How Would YOU Define Vulnerability?

Not everyone has the asset that I do in my life: a kid who researches for the sheer fun of it.

That's not me being smug, or feeling superior, or talking about how smart my kid is and implying that I have anything to do with it. In fact, just minutes earlier, Hunter was playing MMMBop, the 1997 Hanson masterpiece, at full volume throughout the house, and eating his crock pot chicken burrito bowl in a way that slopped it all over his own face up to and including his eyelashes, in an attempt to make me wet my pants.

So, I'm far from smug. It's really just about the fact that my kid researches for fun, and teaches me about what he has learned.

He's also deeply intuitive, and can read me like a book. Tonight when we were having our nightly talk about how much the dinner I prepared did or did not suck, he sat me in front of my computer and pulled up a link. He made it full screen. He hit play. He dimmed the freaking LIGHTS. I knew that whatever I was about to watch, it was probably a big deal.

It was.

For those of you who have perhaps seen this, you know what I'm talking about. I went from thinking, okay, do I really have time to watch this? to thinking, oh my gosh, if this isn't a universal issue, I don't know what is.

Because no matter who you are on the outside, no matter what you project, no matter how you conduct your life, somewhere deep inside your very being lies what is part of every human's genetic makeup: vulnerability. You can deny it, you can try to justify your actions with a different color of paint and different line of defense, but the fact remains that we are all vulnerable.

Here is the link, which will take 20 minutes of your time. I'm not asking you to watch it. I'm just saying that if you should choose to watch it, do so with an open mind and no distractions. My phone is completely broken, so I was in an excellent position to devote the attention to the topic.




She had me from the beginning. Dr. Brown is a qualitative researcher, which is my kind of work, but she speaks the language of everyone. She touched me to the core, and I know that I'm not the only one, as this particular talk was in the most popular Ted Talks of all time.

Please do yourself a favor, and check it out.

Flashback, 1983

I have a pretty poor memory in terms of my childhood. I don't know if that's normal or not, but there aren't a lot of things that I can pull from the recesses of my mind and describe from the years of my youth. I have too much brain storage devoted to remembering every birthday from every person I ever knew to remember relevant details that likely played a critical role in shaping me into the hot mess that I am today.

However, some memories are sharp. Painfully sharp. One such occasion that I have not only not forgotten, but remember 31 years later with striking detail involved bleeding and yelling. Actually, most of my memories from childhood involve those two components. Let me break it down further.

THE CAST:

Myself: A ponytailed eight-year-old enjoying her last year before chubbiness and the first of a series of bad hairstyle choices.

Tom Thorpe: The Neighbor Boy, as well as my co-president in our neighborhood club.

My Mother: A frightening woman who would take none of my nonsense, amazing ponytail or not.

The Go-Kart: A beast of epic proportions

The Tree: The biggest tree in the world. I'm sure it was in Guinness, but I don't have a copy of the 1984 record book. Or any others.

The Thorpes were an amazing family. Mom, dad, three kids, and all the coolest gadgetry offered up in the early Eighties. They got stuff that was advertised on Nickelodeon, for God's sake. The mom actually called the number and ordered the merch, paid the shipping and handling, and the stuff arrived. Well, I assume that's how she did it. You could also send for it via mail, I guess. But it made more sense to order on the phone, because if you call within the next ten minutes, you can get TWO items. Or a cleaning kit. Something.

I digress.

One of the most amazing toys belonged to Tom Thorpe. It was a go-kart. For God's sakes, man, we can't even drive, and you're zooming around on a go-kart? What are you, above the law? What are you, related to the president? These were thoughts that probably went through my head as I watched from my side of the property line, mouth undoubtedly either hanging open or full of food, as Tom Thorpe zoomed around his circle drive, through the gates to his backyard, and around the perimeter of said yard, over and over. Finally, pity led him to me, and he offered to let me drive it.

I remembered pretty specifically what my mom had said on this topic when she had first seen Tom Thorpe defy space and time and the law, and what she had said was "NO."

