I Love You Too, Mom

I'm sure you've seen the poem that goes around every so often, something like "I love you comes in many different forms: Wear your seatbelt, did you eat, how are you sleeping?" 

We all have our own love languages, and we use them in so many different measures and words. Sometimes love is said out loud. Sometimes our language is a whisper. Sometimes it's just a quiet action.

One of my languages is making sure my kids have a different mom than I had. It's making sure they each have the specific mom they need in each moment, which can, and often does, change from one instant to the next. None of my boys have the same mom. They each require a different approach, a distinct touch, a separate expression. There's no cookie-cutter motherhood here. Part of my language is making sure I apologize and acknowledge when I've done wrong, then doing my very best to make sure it doesn't happen again. Another part of my language is making sure they not only hear "I love you," but they feel it somehow every day, several times a day. I want to ensure my kids know they are safe, no matter what. 

It sounds simple enough, but for someone who grew up with my own mother, it really isn't. 

Love doesn't need to be extravagant. That's one thing I've learned from my kids. I just want to throw my arms around them to let them feel my love. I want to feed them and water them (yes, I know you're supposed to feed them and water them--proverbially so, possibly--but let's just say it's a good thing they aren't plants...), I want them to know I'm here anytime they want to talk, I want to grow them and marvel at them. Most of all, I just want them to know how so very loved they are, and how incredibly grateful I am for them. I need them to know these things. 

I made you! I love you! Now, get over here and let me obnoxiously show you just how much!!!!

This morning, I saw a post on social media that read: "I've apologized for who I am more times than I've been hugged for it" (@unburied_eulogies, Instagram).

Oh BOY, did that hit HARD. Damn. 

After reading this, I had a chance for conversation with one of my kiddos; I read it to him, and said I hope I've hugged and loved him more than I've made him feel the need to apologize for himself. I told him I hope I praise him more, and love him more for he who he is, than I criticize him. 

I know I'm not a perfect mom (name one, I dare you). I know I've criticized when I should have praised,  I've punished when I should have given grace, I've yelled when I should have hugged. My maternal sins are plenty. I'm the engine of The Hot Mess Express--choo choo, y'all!

But this kid's response?

"I love you too, Mom."

This kid...

Oh my gosh--I mean, the tears flowed, the gratitude exploded, and the love just, well, that exploded too. My bursting heart was left in a heap on the floor. 

He sees me. He HEARS me. He gets it. He knows I'm human.

How did I get to have such wise, incredible, amazing kids? How did I get so lucky? 

This isn't the first time he's done this. 

I've read passages and posts, given lectures (both kind and harsh, both necessary), cried, laughed, listened, spoken from my heart, and asked questions.

Each time: "I love you too, Mom."

The Baby We Didn't Know We Needed

Shawn and I have been finished with babies for a bit--almost eleven years, in fact. We know, barring any unforeseen circumstances, we are far over the baby stage. We are headed into the preteen, late teen, and--God help me--mid-to-late 20's stages. No more babies here. I'm so grateful for our babies, but at 49--I'm done. 

We've had chicken babies and duck babies, two little kitty babies and a preteen kitty. They help me. I kind of suck at taking care of plants, but I really need someone to grow, someone to have and to hold, someone to nurture. But plants die in the store just seeing me coming, so pets it is. 

But, like I said, we thought we were past the baby stage. 

That is--until last spring--a year, now--we were alerted to an eight month old baby girl in need of emergency foster care. If we didn't take her, she'd have to go back to the shelter because her current foster mom wasn't in a position to keep her any longer.

We saw her photo and we were done. We were in love. The sweetest face, and the most beautiful big blue eyes we've ever seen, even Shawn's side of the Furr family. She has this little smudge on her bottom lip that makes it look like she's smiling or smirking, depending on what she's up to. She's also partially paralyzed and needs a family with stay-home, stay-close-to-home, or take-kitty-with-us abilities. Needless to say, we moved her in as quickly as we possibly could. 

Okay yes, you got me--our baby girl is a cat. Yeaahhhhh. Let's be honest, you should've known.

It seemed like a fairly easy no-brainer. Her mom just needed a break, and we'd been contemplating fostering for a while. This would be such a great test run for us! We told ourselves this to the sounds of snickering and outright laughter, and the finger pointing of our friends. Apparently, many of them even took bets on how long before we announced she was a foster fail.

It didn't take long. It obviously wasn't a shock. I'm still not sure who won the bet. Probably everyone.

Tofu entered our lives and turned them on their sides and upside down--delightfully, joyfully, lovingly so. My kids are 25, 17 and 11, but I'm certain have more photos of her, now Felicity Jane, than I do of my children combined. At least 10,000 times a day, she gives us reasons to pause, reflect, talk about how amazing she is, and marvel at how much she's done for us--for me. We stop to smile and watch her sleep or play, she makes us laugh, and she keeps me going. She's our version of stopping to smell the roses. Her little personality is a three million watt sun. 

