Birthday Survivor

09 Sep 2020 1 Comment

by Suelinhess in Birthdays, children, Family, Healing, hope, Love, parenting, relationships, support, Uncategorized Tags:

What a contrast this day is to the same day 20 years ago! Simon’s day of birth couldn’t have been more perfectly planned or organized. His two sisters took us by surprise by arriving a few weeks early, but Simon seemed pretty happy hanging out in the womb until the last minute. So we were scheduled to have labor induced. I had time to leisurely pack my bag, shower, and even put on makeup. The girls made adorable artwork to hang on the walls by the hospital bed so they could cheer me up during the birth. I still have the crayoned happy-faced sun drawing from Emily, with “HAPPY LABER!” (sic) scrawled across the top. Markus and I checked into the maternity ward of the Community Hospital of the Monterey Peninsula (CHOMP) – no waiting required. It felt like checking into a hotel. I even posed for a pre-birth photo, looking happy and relaxed, knowing my baby boy was only hours away from joining us. The nurses were calm and soothing, gave me delicious drugs to ease the pain, and when the time came for my epidural, the anesthesiologist was right there to administer it. Markus didn’t faint this time around, because he was a pro labor coach by then, and Simon came into this world like a sunrise on a beautiful morning.

We had a few hiccups in the beginning, because Simon was unexpectedly born with syndactyly and ectrodactyly in his left hand. His index finger and thumb were fused, his middle and ring fingers were missing, and his pinky was missing its middle joint. Twenty years ago, there was scant information about the condition, so the first doctor to pop into our hospital room was a slick car salesman-like plastic surgeon from Carmel. “Nah, that’s not a problem, folks! I can just snip off a few toes and transplant them on his hands! Piece of cake!” *record scratch* Markus and I looked at each other with horror and politely declined his assistance. After our initial shock of learning about Simon’s condition, the doctor who delivered Simon referred us to the Medical Genetics department at the University of California San Francisco. Because Simon’s condition was unilateral, there was a lower risk of systemic abnormalities compared to bilateral conditions, but they wanted to check him from head to toe and inside and out. I think by then, he was about two months old – a roly-poly bundle of giggles and smiles. It’s funny – Markus and I had lost our initial alarm about Simon’s hand by then, and although we were concerned about his medical condition, all we could worry about that day was the fact that he hadn’t pooped in a couple of days. Sure enough, after charming every medical professional on the genetics team at UCSF, Simon had a diaper explosion. It was one of those overflowing diapers, so Markus and I were horrified, but the giant grin on Simon’s face made everyone around him laugh while we scurried to clean up the mess. At the end of a long day, the team pronounced him perfectly healthy and we drove back to Monterey with a big sigh of relief. 

When Simon was three months old, we were referred to the top hand surgeon in San Francisco, with the hope that he could advise us with how to best proceed with helping Simon have more functionality in his hand in the future. Would he be able to tie his shoes? Was there a miracle surgery out there to reconstruct his left hand to look like his right hand?  After examining the happy little baby, the doctor sat us down and said the most important thing to us that anyone has ever said to us before or since. He told us that even though Simon’s hand is different than other people’s hands, he will grow up knowing only his hand as it exists and will learn to do things his own special way. Therefore, he wasn’t the one that would need to adjust his attitude toward his special hand; we had to adjust our attitudes. The doctor told us that when Simon grew to be an adult, if he wanted to seek out new technology or innovative surgeries to change his hand, he could make his own decision. He told us to wait and see how Simon developed – he said we would be surprised by how innovative a person with a physical disability can be to adapt to adversity. The wise doctor was not wrong. Simon has led a blessed life, finding ways to overcome obstacles and thrive.