But I had a reputation to uphold as the co-president of the neighborhood club, and even though I was scared enough to want to throw up, I choked it back down and agreed.

I got in. I sat down. I strapped in. Easy stuff so far. All I had to do was press down on the foot pedal and go. Straight shot, through the gates, around the yard, and back again.

I pressed the pedal and bucked forward, and I believe it was at that point that my brain short-circuited. I zoomed through the gates, started to turn left for the yard navigation, and then...THE TREE.

It was a thousand feet tall and could move, because suddenly it loomed above me out of nowhere. I remember hearing yelling behind me. And then feeling the impact. And oh, God, the sound.

You see, I had mastered the idea of the gas pedal, but had completely forgotten the pedal on the other side. The one that was used for stopping. I had gotten that beautiful machine, that go-kart from the future, stuck between the tree and the fence. I was shaken and battered, but not as much as the 'kart. I was bleeding.

Thankfully, I don't remember extricating myself from the wreckage, nor do I remember the look on Tom's face or his parents' reactions.

I do remember the blood pouring from my knee, and limping home.

My mom was sitting on the front porch. Seeing her, I immediately began to cry, pointing to my blood leg and trying to talk.

She was perfectly horrified and stood to take care of me, as a loving mother should. And then she asked the inevitable question:

"What happened?!?"

I choked out the fateful words: "Go-Kart."

Her lips pursed. Her gaze narrowed.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO RIDE ON THAT DAMN THING."

And she turned on her heel and marched into the house, shutting the door in my face.

That's where my memory fades. I assume I didn't die of blood loss, and I doubt I had to spend the night outside.

Fast-forward to September 2014, many bad hairstyles and go-kart-free years later. That's when I agreed to attend a bachelorette party for one of the most fiercely loyal and no-nonsense women I have ever met.

She's a bit of a country girl, so the party included a trip to Carousel Park in Joplin to ride the go-karts.

Being navigationally challenged, I was late due to a quick detour to Oklahoma. So when I arrived, most of the girls were 'karting already and I took up a spot safely in the spectators' area on the other side of the fence from the intimidating-looking, sharp-turn-laden course.

I stood by Tami, who couldn't ride because of her "neck".

The riders finished, with the bride-to-be winning (she would have beaten down anyone who dared to cross that line before she did, anyway) and rushed victoriously out of the gates for some pictures.

After we had all posed several times, she turned to me with a ticket.

"COME ON, JEN! I'LL BEAT YOUR ASS!"

"Oh, no," I demurred, "I'm not riding."

"YES YOU ARE! COME ON!"

And then the cacophony of voices from the others: "Go on, Jen!"

I slightly panicked. "My neck..."

Tami laughed. "Nice try."

Finally, I 'fessed up. I told them I had not been on a go-kart since I was roughly seven years old after a tragic accident.

Corie grabbed my hand. "TIME TO FACE YOUR FEARS!"

Then, full-blown flashback mode, with this voice from the 1986, scary-as-hell movie "Carrie" playing as background music.

I went, I strapped in. It was just the two of us. I committed to memory the vision of TWO pedals. And then it was go time.

I inched forward. Corie lunged ahead.

And then my competitive drive kicked in and I went full-throttle. We raced neck and neck, around and around the track. She was kind enough to let me stay in the lead at first, but then we had a collision and she was stuck for a bit while I raced ahead. For two laps, I maintained a healthy lead. Fear was gone. Victory would be mine. Why haven't I done this all my life!? I thought, laughing out loud like an idiot. Why haven't I checked into doing this professionally? Is it too la-

It was at that point that I was hit with some force, and spun nose-first into the guard rail. There was no reverse.

I was stuck. Stuck like a fool while Corie eventually lapped me, laughing like a maniac. And then again.

Finally, the attendant arrived to back me up and ask me if I had a concussion or whiplash.

Neither. And I wasn't bleeding!!!!!!

Sure, I lost. But really, didn't I also win?

No. I lost. But this 2014 contest had erased 31 years of fear.

