We all know that Christmas is the season of giving and Jesus is the reason for the season, and insert here everything else good that I’m supposed to say. But let’s also admit that this time of year is the peak season for parents to bribe their kids for whatever sort of behavior they want, or threaten their kids if need be. Take my family life for example (don’t live by my example, though, just use it as a cautionary tale). My children have been absolutely bat shit crazy since the day after Thanksgiving. It is as if they have been secretly snorting candy cane dust and acting like complete maniacs. Okay, I get it, Christmas is exciting. The tree and all the decorations, Santa, the Christmas music, our Elf on the Shelf, presents, egg nog season, Christmas movies, it is all very cheerful. But shit, they are so exhausting and push me to my limits on a daily basis. Since December 1st, I have summoned Jesus and Santa, all the elves from the North and South Poles, the powers of Grayskull, and anyone who will listen to help me get through this Christmas season in one piece, or at the very least, keep the tiny humans alive. And trust me, my kids have heard it all…”Santa is going to put you on the Naughty List if you don’t stop…,” “You’re going to act like that right in front of Legolas (our Elf on the Shelf)? He’s going to report that to Santa…,” “You think Jesus would talk that way to Mary? Then why would you talk to me like that?…” “I will ground you from Christmas if you don’t knock it off…”. Yep, it’s been a rough go around here.

Sure, there have been times when they’ve been good, typically between the hours of 8:30pm and 6:40am when they are asleep. Reese’s behavior has actually been tolerable, at least compared to Evan’s, and I don’t want to use Santa bribery too much on her because she is nearing the age where she won’t believe anymore. I want her final years of believing in Santa to be sweet memories. But Jesus is forever, so I’m really pushing those fiery gates of hell on her if I need to get something out of her done. Evan, on the other hand, sheesh! I think he’s been spiking his hair up lately to cover up his devil horns. He’s the worst! The whining is constant, he negotiates my every request, he tells me everything bad is my fault, and he won’t stop talking. And to add insult to injury, he has told me that my butt jiggles a lot when I work out, that my stomach looks like butt cheeks, and that when he is an adult he hopes he doesn’t have a big tummy like mine. You know, I’d never sucker punch my kid, but some nights while he’s sleeping, I just want to whisper into his ear, “Santa isn’t real, you little asshole! I’ve been fucking with you this whole time!” I never actually did that, it’s just a little day dream therapy to take the edge off.

Between meal planning, party planning, online shopping, the dreaded in-person shopping to actual stores, taking the kids to their activities, and finishing up the school semester without either of the kids failing, sometimes I was lucky enough to catch a quick moment of cuteness out of them. The other day, I heard Evan playing with one of the Santa figurines by the fireplace and a baby Jesus nativity figurine. In a deep voice he said, “Ho, ho, ho! Hello Jesus! You’re father is a good man. He’s my best friend. Merry Christmas!” I thought to myself, he probably thinks God and Santa are in cahoots because I’m always telling him God and Santa are watching him, so he better stop throwing tantrums. Another cute moment was when both kids were playing “Feliz Navidad” on repeat and doing some ridiculous couples choreographed dance that looked like a scene out of “Blades of Glory.” It put a smile on my face, to the point where they were like, “Look, she’s smiling. Mommy, are you smiling?” Sad but true, this resting bitch face has been in full active mode. Except during that 2.5 minutes. It was a Christmas miracle.

It feels like the past 4 weeks have been a splattering of Christmas joy mixed with hot hemorrhoids. And yet, we parents chug along. Despite my utter mental fatigue, I’m still trying to make the season fun and memorable for the kids. Just last weekend, my friend invited me to a “Holiday Trolley” event held at a nearby park district. The description sounded very promising; a night filled with a Winter Wonderland themed gymnasium with treats, a Christmas movie, Christmas crafts, Santa sightings, and a trolley to take us around to see Christmas lights while we listened to The Polar Express. It sounded both stressful and amazing, so I signed us up right away before it got sold out. To my dismay, this was the jankiest holiday trolley event I could have possibly paid for. I should have known when I saw every parent with the “What the fuck” looks on their faces that it was going to be bad. Even Santa looked like he needed a drink. Evan managed to spill hot chocolate all over himself and the table within 5 minutes of getting there, and both kids had just enough time to paint an ornament and their coats. When we got on the trolley, we couldn’t hear the story being read to us because the kids behind us were being so wild and crazy, and so many parents were scolding their kids to sit down and be quiet. The absolute best part of that ride was hearing a mom say, “Stop it with the ‘in the butt’ jokes, you hear me? No more IN THE BUTT!” That’s when I knew I wasn’t alone in the parent struggle this season. We’re all struggling in our own unique ways. I cuddled up with my kids, pretended to enjoy the most bunk ass holiday trolley known to man, and kissed them. They got off that trolley saying it was the best thing ever, and I sure as shit played along. Because nothing says Christmas like lying to your kids.

As challenging as my kids have been, they’re mine, and their attitudes probably annoy me to this level because they are so much like me. I’m certain that when I was their ages, I was driving my parents crazy too because I was overly excited with Christmas and everything that came with it, and that my tiny human brain was inching towards sugar-induced implosion. But instead of eating their young, my parents chose to grin and bear it, and I was able to enjoy 40 wonderful Christmas seasons. And now it’s my responsibility to help my kids create warm Christmas memories. They won’t remember the stress that wafted through the air, only the smell of cookies we baked together. They won’t remember that I was yelling at them to stop scratching my floors, only that we put the branches of the Christmas tree together. They won’t remember that I yelled, “Oh fuck it, lady!” when I attempted to take a picture of them in front of the holiday trolley, but the woman in front of me wouldn’t get out of my way; they’ll only remember that I held their hands while we looked at Christmas lights. They won’t remember the gifts they received or the food they ate during Christmas parties, only that they were together with so many friends and family.

Parents, we are almost there, just a few more days. Even The Grinch had a last minute redemption, so I know I could take these final days to create a jolly mood in the house and Jedi Mind Trick them into thinking that I was Christmas cheering my ass off this whole time. Then on Christmas morning we get to see pure happiness and wonder in our tiny humans’ faces, and God willing, for a full 5 minutes we will feel like every furious frustration was worth it. Until we hear that first crack of plastic followed by tears because they broke their new toy. And then back to reality. This season, I wish you all a very patient, drunken, and merry Christmas…IN THE BUTT!

During one of my 5 Thanksgiving meals this year, we went around the table to say what we were thankful for. And of course, the usual suspects were named: family, friends, health, home, food, and clothing. They are the big things we are thankful for and are the easiest to come to mind. During some down time during our Thanksgiving marathon celebration week, I asked my kids, my niece and nephew, and Jamie to come up with some not so obvious things to be thankful for. It was an exercise I wanted to put them through because I wanted them to think outside of the box, try a little harder to think of things and experiences that make our lives easier, more fulfilled, and happier. And truthfully, I was procrastinating from cleaning up the kitchen and wanted to do basically anything else, including making random lists. At first, the kids struggled and gave me versions of “family” or “health” and would be frustrated when I told them to come up with something else. I said, “Look, I’m thankful for these rubber gloves that I wear when I do the dishes because I’m constantly cleaning up after you guys and my hands get all torn up. See, little things like that.” After more complaining and then putting actual effort into thinking about it, they came up with a pretty solid list. Here are a few things they are thankful for that never really make it on the typical Thanksgiving List:

-“When the sun shines on me and I feel the warmth on my heart.”