I’ve read about blind people whose sense of smell, hearing, and touch appears to be amplified in the face of their disability. In a similar way, Simon possesses an amplified level of compassion, optimism, and good humor. However, in this, his 20th year, he has been tested in awful ways. He was rolling along in his Freshman year at a school he picked specifically because they offered him a scholarship to throw javelin for their Track team. Because of the Pandemic, the season was canceled, with no great hope for a season in his Sophomore year. Classes were moved online, the border to Canada, where his girlfriend lived, was closed, and he ended up having to move home to self-isolate with us. Then his best furry friend since Kindergarten, Hercules, died suddenly. His girlfriend had no choice but to return to her home in Sweden after her Canadian visa expired. And just when we thought it couldn’t get worse, in June, my nephew died from a drug overdose. Death, grief, heartbreak. We almost didn’t think Simon would be able to regain any sense of well-being, but he slowly pulled himself up. 

We thought the unplanned chaos would come to an end this Fall, as he went in with five guys from school to rent a house close to the university. The plan was for them to all work out together and Simon to train for the hoped-for Track season in the Spring, while attending online classes. That plan was enough to ease some of the pain of his parents picking up and moving down to California. He was so excited to start the school year and to have companionship at his house. It all came to a screeching halt in the first week of living there. Simon didn’t know his housemates very well and started worrying when the consecutive days of all-night parties at the house revealed more than just beer. His housemates were into drugs. When he found that out, he tried keeping to himself in his room. One night a drug dealer came over with a gun. There was a confrontation, the dealer left and returned with friends, and they ended up fighting with Simon’s housemates in the street outside of the house. Understandably freaked out, Simon left the house to wait at a safe distance and saw a cop car approach the large group of young white men. Then, he watched white privilege in action, as the cops did not even get out of their car, and eventually drove away.  Later, he heard one of his housemates say he was going to go out to buy a gun and go after the guys they had been fighting. Knowing that there was nowhere for that situation to go but downhill, and fearing for his life, Simon hopped into his car and drove all the way to Seattle to stay with Hanna, our second daughter. Exhausted, but finally feeling safe after several sleepless nights, he fell into a deep sleep for hours. When he woke up, he told Hanna everything. Not wanting to worry us, they called our oldest daughter, Emily, who lives in Canada now. Together, the three of them talked it out until Simon could figure out what to do next. Feeling stronger, Simon finally called us and told us what had happened. All of this took place just last week.

Chaos. How do you wrangle it and make it your bitch? You call on the Assassin. Hanna, who earned that nickname as a young girl for a variety of reasons, rose to the occasion like the kickass woman I knew she would grow up to be. She welcomed Simon into her tiny studio apartment, and they have been the best roommates to each other for a week, now. This is Simon’s first birthday away from home, so she secretly told all of us to join a family Facetime early this morning, so we could sing our usually wake-up birthday song to him. She stayed up late last night to artfully wrap the presents we sent in several of her long-sleeved tee shirts. This morning, we all sang to him and watched him unwrap his presents. Then she took him out to breakfast and birthday gift shopping for some shoes. When they returned home, balloons and presents from Emily were waiting for him.

I have never, in my life, been prouder of my children. I don’t know about you, but I always used to worry about what would happen if my husband and I died at the same time. You know, flying in an airplane, or *cough cough* driving on a two-day car trip from Seattle to San Francisco, through wildfire-devasted countryside… Who would hold them up and support them during their grief? How would they respond to the traumatic event? Last week, I witnessed what would happen. My children would gather in close and support each other. They would openly love each other and hold each other up. I’ve had a glimpse of the future and I feel so relieved.

