Protection.

Truth be told I'm the worst kind of crier. I'm like bottled up af most days and then without warning - a messy, blubbering, incoherent weirdo that you want to quickly run away from.  Annoying? Yes. But like, it’s legit, a mental and emotional release for me when I need it most. One I physically seem incapable of stopping when the damn dam breaks.

It’s funny what causes an avalanche of tears.

One day, it was the decision to use mosquito treatment.

The thought of innocent bugs dying alongside the blood-suckers made me so freakin’ sad.

Like, legit bawling when trying to decide what to do.

A video I posted of Aspen on IG awhile back garnered some attention. 

Which of course seems to open the door for people to be mean.

The negative comments were directed towards my older daughter in the clip.  

I subsequently lost my shit on some of the haters, the trolls.  And said dumb shit, while crying, in return.  

I can’t protect the bugs, I can’t protect my teenager… yep.  Went down a dark, sad and watery hole of defeat.

I actually had the thought of why even bother continuing to write, to post, to share…

Maybe I should quit talking about it and find that farm in the middle of nowhere where a cow can only be so much of an asshole.

I haven’t written about Aspen’s exact diagnosis for this reason.

I think ultimately to protect her.

To protect the random internet searches that would inevitably follow in trying to understand this super rare disease.  The comments that would come.  The thoughts and advice shared. 

Even the kind and well-meaning ones.

My dad died from colon cancer. I'm 45.

My stress stomach and stomach stress at an uncomfortable high.

Time to get my ass probed.  Hooray.

I cried while waiting to go under. Like big juicy tears that started to fall and I couldn’t, embarrassingly, control.

Honestly, not for any sort of worry for myself.

Simply for the soul crushing fear about leaving Aspen.

The gut-wrenching thought of not being able to protect her if I’m gone.

The thought of dying and leaving her has brought a strange and new anxiety.

Probably because she’s so young still… and I expect my older girls would ultimately be okay.

But mostly because the reality is nearly all with her syndrome fail to live independent lives as adults.

We really do have very little idea of what her life will look like in the future.

So much of that has yet to be written for others diagnosed like her.

And without more to look to, we’re left with a great deal of uncertainty about how the syndrome will impact her specifically.

But I want to be there for it.

I want to be there to protect her from anything she needs.

We all (foolishly) assume our kids will grow healthy and go on to grow and thrive as adults.

We do this of course to protect ourselves from the thought of anything else.

Of course, terrible things happen.  Tragedy and accidents and disease that smash this illusion for some.

But with kids born healthy, no one ever starts out that way.

We all like to expect that things will go exactly as we envision.

With Aspen, in some ways, we were given the reverse.

The expectation set that she will suffer some level of developmental disability.  That the gap in ability between her and her peers will only widen as she ages.

With the removal of her g-tube, a big milestone was achieved.  And while I would like to say this chapter is simply a happy ending, I realize that it's more of a happy beginning.

The uncertainty of what course Aspen will follow is one I have to get comfortable with.  The unknown where it feels like anything is possible.

So sure, I’ll cry.  Randomly.  And over dumb shit, too.

Probably more than I would like.

And definitely more than most are comfortable with.

But maybe the tears are actually a representation of strength, not weakness.

Where I can appreciate the fact that every tear actually fuels an increased commitment and desire to passionately raise this turkey leg, my girls, and my stepbabes- with everything I’ve got.  The water falling from my eyes simply revealing just how much I pour into this life of ours.

Yeah, I mean, sweat surely symbolizes hard work.  

Why can’t my releasing crying sessions showcase the same?

So fuck it.

Cry baby, cry.

I can’t imagine this, my life, this baby, any of it… any other way.

-B xo