On the way to the next stop of the party, I got cut off by some fool in a truck and tried to pass him just so I could return the favor.

The competitive go-kart spirit is strong in this one.

So now I challenge you. Is there something minor that possibly paralyzed you early in life? Something that you still avoid, even to this day?

Those years are over. Freakin' do it. You may end up stuck against the guardrail while you're lapped and mocked relentlessly, but come on, man.

Don't fear the reaper.

I REALLY Love Food.

Today, my colleagues and I were discussing some work-related things in a very intellectual way. But in between those quick conversations, we talked about dumpsters. It doesn't matter why we were talking about dumpsters, mainly because I don't remember. However, the topic of eating out of dumpsters was broached.

I have been guilty of eating food directly off of floors. In high school, I used to do it as a dare. Double points for hoovering it directly off of the floor with my mouth. I was young and dumb, and I loved the looks of disgust and awe I would see on the faces of those in whatever class I was in when I did it. I was a weird kid.

Now, as the manager of a movie theater, I try to be a little more discerning. However, if there is a full bag of individually wrapped Reese's peanut butter miniatures, and it's on top of the pile, I mean, who DOES that? Was it an accident? Were you angry? Did you hate the person who bought them? Was it a date gone wrong? Was it your spouse, and oh my GOD, for the thousandth time, you asked for Reese's Pieces, he knows that, he only bought the cups because that's what HE likes, and he knew you'd just give them to him like you always do, but you've been listening to a lot of Pink on Pandora at work, and you don't have to put up with the man bringing you down anymore, because you're fine and sassy. I don't pretend to know your life. I just know that I'm not going to let a full bag of individually wrapped candy go to waste. Not once. Not ever. That also goes for Starburst, because they're the other individually wrapped candies we have.

Now, eating food out of a dumpster is a little different. Still, if there was a dumpster behind a bakery, I would totally check that out hard. Because, you know? I mean, what if they threw a whole pie in there? And like, I knew that they had JUST thrown it in. I would probably have to at least look it over.

These are issues I've always had. I remember going to a two-day seminar with a couple of girls in 2009 for work. We got there too late to eat at the motel restaurant, but as we were turning to leave I saw a whole pizza sitting, abandoned, on the bar. I asked the bartender nonchalantly whose pizza that was, and he said it was his, but he hadn't had time to eat it and it was cold, and he was just going to throw it out. I asked him if I could have it. He gave it to me. I ate it. Who cares, free pizza, amirite? But when I saw the looks on the faces of my co-workers, I thought, maybe I have a problem.

It's not a problem to the point where I take food off of abandoned tables at restaurants. But it IS a problem to the point where I THINK about taking food off of abandoned tables at restaurants.

So back to the conversation with my co-workers. I said that I would TOTALLY eat out of a dumpster at a bakery. Well, I clarified it to be either a pie shop or a donut place. But let's be honest, I would eat a cupcake out of a dumpster. If it was a fancy cupcake with a lot of frosting and it was still in a box. But when someone else threw out the idea of chicken wings, I had to draw the line. That's meat, man. There's like, bacteria issues in a dumpster meat situation that wouldn't be as present in a dumpster pie situation. Probably. I don't know.

And that's really where I'm at on that. And also, I really, really like pie. And donuts.

#WhyIStayed

The Ray and Janay Rice situation was heartbreaking, to be sure. Something more heartbreaking is

Oh God...Am I Old?

A couple of weeks ago, I was working extra in my last week as a Certified Pharmacy Technician (or CPhT, if you want some free trivia with your reading) at Heartland Behavioral Health Services. I know, riveting, right? Anyway, we were going live with this new MedDispense system, and things were a little pretty damn stressful that day.

But two things turned my day around. The first was this really amazing coffee I was drinking. I mean, it was delicious. Dunkin' Donuts brand, coconut-flavored. It smelled incredible. I really, really love flavored coffees. Not the kind you add flavored creamer to, but the kind that are just flavored right out of the bag. Recently I saw a Peach Cobbler flavor. I love peach cobbler. But I wasn't prepared to commit to that weirdness. Come on, man. And then I was like, hey. You loved the jelly donut flavor. You loved the cake donut flavor. Donuts and cobbler are like, your favorite foods. So, using my brand of logic, I should love cobbler-flavored coffee.

