Ok. All of you who want to diagnose me, enjoy. For me, however, I think my twitch really is probably more about my baggage combined with what my brain does when I think I am going to fail. 

I remember when I decided to finish my last semester of college. Because my initial grades were less than stellar, Dave and I realized it was best to finish this semester at the college where I began: Brigham Young University. Determinedly, I jumped through several hoops, including having to meet weekly with an academic probation counselor, convincing BYU admissions that I was serious about graduating (they asked). Then convincing people to write letters of recommendation on my behalf. Then tracking down my Mormon bishop, (I was no longer attending the LDS church), assuring him that I was not going to go rogue and obtaining an ecclesiastical endorsement. 

At the time, We were living in Park City and trying to sell our house. Dave was working full time in San Francisco. On the weekends, he flew back to Utah. Kyle and Eli were enrolled in different Salt Lake City schools. Each day we were out the door around 7:45 am. We drove a half and hour through Parley’s Canyon from Park City to Salt Lake City. I dropped Kyle off first. Then Eli. Each drop off was met with eye contact, an, “I love you,” and a “hand hug.” Then I drove another hour to the BYU campus in Provo.

It was my first day of classes. There I was, sitting in my car. Because I did not have  a parking pass, I was parked about a half a mile from my class. Sitting there, my heart began beating so hard, I could feel the pulse, pulse, pulse exploding in my ears. I was sweaty. I sat paralyzed. I knew I was going to fail. 

“Beth, you should have stayed in Salt Lake City.” I thought to myself.

Panicked, I called Dave. I struggled conveying my fear. 

“Dave, I can’t do this. I am not worthy.”

I am certain he was like,

“You did all this work to get here, why on earth do you think you are going to fail? You are worthy! You are amazing.” 

I was not buying what he was saying. (Bless him for trying.) Now officially late to my first class still in the car, and convinced that I suck, I called my friend, Beth. (Yes. She is  a real person and shares my same name.) I heard her voice and burst into tears. Quickly, I vomited out all my doubt:

“I am too old! I am too agnostic! I am definitely too dumb to be back in college. I am not worthy! I cannot do this.”

 Here is what she said:

“Beth Adams, I believe in you. Catch your breath. I will stay on the phone with you until you are in your classroom.” 

For some reason while we were talking, I moved the car. She urged me just to park. Finally I parked and got out. I grabbed my backpack and locked the car, all while telling her why I completely suck.

Beth stayed on the phone. Calmly she continued,

“Put one foot in front of the other. Keep walking. Just keep walking. I am here. You don’t even have to talk. I will stay on the phone. Just keep walking.”

I made it to class. My face was covered in tears. I took in a deep breath:

“I MADE IT TO CLASS!”

I sat there smiling. I looked around. I was ok. For the next few weeks, each time I took the Provo exit, I called Beth. Each time she stayed on the phone with me and talked me out of the car, up the street, up the stairs and into class. Each time she told believed in me. Each time she told me I was good. Each time she told me I would be ok. 

Eventually I made it out of the car on my own. I cried through all of my papers. I continued meeting with my academic probation counselor. Eventually he said, I did not need to come anymore. I finished the semester I finished the semester with a 4.0.

Recently, and in front of me, a friend told Kyle that Kyle is lucky he has Dave’s genes.

“Your dad is so smart. Thank goodness you got his genes.”

My friend also reminded Kyle how poorly “your mom” performed the first time “she” was at college. He was not wrong. That being said, he was not right. In that moment I realized I need to hold space for the fact that I am also the badass who got herself back into college, received really good grades (all A’s except for one B+), and graduated. 

I never knew things would be ok, (no matter what the outcome.) Maybe you understand that feeling too. Maybe my anxiety really is genetics. Maybe it is baggage. Maybe it is both. All this to say, maybe goal setting, or finishing something you start, freaks you out too. Maybe like me, you have history and brain full of self-defeating messages, messages that get in the way.

In the end, or really the beginning of 2021, I want to set some easy goals. I want to be happy. I also want to post every week day. I might not make these goals. I also believe I can. I also believe you can too.

Happy 2021!