So this has been a horrible, chaotic year, all the way through. But that ends today. Today, my beautifully strong young son turned 20 years old. And the Treppenhauers are taking back control of the year. We are all going to return it to the beautiful, soothing, joyful day that Simon entered the world. It started with Hanna and Emily holding him close immediately following the craziness of last week. It continued with our lovely virtual family gathering this morning. It will be finalized by Markus flying out to help him move out of his room at the house, followed by a long drive to San Francisco, where he will finish the school quarter in a home void of drugs and guns. He has a new plan to start next quarter by renting a house with an actual friend – one he knows and trusts. His positive attitude is back in force. The wise doctor was spot on in predicting Simon’s future adaptability. Simon was so smart to steer clear of the dangerous situation he was living in. Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is to walk away from danger, risking the loss of friendships in favor of Life. He spent so much of the year persevering in the face of adversity but saw the wisdom in accepting help when the burden became too heavy. And that is where our family shines – sharing the burden. We are stronger together and are always there for each other. Happy Birthday, Simon the Survivor. We love you and can’t wait to see you again and welcome you Home. 

Not a Fairy Tale

01 May 2019 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in adventures, Breast Cancer, Communication, Family, Friendship, Healing, homemaking, hope, humor, illness, Love, Marriage, parenting, relationships, support, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Marriage is not a fairy tale. You start out full of hope – he makes you laugh. You think your love will conquer all, that love is all you need, and you’ll live happily ever after. You are wrong.

Within your first year he still makes you laugh, but you realize those little things you found annoying but bearable, like dirty underwear on the floor or the toilet seat up when you sit down to pee, are not so bearable while your bum is falling into the ice-cold toilet bowl in the middle of the night. By the seventh year, your young children are pulling you both in all directions and demanding your time; and while you have joy and laughter, you’re both sleep-deprived and short-tempered at times. By the 10th year, most of the time you two spend in bed involves less sex, less laughter, and more arguing and snoring. One of you might begin thinking it would be much easier to start a new life, away from the sight of dirty dishes and piles of laundry, the sound of nagging, and the feeling that the love has weakened and perhaps this is how it will be for the rest of your life…maybe you should leave. If you’re lucky, you’ll hesitate for a day. If you’re luckier, you’ll remember the laughter and hold off for a few weeks. If you’re luckiest, you’ll decide to work through the hard times and seek out professional help to repair and rebuild. There will be tears. There will be arguments. The children will hear you raise your voices and will see you cry. You might wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were. They won’t.

But accepting that things will never be the same may become the beginning of something new. One night, out on a date assigned by the marriage counselor, instead of realizing that you’re looking across the table at a stranger and getting a sinking feeling in your heart, you might realize you’re sitting across the table from a stranger and feel a quickening in your heart – who is this person and what are they thinking? What are their interests and what do they dream about? Do your interests and dreams align? You’ll find new things to make you smile and eventually laugh. Since this person is new to you, you’ll search for novel ways to entertain him. He will do the same. Because you’re both strangers, you’ll be polite. You’ll speak carefully and try to be considerate of his feelings. Sometimes you’ll remember sad times or past anger and it will boil over into confrontation, but you’ll both want to hold on to the new pleasure in your new lives, so you will start over. A year will pass and the new you will feel more secure. Your children will see you holding hands and having conversations. They will see you supporting each other and working to keep the family healthy.

By the 15th year, just when things are going great, your marital issues might take a back burner to the emerging teenager issues in your children. After butting heads with teenaged fury, you might turn to each other and find strength and solidarity. More importantly, he still finds ways to make you laugh and you hope that this stage will eventually pass. You both realize that you must take great care to nurture your relationship so you can both see this through and come out on the other side still holding hands.

Three months before your 18th wedding anniversary, you might find a lump in your breast. Suddenly you’re faced with losing everything. You look back and recognize that every moment you spent with him, even the painful ones, were precious. You feel desperate to live so you can have more of those moments. So, you fight. You fight crippling fear. And he is there next to you, holding your hand, making you laugh, helping you fight through the pain. He is with you as you both fight for your life. And when you have no more strength or hope, he gives you his. Each surgery becomes less fearful. Each time you wake up in a hospital, he is there with a cool cloth for your forehead and kisses for the rest of you. He reassures you that you’re beautiful inside and out, no matter what happens to your body. And he can’t help himself – he makes you laugh. You laugh until your stitches hurt, you laugh through your tears, and you laugh until you are healed.