Faced with adopting Felicity out or keeping her, I know the decision was easier than we made it. It just made sense to keep her, but we did put up a good front, attempting to adopt her out. For about a week? We already had five cats, did we really need a sixth? We knew that keeping her would end our very short, yet illustrious fostering career. The summer before we'd adopted three little boys, bringing our cat count up to five, including our first kitty with special needs (who gave us the courage and connections to bring Felicity home). We already had five cats, what difference would a sixth make? As foster parents, we dutifully posted her photo at the local pet boutique, and regularly to social media. We made lists of her favorite things--snacks, foods, toys, snuggles, how she likes to be petted and brushed--and her least favorite things--bath time and potty time, specifically. I listed the songs we sing for bath time, and the songs we sing for potty time. Potty time is girl time. You're in the bathroom at the clerb, you have to compliment each other's outfits and eyeliner ("girl, it is fiiiiiirrre!"), talk about the boys, then head back out to the insanity. I listed her lullabies and how to wrap her properly after bath time. She loves to be wrapped in a blankie and held like a baby, not just after bath time, but anytime. When she's cold, she curls up in her bed, gives us The Look, and waits for us to wrap her in her blankie. Shawn even turns the fireplace on for her when the windows are open. She loves having her nose rubbed downward, and her forehead rubbed back. Sometimes you have to burp her because she gets the hiccups. Yes, like a baby. She's not big on purring, but when she does, it's a pretty big deal. Because of her paralysis, she sits like a little human, with her back legs straight out in front, and I can guarantee it's the cutest thing you've ever seen.

Most importantly, I needed to make sure anyone interested in adopting her understood that Felicity has special needs. She needs regular, routine care throughout the day, and regular, routine vet care, including speciality care. She's a little high maintenance (no idea where she gets that from...). She has congenital scoliosis, which means, as I mentioned earlier, her hind end is partially paralyzed. Felicity gets around just fine, though. There's absolutely no slowing her down. This doesn't stop play time or most other activities, and she's more obstinate, determined, strong willed, judgmental and opinionated than any other cat I've ever known. I've never had a cat sigh and harrumph at me before the way she does. What it does mean though, is she needs help pottying. We have to help her with it 4-5 times a day; she needs 1-2 baths a week, and laundry 3-4 times a week. She's also happy, silly, playful, fearless and thoroughly spoiled rotten. One of her favorite toys is a battery operated, flopping lobster almost twice her size, and she rides it like a rodeo bull. Felicity has the cutest little twinkle toes and the most expressive face. She reaches her little head up for boops, kisses and pets, and has the sweetest, quietest, tiniest mew (unless she's in the tubby... Kitties do not belong in the tubby, Mommy!). I've read that Siamese cats are very vocal and expressive, but her face is really what's vocal and expressive... Her face says a lot (I'm clueless as to where she gets that from, too...).

Upon showing the list of adoptive parent requirements to a few friends, they all said the same thing, "Amy, you know she's already exactly where she belongs." One friend even said my list was our family to a T. Okay, she wasn't wrong. It did break my heart thinking about giving Felicity up, and if I could give her first mom any kind of peace, then six cats we shall have. It gives me peace. She gives me peace.

Our home once again looks as though we have small children; it's filled with toys, cat beds, steps for our older kitties and disabled kitties, cat towers, toys, fluffy blankies, and landing pads for the baby (Felicity does have a name, but she's usually "Princess," or "the baby," much to the confusion of those who aren't up on the latest with our family; we recently had to explain to a therapist that no, our child's 49 year old parents did not have a secret baby.).

We love this little girl so much. She's been diagnosed with congenital scoliosis and epilepsy (both times I said, "Oh, well that makes sense," to the vet, as though it does in fact, make genetic sense), and she has a fairly serious heart condition. We don't know how long she has (oh, but if God were to give us twenty years with her), but we're determined it's going to be the best possible life. She's been to see Santa and Christmas lights, she has no argument with traveling (which requires as much preparation and gear as does traveling with a human infant) or living in the RV (I've become the old lady with the cat in her lap going down the road; she wears her sunglasses and we wave to truckers and kids), she wears dresses and sunglasses, and has her choice of a gazillion beds in the house. Chewy and Amazon deliver new toys, outfits and blankies every other week. And most importantly, she's the absolute apple of everyone's eyes in this house. She is beloved by her older human brothers (tolerated by one particular feline sibling, not tolerated at all by her older sister, played with well and loved by her others). And me and Shawn? We adore our little girl. We are in absolute love with our princess. 