It is 2:37AM and I cannot sleep. Now it is 2:38AM and by the time I read the sentence through, it is 2:39AM. The clock ticks, ticks on and I feel sad. My mind races. It has been racing for hours. I wish I was a better person. I wish I was not centered on me and all the things that have slipped away. I wish so many things. I wish it was not so easy for me to step aside. I wish my dad did not abandon me all those years ago. I wish someone had fought harder for me. I wish my husband was interested in me more of the time. I wish he could talk to me without looking at his phone. I wish I could talk to him without uttering the phrase, “are you listening?” I am sure it is annoying. I wish Eli was not so abrupt tonight. It hurt my feelings. I wish Kyle could talk to me like he used to. I miss him. I wish his girlfriend liked me. I do not think she does. I wish my mom’s hearing was better. I wish she and I could see eye to eye on faith and religion. I wish my mother-in-law were not “marinating” (Dave’s word) in Fox News and right wing conspiracy theories. I wish we could find a way to bridge. As the years move forward, the river only seems wider. I wish I saw my family more. I wish when I saw my family that we actually knew how to talk to one another. I wish Dave’s family reached out to him more. I wish it mattered.

My problem: I am insecure. Even when people just want me to go away, I am intensely determined to make it right. It is annoying. I am annoying. I do not know my father. His cruel rejection haunts my every cell. I am sure his severe neglect lies at the core of my need to NOT let you down. I hate it. I hate being canceled. It hurts. That is why I hate hurting you, and then I do. I hurt you. Just the other day Eli said,

“You know it is not just you. It is not all your fault. We also have to do our part to make things right.”

He is not wrong.

I love Dave deeply. He is a wonderful husband and father. He is my best friend. I love Kyle and Eli fiercely. They are kind. They think so big. They are invested and interested in the world around them. I love that both boys are dating women they really care about. I want to have great relationships with the women my boys love. Of course these women are important to me, no matter what their future holds. I like them. I hope they like me. I love my family. I love my mom. I love that she always is trying to be better and work through issues, even when they are uncomfortable. I love my brothers and sisters. I love that my sister vents to me. I love that my other sister appreciates my lengthy words and what she calls, “my big heart.” I love that my brother sends me pictures of his long Covid hair. My family is trying. I know our relationship is clunky. I have definitely complained about it being clunky. I want it better. I love Dave’s family. I love that Dave’s sister laughs at my jokes. I love how his mom fantasizes then makes her imaginings a reality, like her cruises and her home on the coast. I love that she raised such a beautiful son.

Instead of worrying about being judged for the color of my skin, I get to spend this sleepless night indulging my hopes, sorrows and fears.

I am white. I’m at a high socio-economic status. I am privileged.

I wonder about these past months. I wonder if the disruption of a global virus outbreak has destabilized us enough to wake up. Am I awake? I pause. I am stopped in my tracks. I see it as clear as the new day coming. Am I having a sleepless night because I am worried about my sons making it home safely, or getting hassled because of the color of their skin? No. I breathe it in. If I had been having insomnia last month, I do not believe the thought about systemic racism or privilege would have entered my mind. I would just be irritated at the sleeplessness. I am certain I would have been wondering if I had washed my hands sufficiently or when I would get to see my friends again.

Tonight feels different. I am completely wound up as I begin my fifth day of oral steroids. I have bad asthma and yes, I had to take a Covid test to receive treatment. The Covid test was negative. So steroid-spun-out me gets to sit at my desk in my safe upscale neighborhood and indulge these thoughts. Then I get to go back to bed. At this moment, I am only worried about the things I cannot control, but can totally indulge.

You know what? It is uncomfortable; the pain, that is. I sense my thoughts shift. I am a little embarrassed by all of this indulging. I want to move past me. I want to move past the things I cannot control and the things I need to let be. What I can do is be honest. I can speak what is true:

“I do not know what it is like to be a person of color. I never will.”

As I vomit out and embrace my own pain, I am able to make space for the pain beyond me. I recognize that it is only a starting point. I feel selfish, self absorbed and neglectful. It is oddly refreshing. This pain stings. Feeling this discomfort slaps me into the present. I think about this week. I think about our world. I think about Minneapolis, my home. I think about George Floyd. I cannot erase the sight of seeing a police officer kneeling on George Floyd’s neck. I am haunted. I think about Minneapolis’s Sanford Middle School and the bags of food people gathered during the riots. I feel community. I feel peace. I feel love. Does that make sense? Or make me seem more selfish?

Wether I make sense or not, hold me to my words. Hold me to my hopes. Use me.