-“Animals because they provide company when we’re scared.”

-“Shoes because you can run without being barefoot.” (I did say that was a form of clothing, but I allowed it)

-“Music because it helps you come up with dance moves and gives you energy in your body.”

-“Big trees because it gives the whole entire universe oxygen.”

-“Grass because you can step on it and it feels so smooth.”

-“Toys, technology, and video games because they entertain us.”

-“Beds because they help you sleep.”

-“Glasses because I could see much better in these and it makes stuff not blurry.”

-“School because you learn useful life skills from it.”

-“Dancing because it makes me feel happy.”

-“Silence because it helps me focus.” (My nephew said this one as he struggled to find an answer while the girls were yelling and playing loudly)

-“Gymnastics because it makes me feel happy and taught me new things, and I’ve made new friends that feel like family.”

-“Pans because they help you cook.”

-“Dr. Altman and the Prentice staff for saving my wife and my family.”

-“Dr. Murray, Katie, Marissa, and Liz for helping my knee recover and getting back on the volleyball court.”

-“God for all the blessings he’s given our family.” (Kind of a usual suspect one, but I allowed it because it would give him points from our parents…and probably God too)

-“My career which helps me support my family.”

-“Brown because it is the emblem of so much joy in my life.” (My biggest kid said this one, shocker)

I thought they came up with a pretty good list. And more importantly, I hope they learned to pause for a second and remember the little things in life that we often forget about or take for granted. In forcing them to play along with my little exercise, I came up with a few goodies myself:

-Text messaging so I don’t actually have to call anyone

-A dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer

-A solid wi-fi signal

-A family calendar that 3 out of 4 members reference on a regular basis

-Alexa (while I’m sure we’re being spied on somehow by “The Man” through Alexa, it is quite versatile in its uses, including a readily available timer when I need to threaten the kids, a quick calculator or dictionary, provider of terrible knock-knock jokes and other games that the kids love, and an eager D.J. that always keeps this house lively)

-clean running water

-coffee (I know this falls under the category of food, but it saves lives around here)

-Living in a neighborhood with lots of kids and great parents

-Great teachers

-Board games

-Volleyball

-Working out in our basement without worrying about how I look or if I even brushed my teeth

-Our lawn guy

-When my family genuinely thanks me for a meal I cooked

-Deodorant (preferable one that works)

-Dry shampoo

-Elastic pants

-Knowing that states of mind are as temporary or permanent as you make them

-Second chances (and third, and fourth, and fifth…)

I think I can go on and on once I am in the right mind set, and it’s a good exercise for me to go through, especially when life gets so busy and I need to slow things down and reset. And even when I’m grateful for these little things, of course I am also grateful for those big ones that get all the love around Thanksgiving too. It is just nice to remember that both these big and small ticket items play huge rolls in making everyday life not only liveable, but worthwhile and fulfilling. Happy Thanksgiving to all, and may you be grateful for both your family and your travel size hand sanitizer that came to your rescue when you went to that gas station bathroom, all in the same breath.

With fall pulling an “Irish Goodbye” on us, it is with heartfelt saddens that I say goodbye to some key players in my life. Goodbye, sun, and all your vitamin D-ness, your warm but poisonous hugs, your smile that enables me to look extra amazing in sunglasses while I’m trying to hide my under-eye bags in the morning as I run errands. You bring me much happiness, please come back and visit anytime.

Goodbye, tank tops and shorts. You motivated me for about 1 week to stay in shape over the summer so I could look cute. But even when I gave up on that, you still stayed on top of my laundry pile and were always there to cover my ass. Thanks for being stretchy, I appreciate your flexibility.

Goodbye, razor. Though we are “as needed” type friends, I see you most in the summer. Thanks for making wearing tank tops slightly less offensive. Will I see you this winter? Absolutely not. The extra body hair keeps me warm. Enjoy your hibernation.

Goodbye, flip flops and toenail polish. Thanks for being cute and easily accessible. Sorry for the sweaty feet, it was the sun’s fault. Sure, my feet are killing me after months of wearing flat shoes, but it was worth it. Toenail polish, I’ll see you at spring break. Flip flops, I’ll be seeing you with my socks when I take the garbage out. It’s okay, no one’s watching.

While goodbyes are hard, transitions and change are healthy, and fall is the master of transitions. I always love pointing out the leaves changing colors during my drives with the kids. I mean, no one is listening to me anyway, but I still say it in the off-chance they stop smacking each other in the backseat and actually hear something that comes out of my mouth. Nothing says “I love fall” like a mom screaming, “Shut your mouths back there and look at the pretty leaves already or you’re grounded!” Just to clarify, no one has gotten grounded yet for disrespecting fall. But fall really screwed us over this year, and we got short-changed. I love our tree in the backyard, whose leaves turn bright red in the middle of October. This year, it stood among snowfall, looking beautiful and confused as hell. It looked like a Weirwood tree in Winterfell (I miss you, Game of Thrones). And even though it was pretty, I’m like, come on man, too soon. I didn’t even get to use my fall vests or my fall boots. None of my cute scarves saw the light of day. We skipped fire pit night season. I didn’t even have any hot apple cider with salted caramel vodka, and not one pumpkin spiced latte. How will I live? For Halloween, I bundled the kids up in thermal underwear and all their winter gear, and they went Trick or Treating and had snowball fights at the same time. This all does not sit well with me, and I’m cranky about it.

So here we are, in full on winter. And with winter returns a little SADness (seasonal affect disorder). I get a little melancholy during this time of year. I’m more tired. I’m moodier (yes, it’s possible). There is a noticeable spike in my Spotify slow jams usage. Working out only happens to enable me to eat the rest of the Halloween candy with less guilt. But I need to look on the bright side, change my outlook a little, and welcome some key winter friends.

Welcome back, layers. Layers of all sorts- layers of clothing, layers of blankets, layers of fat, layers of emotions, whatever suits you. Layers of clothing aren’t as warm as the sun, but they hide my inevitable holiday weight gain, so I’ll take it.

Welcome back, egg nog. There is nothing healthy about you whatsoever, but you’re so good in my coffee and with rum. You are both delicious and oddly very close to being disgusting. Though you are only on the grocery shelves for a few months out of the year, you stay on my hips for years and years to come.

Welcome back, peppermint mocha. Sure, I had you the other day and you totally waged war on my stomach and gave me bubble guts for hours, but you are joy in a cup. Please be kind to my Asian digestive system.

Welcome back, Christmas music. Other than the 7 days leading up to Christmas, I mostly dislike you. You are like the party guest that arrives to the party 30 minutes too early, eats all the shrimp cocktail, gets drunk before the other guests arrive, and then leaves right after dinner. We are frenemies, but nevertheless, you are part of the winter experience. If it wasn’t for Mariah, you would be dead to me.