In the second decade of your marriage, you could find yourself embarking on a new journey. You’ve given half of your life to your children and it’s time to take care of yourself. Your dream is big, and you know there will be sacrifices. You go back to school. You begin to feel a sense of déjà vu as dinners fall by the wayside and laundry starts piling up. The arguing begins and you wonder if maybe this time around things may not end well. You remember his unhappiness earlier in the marriage, when times were tough and he wanted to escape, and you’re filled with dread. What you don’t remember is that he’s not the same man you married. Time has changed him into a man who wants what’s best for you and the decades have forged in him a strength of character that would make sure your dreams come true. To your delight, he rolls up his sleeves and folds the laundry. Every time you turn around there are fresh flowers in a vase on your desk and handwritten loving post-its stuck on your computer. To your amazement, he’s a fantastic chef and he brings you your dinner while you are studying at your desk, many times accompanied by glasses of champagne. And to your astonishment, he considers it reasonable to contemplate a time in the near future when you will attend graduate school in a different town when you might have to drive several hours just to steal a weekend with each other. His exciting plans to sneak away from the house and race through the night have you giggling like you’ve just started dating.

Marriage is not a fairy tale. You start out full of hope – he makes you laugh. You think your love will conquer all, that love is all you need, and you’ll live happily ever after. You’re wrong. The prince doesn’t wake the princess with a simple kiss, he shakes her awake and she’s grumpy and she might have bad breath and she doesn’t know his name and they have to take time to get to know each other and maybe just maybe they have a chance to truly fall into genuine love. Even then, they don’t immediately go riding off into the sunset without a care in the world. First, they must fight through a wall of thorns, side-by-side, bleeding and crying. Love doesn’t fight thorns. Willpower, grit, and patience get you through that. There might be dragons to slay and fire to fight. Love doesn’t help you fight dragons, courage does. What love does is fuel all of that willpower, grit, patience, and courage. Love is not the How, it’s the Why. Only after all of that, scarred and older, do the prince and princess have a chance for a ride into the sunset and a happy ending. Marriage isn’t a simple fairy tale, it’s an epic legend.

Happy 23rd Anniversary, Markus. I love you!

Do as I Say, Do as I Do

10 Nov 2016 Leave a comment

by Suelinhess in children, confidence, Family, parenting, Politics, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

There was a teenage boy walking to his bus stop just a few hundred yards from his house. In the distance, he could see a boy his age pounding a folded umbrella on the head of another teenage Asian boy, who had his arms up to protect his face, begging the boy to stop.  Running as fast as he could, the first boy reached the bus stop when the umbrella broke because it was hitting the Asian boy so hard. The first boy grabbed the umbrella away from the hitter and flung it as far as he could so the hitter would leave the area to get it. He asked the Asian boy what happened, and the Asian boy replied that the hitter was boasting about the greatness of Trump and the Asian boy said that Trump was racist, misogynistic, and would be a dangerous president to have (this was the day before the election).  The hitter apparently could not come up with a coherent response so he angrily began hitting with his umbrella. The first boy asked, “why didn’t you fight back? You needed to protect yourself!” And the Asian boy replied, “My parents taught me to never hit; to not fight.”

The bus then arrived and everybody started boarding.  The bus driver told the hitter that he couldn’t bring the broken umbrella onboard  due to safety issues.  The boy cried, “But I only JUST broke it!” And the Asian boy piped up, “BECAUSE HE WAS USING IT TO HIT ME.  He was attacking me at the bus stop!”  The bus driver said nothing; did nothing; just waved the boys to their seats.  The first boy was dumbfounded that an adult in a position to right a wrong; whose job it is to make sure school children are safe, said nothing at all.