I am sorry I have been so wrapped up in my own pain, rejection and sorrow that I neglected the pain around me. I am grateful for those who are saying, “no more.” I am grateful for those who are asking me to listen. I am in awe with the protests. Really? The protests move me. Did you see the protest in Los Angeles? All those people marching. It blew my mind. Each day people show up to say, “enough.” It is working. I am grateful for the people who so easily forgive. I am grateful for those who listen. I am grateful for those who give me the courage to speak up and then promise me I will probably get it wrong. They tell me to keep trying. And I promise it will probably be uncomfortable. I can stop worrying about being liked and accepted. I can speak up. I can hold your hand. I can listen. I can push back. I can try to make the world a better place. I can make eye contact. I will say hello. I will not look away. I will stand with you and stand up for you. You are not alone. I want to get it right.

I don’t want my thoughts to slip away into the emptiness of the night. I hope they don’t.

It is now 3:44AM. Covid is back on the rise and people are working through the next moment.

I will end with this: (Words Much better than my own)

Tiffany Haddish on George Floyd.

Trevor Noah on Connection.

Writer, Amber Ruffin’s, encounters with the police.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o – Colonialism as a Process of Alienation

Last week tonight – John Oliver – Police

The 14th Amendment to the United States Constitution, Section 1:

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

I feel like I need to start this post with a bunch of disclaimers. 

I very much comprehend that people are enduring suffering much greater than I am. As a result, out of an abundance of caution, I often start any conversation, written or spoken, acknowledging how much I get it! I hate that people are dying of Covid19. I hate that people who should not be dying are dying, period. I hate that my cousin & my friend are currently undergoing cancer treatment. I hate that my brother-in-law is on oxygen (100% of the time). I hate that people everywhere are going hungry, even some students who attend school with my own children. I very sincerely recognize that many are losing their livelihoods and that small businesses are going out of business. I also realize that many people are antsy and are so done staying home. I definitely think we need to find a way to remain patient while supporting each other through all of this. My guess is I am not alone. 

If it helps, I hear you. I see you. I am sorry you are suffering. I am grateful for you.  

In truth, I began writing this post yesterday, I mean, last week. In between my seventy-five daily “calm down” walks (maybe a slight exaggeration) and trying to encourage my extremely downtrodden children, I recognize that I am sad, like really, really sad. I am struggling. I cannot get my sleep cycle in the right place. It did not help that Eli began texting me at 3:26AM:

“Mom, I cannot sleep.”

After many back-and-forths, I was awake. In fairness, I asked Eli the night before to let me know if he could not sleep (again). I decided to “keep it simple,” (my new mantra), let him know I loved him and told him that I wished I could make it easier for him. Then I put my phone on “Do not Disturb.”  Now awake, I wrote a middle-of-the-night frustration letter. (I did not send to the frustrated party, and no, it was not writing to Eli about texting me in the middle of the night.) Then I listened to the beginning of a book on Mosquitoes, called, “Mosquito.” (It is actually really good.) Again I tried to will myself to sleep.  Instead, I touched Dave’s face every time his breathing became as loud as a snore. By 7:00AM, or thereabouts, I was back to sleep. 

Now awake, I find myself in an erratic haze of self isolation, homemade masks, and dashed plans. I often feel like the words I need to express are floating right outside of my grasp. I spend way too much time watching YouTube videos, considering making cinnamon rolls & scrolling social media sites. I feel like I should learn how to play either Minecraft or Animal Crossing and by the end of episode two, I became bored with “Tiger King.” I know. I hear your voice in my head (because we cannot speak face to face),

 “How could you get bored with “Tiger King?” 

I do not have the energy to explain. I just did. I got bored with “Tiger King.” I am beyond certain that I am not alone. Where I may be more unique is that I am also a person who can easily take twenty minutes to answer a yes/no or “how am I feeling” question, or wander my way through an opening thought. 

Here is the deal: Our youngest son, Eli, is a high school senior. He is a wonderful human, albeit a teenage human. He is wise, empathetic, sensitive, confident and kind. He is the first to consider other people and their feelings. He stands up for his friends (and even people he is not so fond of). He always stands up for me, especially when Kyle and or Dave are being dumb. Is he perfect? Absolutely not. Can he be moody? Absolutely! Nevertheless, does he recognize that other people are more profoundly impacted by the adverse effects of Covid19 (the Coronavirus)? Most definitely! In fact, Eli is the first one to vocalize the manipulative racism he saw when someone called Covid19, “The Chinese Flu.” One of the reasons Eli opted not to meet us in New Zealand was his worry for his grandma and grandpa here in Utah.

“Wawa and Harvey are old. They should not be exposed to this. I want to stay home to make sure they are ok.” Did Eli also want to stay home from our trip because of his girlfriend? Of course he did (and that is also ok).