Welcome back, winter hat, coat, and fuzzy boots. You are beloved in my home. You enable me to stay in my pajamas all day long and never fix my hair, while still being a functional adult in public. I don’t know why, but there is something spectacular about being able to go grocery shopping while looking fly in my winter gear, but secretly looking like a total scrub underneath all of that. I literally only have to worry about what my face looks like, and maybe only 2/3rds of it if I’m using a scarf. So efficient.

All joking aside, it is dreary and cold these days, and I really do struggle getting through the season sometimes. The days drag, I can only handle so much cold fresh air, and I often isolate myself. I like fall because it gives me that slow lead up for what’s to come. But you can’t help what you can’t control, and winter is undeniably here. I’ll just have to rip off the bandaid and accept it. I’m going to wallow in the mood a little bit, just to acknowledge how I feel. And after listening to a few boy band love songs while I clean the bathroom and tear up, I’ll move on. I have to remember to stick to the basics to create some warm happiness for myself: stay active so my blood doesn’t curdle and freeze, hang out with friends on a regular basis and make sweat pants a mandatory uniform, and enjoy a small treat for myself everyday, whether it is a hot shower, a quick nap, or a piece of candy (because we all know when I said small treat, I was looking at all the fun size Halloween candy sitting in front of me). The darkness and cold feel harsh right now, but as time passes, things always get better. It is a comfort to know that there is light and warmth at the end of this season.

My youngest recently celebrated his 6th birthday, a day he has been waiting for since the day after his 5th birthday. Like many parents, I get emotional around the kids’ birthdays. After all, it’s not just a birthday celebration for your kid; it’s also your parental anniversary and a time to reflect on all the years you have screwed them up so far.

I fondly remember Evan’s birthday story. I was due on Halloween, which made me think perhaps I was carrying the Spawn of Satan. I stayed home to hand out candy to neighborhood kids while Jamie took little Reese trick or treating in her cute Minnie Mouse outfit (very different from this year’s villainous Audrey costume from Descendants 3). I remember holding open the storm door with my huge pregnant belly while I passed out handfuls of candy, just so that I would stop eating it myself. After being on my feet all day, I was sure Evan would come, but he didnt. Not even a little knock on the little cervix door. 2 days after his due date, still nothing. I started doing yard work in hopes that the exertion would pop him right out, but even 2 hours of raking leaves did nothing but make my back ache. I tried all the wives tales to get this little fucker out of me: eating pineapple, eating spicy food, foot massages, even tried the very act that got me in this mess in the first place. Nothing. Finally, after 7 days overdue, I saw my OB for a regular check-up. I told her, “Hey, while you’re up there, why don’t you do a little scrapy-scrape of my membrane to get things moving along.” She gave me her digits (haha, see what I did there?), and said I’d be a little sore and crampy for a few hours. I went to my parents’ house to pick Reese up and decided to hang out while rush hour traffic died down. I sat in the kitchen with my dad, watched some tv, and ate a few bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos because they were within arm’s reach. The cramping got worse and I thought, hmm, too many Cheetos? So I laid off on the Cheetos and moved on to Cool Ranch Doritos. After a few hours, the cramps got even worse. I thought to myself, there’s no such thing as too many Doritos, these must be contractions. I began timing them, and sure enough, I started to labor at my parents’ house. I called Jamie and told him to get ready. I believe his comment was, “Okay, well let me finish up at work since it’s raining and traffic will probably be bad.” Hmm, ok, a bit dismissive, but I suppose calm is good.

I tried to get myself in a good head space and mentally prepare for shit hitting the fan. My birth plan was that I was going to try to have the baby naturally, since I had adverse reactions to the epidural with Reese. I asked my sister to be there, not because I love her, but because I love Jamie and needed someone there to protect him from me, especially if I was going to be in so much pain. In the event that I couldn’t handle it, Jamie and I discussed having a “safe phrase” to signal that I wanted the epidural. I told Jamie weeks prior, in all my pride and confidence, that I wouldn’t need a safe phrase because I was a badass. So, in preparation to call my bluff, Jamie wanted it to be hilariously humiliating, and chose the safe phrase to be “Mount Pinatubo,” a volcano in the Philippines. I approved it because I was sure I’d never have to say something so ridiculous.

More time past, and I paced through the kitchen and living room that I grew up in about 1000 times, stopping only for contractions. Nobody was phased. Mom was making dinner quietly, Dad was watching tv and periodically looking at me, wondering if he should be concerned yet, and Reese just followed me around. I ate dinner and took a shower, anxiously waiting for Jamie and my sister to come pick me up at my parents’ house. Finally, impatience settled in and I called Jamie to ask where he was, and his response was, “There is a big sweater sale online for Banana Republic right now. Let me finish my purchase, and then I’ll pick your sister up. She just woke up from a nap and is showering now.” I tried to remain calm, but in my mind I’m thinking, “What the fuck, guys, I’m having a baby. Hurry up and get me! If Mom or Dad deliver this baby, I will be pissed!” After a nice little online shopping session and a relaxing shower, they finally picked me up. I said my goodbyes to Reese and my parents, and I got sad for a second, as this was the last time Reese was going to be my only child. I cried for her in the car.

When we got to Prentice Hospital, the same hospital where I would do my chemo 5 years later, the nurses checked me out and said I was not far along enough to be admitted. They told me to walk around the halls for an hour and then they’d check me again. During that hour, I saw a woman in a wheelchair, screaming in pain, obviously in labor. I told Jamie, “She looks possessed. There’s no way I’m going to be that dramatic.” The hour walk definitely progressed my labor along, and I could hardly handle the contractions any longer. The nurse and nursing student checked me again and said, “I’m sorry, you’re not dilated enough. I think we might have to send you home until you are further along.” I looked at these nice, soft-spoken women, and in the most demonic voice that has ever exited my mouth I yelled, “Are you FUCKING kidding me right now? Page the doctor right now and tell her I am in 10 out of 10 pain and have her admit me. I’m not going anywhere!” After they shat their pants, they paged the doctor, and the doctor approved the admission. And there I was, THAT woman in a wheelchair, possessed in agony, screaming in pain. Funny how that turned out.

They brought me to my labor room, where Jamie and my sister met me. As my labor progressed quickly, I kept saying, “Don’t let me get the epidural, don’t let me do it.” Jamie tried so hard to make me comfortable. He tried to use a head massager to help me relax, and I swatted it out of his hand. He tried to hold me tight, and I yelled at him to talk his damn wool sweater off because looking at him made me sweat. He tried to give me mints, and I’d spit them out. My sister was holding back laughter. When the OB came in, she said this is the last chance to get the epidural. I told Jamie that it felt like I was going to die, and he kept telling me to get the epidural. My sister calmly said, “It’s okay to get the epidural if you need it,” but her face was screaming, “You fucking idiot, what are you waiting for?” I finally agreed to the epidural, and Jamie said with a little smirk, “Ely, I need to hear the safe phrase.” I didn’t want to say it because I was embarrassed. He was like, “Come on Ely, let’s hear it.” He was enjoying the moment way too much. Finally, at the next contraction, I said, “Fine, Mount Pinatubo!” My OB looked at me like, “What’s that now?” Jamie, with a most satisfied smile, said, “Ok, she wants the epidural.”