When they arrived at school, the first boy encouraged the Asian boy to report the incident to the school, since they didn’t know if there would be more aggression from the hitting boy wanting to finish the job he started.  They walked to the school safety officer (a police officer assigned to the school) and the Asian boy said, “I was just assaulted by another boy.”  And the first boy said, “I witnessed it.”  And the school proceeded to do exactly what they were trained to do.  They interviewed the boys, had the boys write out statements, identify the aggressor through photographs in the yearbook, then the Asian boy was sent to the nurse while the school contacted his parents to report the incident.  The first boy got a tardy slip and he went to his classes and finished his school day.

Later on that night, over dinner, the boy told his parents what had happened.  They had all just been discussing how many of the boy’s friends said they liked Trump, but when the boy pressed them about their views, it turned out that they were just parroting their parents and didn’t truly understand the dangerous consequences of Trump becoming president.  Then the boy said, “This happened today…” and the story about the bully at the bus stop came out.  The parents were shocked; the father wanted to contact the school, while the mother worried about how the Asian boy was doing.  The boy insisted that his Father not call the school, because he thought the Asian boy’s parents would be causing enough fuss.  The boy worried about the repercussions of his intervention.  He wondered if the bully boy’s parents owned a gun.  He planned to have another friend drive him to school the next day, just in case the school did nothing to punish the aggressor and he was waiting at the bus stop wanting revenge.  Both parents did this:  they praised the boy for being brave; for standing up and doing something; for not being afraid in the moment, of the bully, and protecting someone who could not help himself.  They told him they were glad that, even though he was strong enough and he really wanted to, he didn’t throw the bully on the ground and fight him; that defending yourself is different from using the bully’s type of violence to pound him into the ground.  And they talked about how the other kids at the bus stop stood around watching the whole thing and didn’t even say anything.  The family talked about how similar Trump’s rise to power was to Hitler’s, and how many of Trump’s followers were very similar to Hitler’s followers.  They worried about history repeating itself, and how easy it would be for people like the bus driver and the other kids at the bus stop, to look the other way while a bully was hurting someone who could not protect himself.  They talked about how quickly something can escalate into violence when people with violence in their hearts are given permission to act out their aggressions on others.  They ended their day going to bed with worry in their hearts, for the possible future that could throw their country against the world and against their fellow citizens; a frightening future that could reach into their home and put them in danger.

This didn’t happen in an inner city neighborhood; this didn’t happen to a stranger that I never met, whose story is far away and hard to care about.  This happened in a prosperous suburban neighborhood in the whitest county in the nation’s 20 most populous counties.  This happened here, just steps from my house.  The boy walking to his bus stop was my 16 year old son.  He was brave; did everything we ever taught him to do.  He stood up for what was right and defended someone who was being attacked by a bully.  But he was outnumbered at that bus stop.  There were many other kids who witnessed the bullying before my son could make it there and intervene.  Why didn’t they do something?  Parents, why aren’t you telling your children to speak up and take action?  Why aren’t you sitting them down and having this SPECIFIC conversation about standing up to bullies?  As parents, why aren’t we being good examples to our children by practicing what we preach?  Post-election, we now have a bully that will be in charge.  He will most likely advocate and encourage other bullies to attack the vulnerable in our country.  It is up to us to protect the ones who can’t fight back.  It is up to us to get involved in our government and do what we can to resist the dangerous changes. And let me add to the phrase we all know so well, “If you see something, say something, and DO something.”

Studies have shown that it only takes ONE person to speak up in a dangerous situation to move others to join them and defend what’s right.  I am speaking up right now.  Join me.