But, just no. Not yet.

Okay, fine. I've also grown partial to flavored creamers in cases involving unavoidable, non-flavored-coffee situations. The two I love at the moment are Almond Joy and Brown Butter Sugar. Holy cow. Hey, and here's another aside to the aside...the best snow ice cream recipe I've ever had is the one in which you just take snow and a jug of your favorite flavored creamer and mix. No need for any of that extra stuff like vanilla or sugar, although I'm sure they would TOTALLY enhance your snow ice cream experience. But trust me on this one.

Anyway, back to the original point, which I almost lost. The coffee made for a happier morning, but by early afternoon I was back to full-blown stress mode. And then I remembered that I had a date that evening with my former advisor and thesis chair from Pitt State. That in itself was exciting, but even more exciting was the fact that, in addition to discussing writing, we would also be partaking in Wine Wednesday. And I love wine.

That's what stopped me cold. Because, you see, I used to hate both coffee and wine. I didn't drink either, ever, at all. What started the gradual change to my current coffee-loving status was the fact that it was free and readily available in Career Services when I was a Graduate Assistant. The first day I had a small cup, in February 2013, I felt like I could run down the stairs, outside, around the building, and back up the stairs for easily the remainder of the day. I felt INCREDIBLE...for about 27 minutes. Then I was normal again. But oh, those 27 minutes! They're like the best happy little pocket of time ever. So I kept doing that, because I'm a thrill-seeker that way.

About 13 months later, I started to write my thesis.

Writing a thesis seemed like a no-brainer to me. There were three options in my graduate program. I could write a thesis, do some sort of huge creative project, or take comprehensive exams.

I hate exams, and I really didn't feel up to producing a play or creating an event, and I love to write. Thesis, all the way.

The research took place over three days. The writing took place over three weeks.

The revising took place over three months.

Three months of hell. Three months of "Nope, you still aren't getting it" emails from my advisor. Three months of me thinking that comps sounded like heaven.

But at the end, my advisor told me, we would celebrate with wine.

Yuck. I don't even like wine, childish, internal-fit-throwing me thought, mentally kicking a chair leg and pouting with my bottom lip out and my arms crossed.

But I agreed, because any kind of celebration would mean I was done with that stupid thesis.

And finally the day arrived. I was done, and I only needed the required signatures. It was time to celebrate.

As I knew nothing about wine, my advisor ordered for us when we arrived at the restaurant, and while we waited, she made me a list of wines. She started with the most mild, the fruitiest, the girliest, and worked her way down to the hard-core wine for hard-core winers. Or whatever they're called. She made two columns, one for white and one for red. She told me that when she got back from her summer trip, she expected me to have found the bottom of the list.

I got stuck on Riesling, and had no desire to move further down. But the point is, I was enjoying wine. And by enjoying, I mean I had it probably a total of four times over the course of three months. But still.

So, fast-forward back to the day when I got excited about coffee and wine. Right after I identified my excitement, the horror descended.

Oh, my God, I thought. I'm OLD!

I knew I was old, because I loved coffee and wine.

I used to love pop and vodka. I used to love energy drinks. I used to never drink actual water. Drinking it made me feel like I was going to throw up. It actually did.

And now my days were coffee in the morning and water all day and evening. And the occasional wine. And I was HAPPY about this?

I was EXCITED about a day that involved coffee and wine? Who WAS I? Was this tied in to turning 40 next year?

Ultimately, I decided to stop being a whiner, and embrace being a winer.

And that evening, we had a really, really good something. It was some kind of wine, from a little further down on the list than Riesling.

I'm getting hardcore. And old. But mostly? Hardcore.

What Holds YOU Back?

A couple of weeks ago, my kid did what he always does, and educated me on a topic in such a way that I felt like a complete idiot afterward.