Jamie and my sister walked out of the room while the epidural was being placed. Exhausted, they looked at each other and said, “What the fuck just happened in there?” And then they started laughing hysterically. My sister said she felt so sorry for Jamie for having to deal with my wrath. When they walked back in, they said I was like a different person, face and body not contorted anymore, all demons exorcised out of me successfully, and I was actually pleasant to be around. We all had a good laugh at my expense, and agreed that there was no way I would have made it without the epidural. When it was go time, Jamie and my sister each grabbed a leg, stared at my vagina, and 3 pushes later, out came my Evan, screaming and angry as hell, much like Mount Pinatubo. It all made sense. And with one touch from Mommy, he was content and comfortable once more. The rest is history.

Everyone has a story, and it should be known and celebrated. This was Evan’s, the first of many. Evan’s first story foreshadowed many details of his personality. Just as he was 7 days overdue, this kid dilly-dallies like nobody’s business and has no urgency in his movement whatsoever. He loves Doritos. He pushes me to my limits. He has a temper that erupts like a volcano. He loves his parents’ touch. And his behavior often makes me want to do drugs (just kidding, unless you consider alcohol a drug). He is perfectly sweet and salty, his courage grows daily, he has a great sense of humor, he’s bright and kind, and he is bound to do great things. Cheers to one of my favorite people, someone who was born to teach me a lot of what life is all about.

This past weekend, my family and friends participated in “Light the Night,” a walk hosted by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. My neighbor, who lost his wife to lymphoma, told me about it after he heard about my diagnosis. He and his daughters do the walk every year in honor of his wife, and he recommended that we check it out as a family. And I’m so glad we did.

The grounds were small and very family friendly, and there were people of all ages bundled up and ready for the walk. Volunteers were there to pass out lanterns of diffferent colors. Gold lanterns were carried by family and friends who were walking in memory of loved ones lost to cancer, white lanterns were carried by patients and survivors, and red lanterns were carried by those who walked in support. There was a band playing to try to keep spirits up and lively, but the overall vibe was a mixed bag of excitement and somberness. I didn’t know what to expect coming into the walk, and I was feeling all sorts of mixed emotions as well. Walks and races I’ve done in the past have been to commemorate friends and family that have lost the battle, and here I was doing the walk to celebrate me and my dad, and we’re both still alive. I felt proud and selfish at the same time. I wanted to scream and shout that I am a survivor, but kept it to a humble smile, especially when seeing so many other people who couldn’t say the same for their loved ones.

Before the opening ceremony began, all patients and survivors were called up to the stage for a group picture. I walked up there, enthusiastically carrying the white lantern I worked so hard to earn, eagerly joining the others that had similar journeys. I stood next to a woman wearing a mask, who told me she was still in the thick of the treatments. I saw two little girls also carrying the white lanterns that needed a bit of a nudge from their parents to join the adults for the picture. I looked out into the small crowd who were taking pictures of their family members, Jamie included. Then I met eyes with one of the moms of the little girls, and behind her camera her face streamed with tears. I saw the dad of the other little girl who was giving his daughter an encouraging thumbs up that she’s doing great. I lost it. I cried for the parents, who I’m sure were scared to death of losing their kids. I cried for my kids, who, just a year ago, were probably scared they’d never see me again. I looked over at them, and they were smiling and waving at me, looking slightly confused as to why I was crying. Jamie gave me a look that said we’re okay now, and it calmed me down. The woman next to me put her arm around me and said, “Oh no, no tears! You’ll be okay!” Here was this woman who was currently undergoing chemo, struggling with the last round she received, and comforting me, and I’m the one in good health. Her strength and positivity were unreal. I felt a little silly for not being able to stand tall for others, while this woman was currently fighting cancer and lifting others up around her. It felt ironic. Then the man behind us put his arm around us and said, “I’ve been a survivor for 25 years. You both have a lot more life to live.” It was at that point that I felt like time stopped for a minute, and I was looking at the me from last year, my current self, and my future self. It was a powerful moment.

I snapped out of it as the final pictures were being taken (so glad I had ugly cry face going for the cameras). I saw my siblings, nieces and nephews, and friends slowly gathering together as night was falling. As the opening ceremony commenced and speakers began sharing their stories, I heard my sister say, “Aww shit, it’s about to get sad.” And she was right. Stories of hope and loss were shared, and the littles that I saw earlier in the group picture were up on stage too. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, as people remembered those they lost to cancer, as well as those who fought with everything they had to be there today. The speaker called for lanterns to be lit, one color at a time, and before I knew it, the sight around us was a beautiful flood of red, gold, and white lights amidst the dark sky. It was beautiful and painful.

I was overwhelmed and I think Jamie could tell. As the walk started, he put his arm around me and led me to start walking with everyone else. The night got cold, and I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the dropping temperature or if it was adrenaline flowing through me. Once our big group of 35 was on the walking path, the mood lightened up. It was impossible to keep the whole group together, as there were adults, big kids, and little kids within our group, but it just felt good to know everyone was there experiencing this. One of my friends brought a portable speaker with him, and soon we were walking to party music. It was a good reminder that it was a celebratory walk for us too. The kids were loving it, running through the mud and grass in the darkness. I thought to myself that kids’ resilience and innocence during tough times make them the best fighters of all. I heard one of the littles ask, “Are we almost done?” And my brother said, “Do you see those lanterns all the way up there? That’s how far the path goes. We still have a way to go.” I looked far along the path ahead and turned behind me to look at the distance we already walked, and saw the whole path lit up with the various colored lanterns. It basically summed up my year. It was dark, but family and friends lit the way. And we’ve come this far now, but have a lot more walking to do. But the path isn’t as dark as it initially seemed; the way is illuminated by those that have experienced this and have moved on and continue to live life. What often felt lonely suddenly felt warm and safe.

When we reached the end of the path, we took a few more group pictures, gave warm goodbye and thank you hugs, and went our separate ways. The Newton 4 went out for dinner and talked about how we all felt. The kids said they had fun and wanted to do it every year, which made me so happy. Evan said, “I’m a cancer survivor! Mommy, you died from cancer but then you came back to life.” While that is not true at all, two things stuck to me. For one thing, I like how he gave me the super power of resurrection. And secondly, while Jamie and the kids are not cancer survivors by definition, they absolutely survived an ordeal of a lifetime right beside me, and we all came out on top. At the end of the night, Reese asked if she could hold my white survivor lantern. I told her to turn on the light. I said, “Do you feel that power? That’s the power of a survivor. Don’t forget it.”

As I heard the cheesy “Survivor” song by Destiny’s Child in the back of my mind, my evening ended with the satisfaction of knowing that my family and friends have started a new yearly tradition that celebrates life, loss, and the strength to move on. That’s a pretty solid Sunday in the books.