 

Today is Just a Day

10 May 2015 2 Comments

by Suelinhess in child abuse, Childhood Memories, children, Family, hope, Mother, Mothers' Day, parenting, unhappy childhood Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Mothers’ Day has always been a day of conflict for me. When I was a little girl, and my elementary school teachers would help us make cards and gifts to bring home for that special day, I always presented them to my mother, heart bursting with pride, hoping she would see how much I loved her by how much glitter I glued on the construction paper. Of course, my mother was an artist, a world-renowned artist. “Thank you, that’s nice” was the best I could hope for, and one raised eyebrow at my stick-figure drawings told me my artwork was not so nice. I recall most of my time with my parents filled with my yearning for a mom and dad like my friends’ moms and dads; parents who enjoyed their children and who wanted to be parents. My parents always reminded us that #1 all three of us girls were meant to be boys to carry on the family name, and #2 my mother was especially careful to let us know that she never wanted children (we interfered with her blossoming art career) but she did it to make our dad happy. My childhood heartbreak gradually hardened in my teenage years, into a resolve to find or make a family that would love me as much as I loved them. I stopped paying attention to Mothers’ Days because the only mothers I ever met who I wanted to thank, already belonged to other people like my friends. Oh, how I coveted their moms. My best friend Kirsten’s mom even let me call her Mom while we lived in Shanghai. For years, that gave me the greatest comfort.

Finally, I grew up and had the baby I always dreamed of loving. The moment our eyes made contact, I felt hit with a bolt of lightning; THIS was what I was meant to do, to be the most loving mother to this baby girl. Every single bad memory of my family took a back seat to my new priority. As a first time mother, I had very little to help guide me. Not only were my parents completely disinterested in being grandparents, I was quite certain any grandmotherly advice was useless, coming from a woman who never wanted her own children. As my baby grew into toddlerhood and her independence grew, little conflicts arose. Tempted to lose my temper in the face of tantrums or naughty behaviour, I always stopped myself with one thought, “What would my parents do?” A very twisted version of What Would Jesus Do…whatever the answer, I made a deliberate choice to do the OPPOSITE. My parents would have spanked a toddler who drew on the walls, spanked a child who wanted to wear her underwear on the outside of her pants, spanked a child who talked back. My father always told us that children were cabbages until they were old enough to carry on an intelligent conversation. I chose to learn about the concept of Time Out, let my child choose her own clothing, and learned how to use my words. I am sure it was much more frustrating and time-consuming to do it the long way, versus the shortcut of beating. But I have very clear memories of the leather belt with moons and stars cut into it, that would beat my bare legs and bottom until those moons and stars were imprinted on my flesh. I will never forget the fear and dread when my father would tell me exactly how many smacks with the belt I would get; most of the time in the double digits. I would know it was coming because if I talked back or lied or did anything wrong in my mother’s eyes, she would screw her face up in rage, point her finger at me, and scream, “Just WAIT until your father gets home!” And when I was a teenager, and the only thing I did was roll my eyeballs, as teenagers do, she didn’t even wait for my father. Her teacup full of hot green tea would come flying at my head. Maybe that’s why I became a goalie in soccer in high school; I learned to not flinch in the face of flying objects, to take the impact on my body, and to keep going.

As the years passed, the negative connotations I associated with Mothers’ Day slowly faded. Gradually, Mothers’ Day ceased being about my mother, a reluctant mother. I started to see that it was a day about any human being, man or woman, who CHOSE to care for another. My own children brought me homemade cards of construction paper, glue, and glitter, on the breakfast tray in bed. I have saved every one of them. My oldest, Emily, ever since she could write, has written silly poems and hilarious rap songs. I cherish every one of them. Even when I went into labor with my youngest, Simon, little Emily made colourful little posters to tape on the hospital room wall to cheer me on, “Laber is Fun!” I still have that little poster, misspelling and all. “Laber” isn’t all that fun, after all, but this family sure is. Last year, my husband cared for me and the children while I battled breast cancer; he became the best example of a mother I have ever known. I look around my life, and there is no more room for bad feelings on Mothers’ Day.