On this occasion, the topic was the philosopher Alan Watts, and I listened to his lecture on our stereo, my mind first cracking, then blowing open as he continued to speak like the words he was delivering were totally no big deal. I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open.

I continued to listen until I received a phone call informing me that the wedding I had performed 10 days prior was probably not legal, but let's save that topic for another time. The point is, the introduction of the wedding fiasco put Alan Watts right out of my mind until another 10 days later, when this link showed up on my Facebook news feed.

Comic Strip of Alan Watts' Lecture: What If Money Was No Object?

Hey, kids, check this link out if you like your lessons delivered with no sides of bullshit. This cuts to the chase in such a way that even I retained the information. If you know me at all, you know that I always MEAN to remember things, but I rarely (read: pretty much never) do. Many times I have been almost finished with a book when I realize that I've already read it.

But I digress. The point I was trying to make was that I retained this information, and then thought about it. And then started to put it into action.

One of my favorite sayings is that it's important to have goals. The way I use it is all wrong, though. I'll say it jokingly as I finish an entire sleeve of Nutter Butters, or Oreos, or as I tally up the resulting weight gain. I use it sarcastically, okay? But my mouth is usually full when I do, and I'm usually alone, crying, so does it really count?

Totally kidding. I never cry when I'm eating cookies. That's a happy occasion every time. By the way, did you hear about Pumpkin Spice and Caramel Apple Oreos? I think it's a real thing this holiday season. Oh my gosh, can you even imagine? Well, I'm on the fence about the Caramel Apple, but not so much on the fence that I wouldn't obligingly hop off and sample a full sleeve.

(source: consumerist.com, theimpulsivebuy.com)

Back to Alan Watts. The comic strip essentially says to do what you like. Which you should know, because you totally clicked on the link and read it, because you're like me and prefer lectures in comic book form only. The evening I read it, I walked to the Community Center and did some Les Mills Combat Cardio, then walked home. And as I walked, it occurred to me that there were two things that I am absolutely passionate about that make me feel great every time I practice them. This is what keeps eating off of the list, because although I'm passionate about it, it makes me feel like junk because I have that eating disorder nobody talks about called "I'm fine until I have the first bite, and then I eat my kitchen."

So back to the two things. The first is working out, and the second is writing. Maybe not even in that order. Maybe even tied. Doing either of these things, though, fills me with happiness and purpose, and I feel fulfilled in ways that I have never experienced in anything. Once I realized that, and don't get me wrong, I pretty much knew it, everything snapped into place. I began to realize exactly what I needed to go forward, and what I needed to let go.

That's where the complications set in, because one of my biggest weaknesses is that I am not a quitter. I don't like to admit defeat, and I don't like to lose. One of the things that I realized was that I had to quit a habit that I've had for most of my life, because that habit is holding me back. And that realization filled me with fear. And that fear made me want to scrap everything.

And then I realized that the option of scrapping everything, and continuing to live my life as I had been, filled me with an even bigger fear.

So, that's where I am. On the brink. On the threshold. But I feel a lot better than I did earlier in the week, and you know why? Because I identified what made me happy, and I identified what was not making me happy.

Think about that. If you're a list maker, make a list. What makes you truly happy? Take everyone else out of it - their needs, their expectations, their demands of your time and resources, and think about what makes YOU happy. What leaves you with a glow long after you have left it? What fills you with purpose and passion and makes you feel just so damn ALIVE?

And what holds you back? What is your fear? Don't be afraid to dissect it and examine the layers. It's not until you truly get to the meat of the issue that the lesson begins. Don't be surprised if the answer isn't what you think it is, either. Don't even be surprised if you're left even more confused than when you started. One of my other favorite sayings is, "It's a process."

This damn sure is a process. One that will take time. One that may have a lot of two steps forward and one step back. One that may feel like a journey with no destination.

Just remember, this is it. This is your shot. This is the one life you get to live. No matter how scared you may be, isn't it even scarier to think that you might not live that life of purpose and happiness at all?

So, what holds YOU back?

So...It Was You.