My kids are little racists. Well, maybe that’s a harsh exaggeration. They definitely don’t discriminate against people who are not like them, which is good. But they’re also not down with the brown, which is sad because they are, in fact, brown. I really thought they would identify with their Filipino side because I’m always around them (“Mom’s brown and she’s so cool”…by the way, that is not a quote from them, that’s straight from my own mouth), but they really enjoy their Caucasian side. I tell them they are Filipino Americans. I don’t even bother telling them they are “half” Filipino and “half” white because I don’t want them to feel like they should only identify a little bit with the Filipino culture. I want them all in. But it seems to be requiring more work than I thought it would.

When I was growing up, I don’t remember my parents sitting me down and explaining to me that we were Filipinos. I just knew. Maybe I knew we had different cultural backgrounds than others because we took trips to the Philippines every few years growing up to visit family. Or maybe it was because my parents spoke Tagalog to me, while other parents (like The Keatons, The Huxtables, and the Drummonds) spoke English to their kids. I remember watching tv and wanting so badly to eat mashed potatoes for dinner because they looked so amazing, only to find a plate of white rice at every dinner at our house. I remember going to church every Sunday and being the only kids that “mano’d” their parents after mass to get their blessing. Nothing had to be spoken, we just knew from our regular practices that this is what Filipinos do, and that we needed to keep doing them and fit in at the same time.

I figured since it worked for me, I’d do the same for my kids. Rice at almost every dinner and making Filipino dishes, check. Mano after mass, check. Making the kids call my parents Lola and Lolo, almost every aunt and uncle Tita and Tito, and their older cousins Ate and Kuya, check. Still didn’t work. They didn’t seem to be connecting with being Filipino or even understanding what being Filipino American meant. How do I know? Well, here are a few examples.

When Reese was around 4 years old, I told her we needed to go to the Filipino store to buy some food for a party. As we were driving to the store, she asked, “What’s a Filipino?” I about broke my neck looking in the back seat because I was shocked she didn’t know what a Filipino was. I said, “A Filipino is a person from a country called The Philippines. Lolo and Lola were born in The Philippines, so they are Filipinos. They are my parents, so that makes me Filipino. I am your mom, so that makes you and Evan Filipinos. Does that make sense?” She nodded and became quiet. 2 minutes later, after much deliberation, she asked, “So how many Filipinos are we buying at the Filipino store?” Great, so now I had to explain what slavery was and how we don’t buy people. I thought I did a decent job explaining how she was Filipino, so I didn’t go into it any further, and she never asked anymore questions.

A year later when Reese was 5, I recall putting thick Eucerin lotion on her after a shower, and she said, “I like when you put this lotion on me because I get to be white like Daddy.” Holy balls, did I lose my shit. I didn’t yell at her or anything. I even considered that perhaps she said that because she is such a Daddy’s girl that she wanted to just be more and more like Jamie. But deep inside, I couldn’t help but feel shocked and hurt. I took the bait and asked her why she wanted white skin like Daddy’s, and she said, “It just looks nicer. The kids in my class have skin like Daddy’s.” I said, “Well, I have dark skin. Don’t you like my skin?” And she said no. Okay then, thanks for your honesty. I told her it doesn’t matter if people look different, like me and Daddy look different; what is important is that you treat everyone with kindness. I didn’t know what else to say at the time, and I thought maybe it would be better if both Jamie and I were having this talk with her together. But life happens, and the topic got flipped to the back burner. And perhaps we left it back there for too long.

Recently (3 years now since the lotion incident), Reese told me that she gets confused about who Tita Dimple, Tita Abby, Tita Lincy, and Tita Tina are. When I asked why, she said, “I can’t tell who is who because they’re all brown!” What the hell? They look nothing alike, some are Filipino and some are Indian, and it sounded so damn racist that my mind was blown. I reminded myself that she had no mean intention behind her comment, and maybe she just needed some clarification as to who was who because we usually hang out together in a group. But still, comments like these to the wrong person at the wrong time could be really hurtful.

Now that Evan is 5, surprise surprise, he is making similar statements. Just the other day, as he was putting his hair in a mohawk and admiring himself in the mirror, he said to me, “I wish I had the same color hair and skin as Daddy and my friend Jack. I don’t want to be tan anymore.” In my infinite wisdom, I said, “Too bad.” Seriously though, why don’t they ever make these comments to Jamie? Do they have to tell the brown parent that they’d rather be white? It’s so annoying! I thought to myself, I can’t just leave this conversation at “too bad.” What other great wisdom bombs can I throw at him? So I continued on with, “You are a perfect mix of Daddy and me, so you are lucky. You are Filipino American and you should be proud of that.” “Ok” is all I got back from him. I’m not sure what I was expecting him to say after that. I certainly wasn’t expecting him to bust out the lyrics to the Philippine National Anthem or anything like that (although that would have been hilarious). I was just hoping that he’d hold on to the message that he was Filipino American.

Perhaps there was something in the air because a few days later my friend shared a funny story with me. She and her kids are Filipinos, and her son was asking what his friend was. He was confused because his friend was lighter-skinned than he was but still Filipino. My friend explained to him that one of his friend’s parents was Filipino and the other was white. It wasn’t clicking for him. So she said, “It’s just like Reese and Evan. Tita Ely is Filipino and Uncle Jamie is white.” He looked shocked and said, “Wait a minute…Uncle Jamie is white???” After a good 5 minutes of straight tearful laughter, I saw the beauty in that statement. My friend’s kid could not see that Jamie was any different than him, despite an obvious skin color difference, because Jamie has embraced the Filipino culture so well. Truthfully, I don’t even know what that really means, or if Jamie really did anything in particular, but I know that other than Filipinos feel pretty comfortable being themselves around him. If they were to mix their F’s and P’s or he’s and she’s, he wouldn’t bat an eye. If they felt so inclined to eat with their hands instead of utensils, he’d get it. If someone called him Kuya or Tito, he’d be all good with it. But he wouldn’t suck on a fish eye or eat bagoong, he had to draw the line somewhere. I was hopeful that if Jamie could be down with the brown after all his years of exposure and being open to the culture, so could my kids.

With all these different examples hitting me at once, it seems like this could be a good time to give the kids a deeper explanation of cultural diversity. But it is a complex concept for a kid, and a difficult subject to navigate through as a parent. Sometimes I wish I could just sit them in front of the tv and make them watch “Fresh Off the Boat” and tell them that life is like that, except substitute Filipino for Chinese. Then I could throw in a few Jo Koy references, and then they’d be set. But alas, it’s not that simple. I need to explain to them the concept of openness and acceptance. They will never accept others’ difference if they can’t even accept their own. But where do I start? Google tells me to maybe start with talking with their grandparents because they can share first-hand stories about growing up in The Philippines, along with traditions, food, and games they played as kids. And then perhaps at the end of their conversation, my kids could convince my parents to take us all to The Philippines someday (please and thank you).