This morning, for the first time, I woke without my husband and my oldest child on Mothers’ Day. Markus is out in Seattle, working hard to make a new home for our family to move to next month. Emily is in Phoenix with her best friend to celebrate her graduation from university. Feeling slightly sorry for myself, I opened my eyes to find my two younger children, Hanna and Simon, holding a tray of breakfast and a coffee in a Love Cup. “Happy Mothers’ Day, Mama, we love you!” A feast of eggs and kale and onions, and their happy faces beaming at me while I ohh’d and ahh’d. Simon told me, “My gift to you is that I am going to scoop poop in the yard and mow the lawn!” And they both promised to help me clean the house for company tonight. That’s a minor miracle right there. I opened my email, and there was a letter to me, from my Emily. Not her usual funny rap or poem, this is what she wrote:

“Hi Mama Bear!

This isn’t my usual rap, because I felt that I had a lot to say that wouldn’t be very easy to rhyme. It’s Mother’s Day! You’ve gone through three “labers,” none of which could have been all that fun. You’ve raised one semi-adult who has so far managed not to perish out in the real world, one sassy teenager who loves to shock us all with her rebellion and independence, but who will one day undoubtedly shock us with incredible success, and also one hilariously weird boy who has the exterior of a hardened thug, but who’s insides are filled with love and an amazing sense of kindness. On top of all of this, you work hard to maintain the most beautiful marriage that I have ever seen.

When I was first processing that you had been diagnosed with breast cancer last year, they were some of the scariest feelings I’ve ever felt. First off, what kind of universe did we live in if someone as caring, sweet, and undeserving as you could possibly be dealt an early entry into Heaven? I realized we had all taken you and everything you did for us for granted; something I still sometimes catch myself guilty of. You are the only constant I’ve had in my entire life and I’ve literally known you for forever. How am I supposed to ever be expected to navigate through this stupid world without you to call and complain to? Without you to cry and scream and vent to, without hearing your 100% honest advice on something as small as what to buy at the grocery store, all the way to making life-changing decisions that I’m too weak to deal with on my own? That’s why when you were diagnosed, I never really considered it an option that you could ever disappear from my world. Nothing was strong enough to take you away from me, because you are mine and I couldn’t let that happen.

This was a very idiotic and naive approach to your newly discovered cancer. Because I wiped away this possibility, I did not embrace the seriousness of your illness, nor how important it would be for me to move back home. Even when I finally did, I look back and see how little I contributed to the family, how much more I could have done to lessen the burden of your surgery and healing. I know I can’t make that time up to you, but I am sorry for being a noob.

I have so many amazing memories of times we have shared. Obviously we have had some really bad times, horrible screaming fights and sometimes deafening bouts of silence. You’ve said before that you have blocked out most of your negative memories from your childhood, because they were too painful to keep around. But I think that the reason I remember less of the bad and all of the good is not because the bad is so bad, but because the good is so great. You and Papa have given us such an amazing life, full of the most love and laughter out of family I could ever imagine. I love when we’re all out for dinner, and half the conversation is purely brought-up memories that make my mouth burst out with laughter, and my heart burst with all the love we all share.

You are the coolest, funniest, most welcoming and biggest hearted mom (and person) I have ever known or even heard about. Even without ever meeting you, my friends give you rave reviews. I’m so sorry it took me so long to realize that I chose the best possible person to not only raise me, but to be my very best friend. I love you the most and I hope you always know that.

Happy Mother’s day Mama!!

Love,
Emmy”

Mothers’ Day is not a happy day for many people. But I believe you do not have to settle for what Life dishes out to you. If you can survive to adulthood, you can make the changes you need to find happiness. Leave the bad behind, or if you choose to keep it in your heart, use it to make your life better. There are some shitty moms out there getting some pretty damn good love from children that deserve more. Stay strong, kiddos. There is love out there, and it doesn’t have to come from your bio mom. If you can’t find it, you make it yourself. The more love you make, the more love just bubbles up and overflows.

This is it. I am here. I made it. I am the mother I always wanted, with the children I always wanted, in the family I always wanted. Dreams do come true. Happy Mothers’ Day to those who can, and I wish a Future Happy Mothers’ Day to those who will make it so down the line.