"Well, you're definitely not leaving here this time without a baby."
It was those words, delivered by the doctor on the occasion of what was both my third attempt to bring my child into the world and the first time the hospital staff took me seriously, that made what was about to happen so real.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It had definitely felt real prior to that moment, specifically when I hit the seven-point-five-month mark and our rickety window air unit quit working in what was probably the hottest July in the history of the world (just give me this one, okay? Thanks). Now, though, NOW, it really occurred to me that I had walked into the hospital with my child safely inside of me, but I would be leaving with him in a decidedly less safe position. Well, PROBABLY less safe. I had made some really poor dietary choices in the course of the last 9.1 months, so he was probably going to be better off once he was born, but still. It was going to be a whole lot harder to care for him once I could hear him crying and didn't have that handy umbilical cord to provide round-the-clock sustenance.

So, I panicked. I was already in a less-than-stellar mood after my arrival, when the nurses dragged the cattle scale out in the hallway and had me get on it in front of the whole staff like some kind of circus freak. Sure, I knew that the day I delivered wasn't going to be my proudest moment, weight-wise. Sure, I knew I was housing a whole other human when I got on the scale. But it was hard to breathe and my feet were swollen and although I had the best hair thickness of my life, I had a matching body thickness that made it a little hard to count my blessings. Or move. Did I mention I had outgrown my maternity shorts? My MATERNITY shorts.

These were the kinds of thoughts that distracted me throughout my pregnancy. So hearing that I was definitely not leaving without a baby jolted me right back into the end game of this little life journey, in which I would be responsible for a whole other person. Not in the way I was responsible for baby-sitting my younger siblings (hell, Shannon damn near scalped herself under my care when she was three, and they were just going to let me leave the hospital with a new human? Without some kind of psych eval? How can that be legal?!), but in a way that demanded care, like, all of the times.

I couldn't even take care of MYSELF that well.

The next 12 hours kind of drifted by. I remember the contractions were super painful, and I had the nurses readjust the belt on my stomach because there's no way the readings indicating contraction severity were right. These lines barely skimmed the bottom of the page! I had BIG pain. I had off-the-charts pain. I was very passive at 21, but not that day. I bypassed passive, shot right over passive-aggressive, and told the nurses in no uncertain terms that the belt needed adjusted, because I hurt a lot more than that. Bless their hearts for not openly laughing at me. They even humored me by readjusting the belt.

The line stayed at the bottom of the page.

Aside from that embarrassing little moment, I remember sneaking McDonald's fries and Russell Stover chocolates before the epidural. Before the anesthesiologist (the most beautiful person I had ever seen, incidentally) administered it, the nurses wanted to make sure I hadn't eaten anything.

I totally lied. Doesn't matter, had shot.

And then things moved pretty fast. I remember laughing at the lines shooting off the top of the page, because I didn't feel ANYTHING. I remember the doctor sliding in the door (I had interrupted him while he was at the theater) pretty much just in time to catch my son. I remember them saying "It's a BOY!" I remember thinking, "Thank GOD!"

And then they were laying him on top of me without so much as an introduction. He was wrinkly and almost hot pink, with what looked like a full black wig on his head. He was pissed. He was screaming.

He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

It's weird how crystal-clear some memories are. The first thing I thought when I met my son was "So...it was you."

It was you who made me so sick for four months.

It was you who used to amuse me during the first game we ever played together, the one where I would set items on my stomach and you would kick them off.

It was you who let me know what heartburn was.

It was you.

From that point, my purpose in life snapped into place with a clarity I had never before known.

I was supposed to be your mom.

For the first three months, I wasn't sure this was the job for me. It was like the best job I could ever get, but then I show up for my first day and realize I'm SO under-qualified. You didn't sleep. Like, you just didn't. I used to record every time you woke up in a notebook, sure that later I wouldn't believe it.

You woke up EVERY HOUR. Around the clock. For real, you did not sleep more than an hour at a time for THREE MONTHS.