But is that enough? My guess is no. I think consistent exposure is key. They know what Filipino food is, and thankfully I haven’t messed it up too much to turn them off to it. I don’t speak Tagalog, so they don’t really know the language. But Jamie and I do use a few Tagalog words, mostly private body parts, which the kids have now taught their friends. So that’s my great contribution to society. Jamie and I could also start speaking in a Filipino accent, which often happens anyway when we’re drunk. But someday, we are all going to Rosetta Stone the fuck out of Tagalog, and when I ask you in Tagalog to please pass me the cat fries because I feel hot in my elbow, just smile and nod and be proud that we’re trying.

I can list more things that we can start working on with my kids (because Google gave me a list of at least 7 things), but I think the point is I want this to be a priority in our family. Knowing that I was Filipino played a large role in forming my identity, especially in high school and college, and it would be nice if the kids had that opportunity too. The sad reality is that someday they will also probably experience racism and discrimination, either towards them or their friends, and I want them to be able to stand firm their ground, know who they are and where they came from, and stop hatred in its tracks.

With my children being biracial, the physical differences between them and their peers are much more subtle than what I experienced growing up. I feel like it is easier for them to blend in with the majority, so I feel an even stronger pull towards teaching them about being Filipino American, in fear that the culture will be lost in our family after a few generations. And I could understand that as a kid, you don’t want to stick out and look or be different. But if only they knew how great it is to be unique, to look different and have special traditions that they could teach their friends about, to have family on the other side of the world that speak a different language but enjoy Game of Thrones like the rest of humanity, to have the power to check the “other” box on the U.S. Census, to say they are Filipino Americans and know what that means. It will be an on-going conversation about our culture in this house. Time to bust out my coconut bra and Tinikling sticks, it’s about to get Filipino up in here!

My kids are, for the most part, sweet and kind people. At least that’s what people see in public. When I hear that kind of feedback from other parents, I feel proud and maybe reassured that I’m doing something right. But apart from teaching kids manners, social graces and appropriate public behaviors, there’s an even bigger job we have behind closed doors: teaching our kids life skills that will set them up for success, like hard work and perseverance, time management, organization, self-confidence. These are big and abstract ideas for little brains, but I pound that shit in them daily hoping that something will stick.

I had a tough week with my daughter. She’s 8 and full of life and creative energy, a bright kid with a lot of potential for greatness. Like many girls her age, she has a sassy attitude, which was shockingly not the problem this week. The issues of time management, organization, and accountability have been challenging for this kid for a while. She struggles with doing homework in a timely manner and balancing after-school activities, and she creates a messy trail of papers and dirty clothes everywhere she goes, forgets things that should be second nature by now, and the list goes on and on. I question whether it is a focus thing, or maybe certain things just don’t matter too much to her. Or perhaps is it that I do too much for her that she assumes I’ll come to the rescue anytime she drops the ball? I don’t know. I described her to Jamie as a balloon floating in the air without a plan or purpose, just a whimsical girl that will go wherever the wind takes her. He reminded me that she is 8, and that most, if not all, 8 year olds don’t really contemplate their life purpose at this age. Well shit, I’m not asking for a Socrates, I’m just asking for a kid that can remember to put her pants on before she leaves the house.

She is so very different from me. I mean, I literally hate wind. Even though the balloon in the wind was a metaphor, I bet I even hate wind in the metaphorical sense too. It is too distracting and unpredictable. She’s a typical right-brained person, my day-dreaming artistic girl that is often scatter-brained and random, but lives in color. Where there is wind, she sees an opportunity to fly a kite. There’s nothing wrong with that; in fact, I wish I could live in color the way she does sometimes. But then there’s me, very left-brained, methodical in my thinking, organized, regimented. I’m a rule follower, a planner, and I often find myself making a pro’s and con’s list about my pro’s and con’s list. I’m not creative at all. In fact, I had my brother do all my art homework in grade school, and in adulthood, my sister picked all of our paint colors and decorations in our house. I dress like Simon Cowell. My favorite color is gray. Shit, my favorite piece of art work on our walls is the dry-erase family calendar I bought that I color-coordinate every month to organize every family member’s schedule. Where there is wind, I see an opportunity to pull my hair back so it stays neatly in place, perhaps take cover indoors, and check for weather updates. Our brains are very different.

Because of our differences, I have a hard time understanding her and finding ways that will motivate her to adopt new skills that don’t come naturally to her. And the Eeyore in me begins to feel pessimistic, like I will never understand her, that it will take such a great deal of effort to bond with her, that we will forever be butting heads. Of course, I never show her or verbalize these feelings, but Jamie pointed out that it’s not good for me to even harbor those thoughts. I knew he felt strongly about talking this through with me when he had me pause my Netflix show to have this conversation. Once he had my full attention, he wanted to be sure I wasn’t getting into the mindset that she and I will not be able to bond, and more importantly, he wanted to tell me to not give up on her. It’s hard to hear that from your partner, but a good partner keeps you in check. He often has to give me reminders to be more positive in my parenting approach (and life in general). He said that she is a lot like him, in that organization, cleanliness and time management do not come naturally to him either, and he finished the thought with, “But look at me, I turned out fine.” I nodded my head because I agreed with most of it, but a voice in my head said, “Ok, so what you’re saying is that Reese needs to marry someone who keeps her shit together, the house clean, the meals made, and the family time managed. Mmhhhmm, got it.” But his point was that she will be successful in life and in her career, even if she prioritizes things differently from me. We need to just find what makes her tick, what learning strategy will stick, and just never give up.

The following day, we talked to her about making a check list every single day for the morning, afternoon, and evening. She was beyond enthusiastic to try this, and it was working like magic…for the first day. She then forgot to make the list the next day, and sure enough, her brain was all over the place. So she failed, and we let her. She’ll try again tomorrow. And the next. Whatever it takes. We decided to allow her to feel actual consequences, such as getting reprimanded at school if she forgets assignments, even though it is killing us to allow that to happen. If she forgets her lunch, I’ll just have to wait for a call from the school. If she forgets her water bottle for practice, she’ll just have to be thirsty for an hour. I will, however, put my foot down if I see her walking out the door with two different shoes on. In my head, I’m rooting for her everyday. I want her to be successful, but me doing everything for her is fake success, it’s really just myself checking things off my own check list. Who knows, maybe the check list is not her thing, and if that’s the case, we move on to the next strategy.

Getting to know my kid this way is a lot like dating. There are those fun moments when you are both enjoying good times and laughing. And then there are the hard moments, when you actually have to deal with conflicting views and approaches, and you have to figure out how to communicate effectively with each other and work problems out. When a relationship means a lot to you, you know you’ll do anything to make it work, even if it hurts and frustrates the shit out of you. So here’s to dating your kid. Nope, that sounds wrong. Let me try that again. Here’s to never giving up on your kid, building a lasting relationship with them that you’ll both be proud of, and setting them up to conquer the world, no matter what. These are the people that you will be having drinks with in 20 years, so make it count.