The other night was intense. After getting into it with our eldest son, Kyle, I walked into the kitchen. Eli was standing there when I burst into tears. He asked what was wrong. After listening to my weepy response, he suggested I “Dap him up*,” (a special handshake), which I did. (He graded my performance and gave my “Dap” a mercy A+.) As a result of his tender compassion, I was now sobbing. That is when my very disappointed high school senior cradled me in his arms and gave me a great big and very long hug. 

The other day Eli and I were talking. Reflectively he said, 

“Mom, my last day of high school was Friday, March 13. Yes! Friday, the 13th. I did not know it then, but it was my last day of high school. I wish I had known. I wish I had time to say goodbye to all of my friends. This is high school. This is the end of a long run. I was in a bad mood that day. I even sat out of my PE class. And now it is over.”

I felt the weight of his words. I knew my words would not make any difference, but I said them anyway. 

“Eli, that just sucks. I am so sorry.”

It has been no surprise for me to hear that Eli is struggling to keep up with his homework. It was no surprise that he slept in until almost noon (remember he was texting me at 3:26AM). And has been sleeping past noon regularly. Last night he told me that day and night have become meaningless and that when he can see his friends again, they will have an all nighter to reset their sleep cycles. It was also not surprising when I asked him if he needed anything to help him get out of bed the other day, he said, “Bacon.” So I made him some bacon. He came into the kitchen and asked for a hug.

“Mom, I am not doing ok.” He said.

Then he ate his bacon and made a B.L.T. with the rest.

My heart hurts for Eli. My heart hurts for all high school seniors. I keep thinking about them. I keep thinking about the abruptness of this moment. I do not think any of us really understood this would be our moment. When Eli was born (in Northern Virginia), and the anesthesiologist was on the phone buying his 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics tickets, I never thought,

“Hey kid. I bet your senior year of high school will be hijacked by a global pandemic. Pro Tip: Make sure to go to a few extra proms.”

No. That is not what I was thinking or advising. Instead, at Eli’s birth I was in awe. When the doctor first held him up for me to see, I thought Eli looked a lot like Dave’s brother. I said as much. I also thought, 

“why is this dude on the phone during a cesarean section? Like seriously, hang up the phone. Why isn’t anyone telling him to hang up the phone?” 

Mostly, however, I was blown away. Eli was beautiful! (He still is.) He was breathing. This tiny, adorable human had such a powerful scream. He had ten fingers and ten toes, (still does, thank God). I was elated. This is is what I was thinking: 

“I get to be his mom.”

And for the past eighteen plus years, being Eli’s mom has been awesome (for real). Sure, are there moments I want to throttle him? Yes. There are so many more moments I can’t believe this amazing human is my son. It blows my mind that he is eighteen. The time when a wonderful two year old Eli used to climb out of bed, locate Dave & me, then make up jokes so he did not have to go back to bed, and all the years since, went way too fast. I mean, come on. Wasn’t Eli just demanding to wear the dinosaur costume in the nativity play? And wasn’t I just neurotically making sure Kyle & Eli’s outfits matched? Wasn’t my neighbor just telling me after a playdate, that Eli would like to be referred to by the name, “Raymundo?” Didn’t Eli just fall asleep on the chairlift and in two different snow banks during ski school? Weren’t Eli and I just racing from the biting flies? Wasn’t Eli just learning a pogo stick routine for the 4th grade talent show? Didn’t we just eat gelato at Eli’s favorite gelato place, which just happens to be in Rome? Wasn’t it just yesterday that Eli broke his jaw and had it wired shut for two months? 

Yes. It went way too fast. In reality, I cannot believe we are here. In fact, even with a proper traditional high school graduation, I am certain I would feel like this time rushed right on by. 

Nevertheless, this year is different. Traditional is not what the class of 2020 will get and is currently receiving. Their end is abrupt. It caught us all off guard, including the school district. (They want the seniors to tell them what they want to do for graduation.) Every time I mention this to Eli, he says, 

“What we want is a normal high school graduation.”

The class of 2020 will not have a normal high school graduation. Maybe someday it will make a good story about the time senior year was canceled. Right now it just sucks.

In the end, I have these two children. They are my gift. When they hurt. I hurt. Right now they are both hurting —  a lot. The best I can do is listen, support and help them grieve. I know it will be ok. I also know it is ok to be disappointed and sad. I keep hearing people say, “The way to understand other peoples’ suffering is to process your own.” I agree.  

We will get there.