We got an invitation in the mail to be a Nielson family. I was amazing at it, because I watched a lot of TV while you weren't sleeping. A LOT. I got a QVC card, or, as the insiders called it, a Q-Card. I ordered QVC. A lot of QVC.

It's sad what you'll do when you don't sleep.

But the other thing I did during all of that non-sleep was completely fall for you. Don't get me wrong, you had me from the second I saw you. But this, this feeling, was indescribable. And, oh Lord, a Christmas miracle!, you slept for six straight hours once in late December.

You didn't need me much, overall. You were walking at nine months.

The month before you turned two, you decided you'd potty-train yourself and refused to wear diapers anymore.

You didn't have one accident. Ever. Not even one.

When you were three, you banned me from the bathroom and took over your own personal hygiene.

You began to teach yourself to read at four because you wanted to be able to read your video-game subtitles.

At six, your kindergarten teacher told me at parent-teacher conferences that she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that you had mastered the art of sarcasm so well. "I want to laugh, but I really can't," she confided. I have Ryan and Shannon to thank for that one, really. You never had a shot, kid.

Your teachers all loved you. I heard over and over, at conference after conference, that you were a dream. And you were. People would try to credit your dad and me for the way you behaved, and I would tell them the truth, that we just happened to be there. You were just that perfect. It was so damn weird.

And awesome. Don't get me wrong. It was more awesome than weird. I just kept thinking, when will it happen? When will he show that he, too, can have a bad day?

Don't get cocky. It's not like you were THAT perfect. Sunday nights during the school year were pure hell. Remember the lavender ritual? Remember Benadryl? Remember the stress of not being able to fall asleep because you couldn't stop remembering that it was Sunday night and a new school week started the next day?

But aside from that? Yeah, you were a dream.

At seven, you saw a show about a guy who donated his hair to Locks of Love, and decided you wanted to help someone in the same way. You spent almost two years growing your hair, in spite of the name-calling and endless rude questions, and sent your donation off midway through your third grade year. I was so proud of you.


At nine, you blew away Truman's talent show by playing "Iron Man" on your electric guitar. The same year, you discovered YouTube and taught yourself to play the piano. You were playing more beautifully after two weeks than I had played after almost ten years of lessons.

You also used YouTube to start your first channel, HunTerAndTriStan. Here's one of those early gems now.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GHKIKWtFEyw

Gold. Pure gold. Sorry, I couldn't resist that one. Or this one.

And then something terrible happened that rocked your world.

When you were 12, your dad and I got divorced.

I never wanted to be the reason you discovered how unfair life was.

I uprooted you. You wanted things to be as fair as possible, to keep your dad and me from being too sad. All of a sudden, for the first time in your life, you and I weren't spending almost every spare minute together. I only got to be with you fifty percent of the time. You had to move. You had to split houses, and belongings.

You handled it like a champion. You never cried. Never got mad. Never made a big deal about it or questioned why. You maintained straight A's. You kept hanging out with your friends. You defied the odds.

You played the drums in band, and won award after award. You hit your first home run in rec league baseball. You accepted my boyfriend and made friends with his kids. You segued into sharing a room for the first time and didn't complain. You played the piano at my wedding. You danced with me afterward.

Three months later, I was facing a new cancer diagnosis and multiple surgeries. You wanted to do something to support me. You used your own little money, and had bracelets made. They went fast, but it started something. Team Mom-Tard was born, and the waves of support carried me through a dark time.

It wasn't until you were sixteen that you allowed visible cracks in the facade. Two weeks after getting your license, you hit the neighbor's mailbox, then came home. The police showed up not long after and threatened you with jail time, to my rage.

You didn't go to jail. So that was cool.

So, sure you've finally shown that you're human the last two years, but that made me love you even more. Even though your face looks like this sometimes.

The truth is, I will never feel about anyone the way I feel about you. I'm your parent, but you're the one who has taught me so much.

Now, on this, the last Wednesday of your technical childhood, I think of how blessed I have been to have shared your first 18 years with you.

Even though you sleep in a hammock, and are a big stupid nerd.

I love you, son. More than much.