I remember years ago watching both my nephews go through a Pokémon phase, where they would collect cards, read books, do all things Pokémon. I thought it was dumb, or maybe I was dumb because I didn’t understand it, but it at least occupied their time. It reminded me a lot of Garbage Pail Kids, in that it probably made no sense to my parents why any chid, particularly theirs, would collect these nonsense cards. But we loved them, and the more grotesque the cards were, the better. I was sure that by the time I had kids, this Pokémon phenomenon would be out of style. Well sadly, it’s not. My boy is 5 and he’s all in. He eats, breaths, and sleeps this shit. Every activity he does has something to do with Pokémon. Every book he chooses is Pokémon related. But what parent doesn’t love a kid that submerges himself in books, right? Wrong. Read a Pokémon book, and you too will surely want to gauge your eyes out with the sharpest object you can possibly find, perhaps even your own finger. 80% of the words I read in these books will never be used in regular adult conversation. You will never hear me tell you how I mega-evolved into a super mom using my Stun Spore moves. I can’t even pronounce half of what I’m reading to him, and Jamie just sits there laughing at my struggle. I can read an entire book to him and have zero comprehension of what I just read, yet Evan can think I read the most amazing book. I’m baffled.

The other day, I reached out to Evan’s kindergarten teacher because he is fighting me tooth and nail on doing anything academic during my mornings with him. If I ask him to practice writing…tantrum. If I ask him to practice reading…tantrum. If I ask him to practice drawing or cutting…tantrum. He says it’s too hard, or he doesn’t want to, or it is really difficult to use his brain and think. There are days when I’m just convinced he will be the kid that lives in my basement forever. I shared all these issues with his teacher, and she just smirked and said he’s doing fine, that he is doing plenty at school and can tell he will be reading and writing soon. She told me to leave him alone, don’t push any extra academics if he fights me on it, and just let him play. I sat there, nodding my head and saying, “Ah, okay, mmhmmm, mmmhmmm, sounds great….” But my Filipino mom brain was like, “Does not compute, does not compute…” What does she mean I’m not supposed to do anything academic with him? If ever there was a Filipino DCFS, that would be grounds for filing a complaint against me for my negligent parenting. With Reese, I put paper and pencil in front of her, and she went to town. This guy looks at me like I ripped his beating heart out with my bare hands if I ask him to do a workbook page. I probably had the same look on my face when his teacher told me to just let him play.

I understand that there is tons to learn from imaginative play, but it’s just not how I was raised. It’s hard to let go of some practices that have been engrained in your brain for all these years, especially when the pressure is on to not raise assholes. It will be a challenge to substitute the traditional kindergarten workbook with a Pokémon handbook, but I trust his teacher. She’s the expert, and she ensured me that he would pass kindergarten. So that’s where I’m at, just letting him have free play during his morning time with me before school starts. And that free play includes a lot of me reading those Pokémon books to him. I tried to sneak a nonfiction dog book in there, but he rejected learning about real life objects. As I am reading to him and he is developing his Pokémon smarts, I’m growing more and more certain that these nuggets of non-information will resurface in a few decades for me when I am well into my 90’s and am searching for all lost Pokémon in my nursing home, trying to train them to fight my roommate’s Pokémon. Until then, if I call you Charizard instead of your actual name, forgive me, I’m just losing my mind in attempt to support my kid’s passion. But if I call you an Ekans or Arbok, I’m basically calling you a dick, and you should go back to your Poké Balls and chill the f out. Yep, my brain is officially mush.

There is a corner of my room that I call “The Cancer Corner.” It has everything I had in my hospital room- decorations, books, pictures, gifts, journals, and so many adult coloring books. It has even spilled over into the dining room area that I have designated as the Costco Corner. I’ve been home since February, and still I can’t get myself to clean up that area. I finally donated my PICC and port supplies to my local oncologist’s clinic, which felt good. But the rest of it still awaits my attention, yearning to be asked if it brings me joy or not (shout out to Marie Kondo). I told myself I was going to do a little at a time, but I keep putting it off. I don’t want to really look through the stuff, even though all of it is probably sweet and inspiring, intended to keep me happy and preoccupied during my hospitalizations. It just makes me sad now. I sort of just want to be done with that part of my life, but reminders are everywhere, even beyond the Cancer Corner.

Don’t get me wrong, I do feel further and further away from cancer as each day passes. Most days, I could walk right by that Cancer Corner and ignore it, much like walking right by a laundry basket full of clothes that I need to fold. But then there are other days when I feel a cancer essence lingering around me, like a terrible fart that won’t go away. It typically happens around the time I have to see the oncologist again. I get pretty anxious during the days leading up to the appointment, and even if Jamie asks me if I’m nervous and I say no, I believe subconsciously the answer is yes. I drove downtown to see my oncologist last week for my follow-up blood work. What I thought was supposed to be follow-ups every 3 months for the first 1-2 years post chemo has now become every 3 months for the next 5 years. It struck me as odd to require such frequent follow-ups, as my parents that also had cancers didn’t have to follow-up as frequently. I asked her what the recurrence rate for APL was; in my mind it has always been a super low percentage, somewhere in the single digits. But it is actually 10-15%, which sounds kind of high, or at least higher than I would like it to be. I thought I heard that wrong, but Google verified it for me. So that sucked. It wasn’t bad news per se, but it did give my anxiety more ammo, and that benefits no one.

After I saw my oncolgist, I had my first meeting with the nurse practitioner that runs the Survivorship Program. I spent about 45-60 minutes with her, and I still don’t know what it was for. I think her purpose is to manage my care wholistically, making sure I get everything beyond the cancer taken care of, like my bone scans, opthalmologist appointments, echocardiograms, and the like. Apparently, I was zapped with some high level doses of steroids, which I only vaguely remember, and that could mess with my bones and eyes. And obviously, the chemo messed with my heart, but it should be okay by now. So even if I wanted to move past the memories of cancer, all these new “possible medical issues” from the treatment seem to be coming to surface. None of them are serious, or at least not life-threatening, which is good. They’re all just annoying. Here I am trying to move on, rehabbing myself, getting my diet more healthy (except on Saturdays), attempting to live how I used to live pre-cancer, and none of this shit will let me go. The nurse practitioner asked, “How are you psychologically? Has it all kind of hit you, now that you are 6 months out?” I thought to myself, “Yeah, bitch, it hit me like a ton of bricks, and continues to do so (she was actually very nice, not bitchy at all).” But I coolly said with a smile that I’m handling it (shout out to Olivia Pope). At the end of the appointment, she handed me a thick packet of records that summarized everything I went through, as if I needed a written reminder. I smiled graciously again and said thank you, and refrained from throwing it away right in front of her face. See, cancer puts me in a shitty mood. Even though the cancer itself is cured, it still has a presence and it acts like an annoying frenemy that keeps peaking in and out of the picture, sticking it’s finger right next to my face and saying childishly, “I’m not touching you, I’m not touching you…” That day had a little too much cancer talk for my liking, and it was the pits.

Perhaps the most redeemable part of the Survivorship appointment had nothing to do with the actual program or nurse practitioner, rather, the view from the office window. The office was in the same hospital building I stayed in all those months, except instead of the 15th floor, I was staring out of a window from the 5th floor. All the things I used to stare at for hours were still there- the lake, the park and running track, the field of grass that many dogs would play in, the tennis court, the trees. But how different the vantage point is from the 5th floor compared to high up. When I was on the 15th floor, it was quiet, removed, peaceful but isolating. I could see the top of trees and an unobstructed view of the lake and all its moods. The 5th floor view, while still pretty, provided a strange vibe. I could hear the traffic in the streets, I could see the details of the pedestrians, mostly med students and residents in their white coats having intense conversations with one another. I viewed the lake through the trees, and I could not get a good appreciation of its vastness. There was an added element of hustle and bustle, which made the once peaceful view seem less enjoyable, even though I was looking at the same scene. And that’s how I feel now in my own life. While I know the big picture scene is beautifully picturesque, it is often difficult to see that when I am so involved in the mix of everyday life. I’m like one of those med students having an intense conversation; while I’m walking around in perfect weather with the breeze off the lake blowing through my hair, all I hear is the stressful words of the conversation. I’m missing the beauty around me because all I’m focusing on is the stress in my face.

Realistically, no one can walk around all day marveling at the beauty of their surroundings and be an actual functioning adult in society at the same time. If I did that all day, my kids would probably run into the street and get hit by a car while I was marveling at a cloud that was shaped perfectly like a piece of delicious fried chicken. It’s just not possible to be in that head space at all times. Conversely, I also don’t have to be in the stress mindset at all times and never pick my head up. I am a miserable person to myself and others when I’m like that. It just takes a lot of effort and work to pull away from the details and lift your view about 10 stories up to see the beauty in the day. I’m not good at this skill. Like yoga, it’s a practice. And like yoga, I often skip it in the workout schedule. As cliched as it sounds, I need to find a balance, specifically how to live with cancer without letting it freak me out so much.

So first thing’s first, I need to tackle my Cancer Corner. I think with the physical reminders out of sight, I might feel like it is less in my face (these items are literally next to my bed and the first things I see in the morning). I’m not sick, I’m quite healthy now actually, so all the hospital paraphernalia needs to go. Maybe after I clear the space, I could put a reading chair there (just kidding, I don’t have time to read, it would be a place to put newly folded laundry). Next, instead of feeling sorry for myself for having to drive downtown to see the oncologist every 3 months, I’ll just have to think to myself that I’m being proactive in my health and wellness (sounds like a sentence straight out of a hospital pamphlet). It is something that should decrease my anxiety; instead of wondering if the cancer came back, I am getting definitive answers that it’s still gone. And finally, whenever I feel that cancery feeling, I need to acknowledge it, feel my worry for a moment, but then remind myself that I beat it before and I’m here now, alive and cancer-free. I won’t let the memory of the fight ruin the joy that the cure has brought to my life.

Even after I clean up the Cancer Corner in my room, I’ll always have a little Cancer Corner in my life. I know it will always be in the back of my mind. I’m okay with that, so long as I don’t let it become an overpower thought. Life is just way better now, and it would be a shame to let a little bit of cancer rain on my parade. And the same goes for regular everyday stressors. Is it really worth it to let those little things obstruct my perspective? Is it worth it to give the pile of dirty dishes in the sink that much power to ruin my day? Do my kids really suck that bad, or just medium bad? If I pick my head up from my endless to-do list and pause for a minute, the answer is usually no. And if I raise myself high up to admire the view, the answer is always definitely no. Remind me of that in about 5 minutes, and probably every 5 minutes after that until the kids are in college.

I try to go to church on a semi-regular basis with my family. Initially, when the kids were really young, we tried to go a few times, only to find that we were spending the hour telling them to sit still or keep quiet, neither of us praying or listening at all. And then when Evan decided it would be hilarious to pull his penis out of his pants and play with it in the middle of mass, we felt like that was a sign to stay away for a little while. Now that the kids are older, we started going back.

A few weeks ago, the kids and I went to church while Jamie was out of town. I gave myself a pep-talk beforehand, convincing myself that the kids were going to be angels and I was going to have a peaceful time to reflect. I should have known when they started whining and complaining because I said they couldn’t bring snacks and toys inside that it was not going to be peaceful. It started off okay, Reese singing the songs while Evan was at least facing in the right direction. I was feeling great. Of course, that was just the first 5 minutes. Once we sat down, Reese wanted to braid my hair. I said no. She began to braid her own hair. I asked her if she thought Jesus braided hair in the temple when he was a kid, and she said no. She stopped. No worries, minor blip in the concentration and quiet time, I could still regain focus. Two seconds into my attempt to refocus, Evan began to lick me. Nope, not a typo, he was actually licking me. Sucks to be him because I didn’t shower before mass. I very calmly and quietly asked him to please stop licking me, but my face very loudly nonverbally screamed, “Just why though?” He stopped. Three deep breaths and that should get me back to focus. Three deep breaths felt great, but you know what didn’t…Evan chewing on my stomach fat. Clearly, he was in dog mode that morning. I whispered, “God is watching you, and He does not like it when you chew on my stomach. Muffin tops are not real muffins.” He stopped. I’m wet from saliva. I did not feel #blessed.

Throughout the rest of the mass, it was a back and forth battle telling them (mostly Evan) to be quiet, stop touching me, face forward, stop climbing the pews, stop slamming the kneelers, and please don’t rip the booklets. But I swear sometime during that hour, we all had some form of quiet time, even if it was literally seconds at a time. I don’t honestly expect kids at their age to sit still the entire hour and actually listen. Even adults struggle with that. But that’s exactly it, none of us really knew how to be comfortable in stillness and quiet. Was it hard for me to be still because a million thoughts were racing through my mind, most of which were not religion related? Or was it because my thoughts have a lot of profane words attached to them and are probably not appropriate for a church setting? Were my kids wiggle worms because I’ve made them so used to a go-go-go kind of schedule and they’re not comfortable with slowing down? Is screen time making them hyper? Are they all about immediate gratification and expect their demands to be met as soon as they ask for it, and if they don’t get what they want, they’re little pieces of shit? Or is church just kind of boring for kids (and sometimes for adults too…sorry Mom, pray for me)? See, too many thoughts.

What I learned is that sitting still for an hour is really hard. Even if my kids weren’t there bugging me, I would still struggle with it. It takes practice to be able to be with your own thoughts. My thoughts are all kinds of messed up sometimes, and truthfully, I don’t always like my own company. But you have to be able to do it every now and again, maybe to gain some personal insight, maybe to enable growth or change, or maybe just to rest your brain from anxiety and worry. It’s a skill I would like to teach my kids now at an early age, to use quiet time as a tool or coping mechanism to deal with stress, fatigue, or frustration, and hopefully down the road, for some self-reflection. I would also like to teach them to use quiet time for my own personal gain when I find them to be terribly loud and annoying. I’m thinking maybe starting with 5 minutes a day just sitting still with them, no one talking, everyone just closing their eyes, focusing on their breath, and being quiet. How much do you want to bet when I open my eyes after five minutes, I’ll find my hair braided Coolio style and a kid licking me?!? I’m dreading it already. Maybe 2 minutes is a more attainable goal. We have to start somewhere.