I have no idea what I'd do without her. I don't know where I'd be without her. She saves my life daily. She lets me hold her close and cry into her fur when I need comfort. She gives me peace, she gives me joy, she gives me unconditional love, she gives me confidence in what lies ahead. I don't know who sent her, but I have a few ideas--I just wish they were here to see her, to meet her, to watch her. My grief is at an all time high, my depression at an all time low. I had no idea how much I needed Felicity until she was here in my arms. I'm usually in tears over her at least once a day, so grateful she's here, so grateful we get to be her family, just--grateful. I know she came to us at a great cost to her first mom, so yes, when I say I'm grateful--I am grateful beyond words. 

Felicity, this beautiful little girl, this amazing little girl with the bravery and courage many humans don't even have--she takes time off my hands, and puts love directly in them. 

Nope, We Don't Celebrate It!

This week is my fourth year since my first tonic-clonic seizure--my Seizureaversary, if you will. I made it! I'm here! 

Knock on wood, I'll be tonic clonic free for four years in July. 

I still have little ones here and there (okay, here, here, here, and there, and here again, lately), but the important fact?

I'M. STILL. HERE. 

Not always upright, lucid or part of the conversation, but I'm still here! 

Here's the thing, though--we don't celebrate any of this. It's one of those things, we kind of just really don't dare. We don't mark anything on the calendar, we just let the dates pass quietly. No streamers, no signs, no cake (I love cake and will use any excuse to have it, so this part is a big deal), no celebratory posts on social media, just a quick, quiet mention.

We don't believe in superstition, but admittedly, Avery and I have never repeated the same routine from the morning of my traffic stopping seizure. I still don't pull out of that stop sign, four years later. I go the long way around to the stop light. I don't sip my Starbucks until we're safely through the light. We don't repeat those four errands from that morning--and if we did, it certainly would not be in the same order. I know that Avery will never forget that day, and I, well, I'll never remember it. 

Sooooo no, we're not big into coincidences or jinxes, hoo doo or bad luck--but we're also not going to tempt fate, you know? 

We all know this epilepsy thing is a time bomb in my brain. 

And I hate it.

It's just there, hanging out, waiting to spring.

SURPRISE!!!

GOTCHA!

I'M BAAAAACCCCKKKK!

It could be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. Next year. Five years from now. If we're lucky--never again.

It's not just the seizures. It's the toll it takes on my brain and body, even when I'm not having seizures. My memory is a joke, I'm constantly tired, my depression and anxiety deepened. There are things I can't do--don't dare do--anymore (I really miss concerts), and independence I'll never regain. There are fears my kids may never grow out of. Whenever my body and brain veer off course, we wonder if it's another form of seizure (the answer is most likely yes). It's terrifying for my family when only half of my body comes back, and slowly. Is this a seizure or something scarier this time?

My brain does not care how many years I have in between seizures, or how well I'm doing on my meds, or how long I've been steady on these meds. 

My brain does not care that rather than being the emergency contact for my family--I am the emergency. As Mom and wife, I'm supposed to be taking care of them, not the other way around. My brain does not care that when Shawn goes out of town, we need several emergency plans in place, depending on how, when and where a seizure happens, how long it lasts, and whether or not it reacts to my rescue meds. We have phone trees in place, Plans A, B, C and well, Z. Because--epilepsy. Because--me. It does not care that, as the adult, I should be the one in charge--not my 16 and 10 year old sons. My brain does not care what epilepsy has robbed our family of (like celebratory cake)--movies, TV, concerts, night-driving, even driving on a beautiful sunny day with the sunlight flashing between trees. "Mom, close your eyes," I hear from the back seat. We've carefully explained to our youngest that I do not have photosensitive epilepsy, but I cannot remove that fear from his own brain. I also cannot promise him I won't eventually develop it, and the only way to know is if I have a reactive seizure. My brain does not care when I can't sleep (because of well, my brain), and we miss out on an activity because, "Mom needs sleep." There are things I want to do, things I want to be able to do with my kids--but I have to watch my energy levels, I have to be careful about driving, I have to make sure of this, and be sure of that. My brain does not care.

We use a lot of dark humor to diffuse our stress, anxiety and trauma:

Put a YooHoo in Mom's hand next time.

Do you think Home Depot would give us a discount if Mom shakes the paint can instead?

Who's the current president? Uhhhh, Obama's vice president. (that answer to EMS is a family favorite)

Do you know what today is? Yes! It's today! (another favorite)

What's Mom's favorite song? Shake, rattle and roll!

That sounds like a lot of whining and complaining, but as a family, we try our best to not live in fear. After all, what kind of living is that?  But I know Avery has buried himself in research. He knows what could happen if a seizure goes past 5 minutes. He knows what could happen if my rescue meds don't work. He knows about SUDEP. He knows all the response steps for seizure first aid, including instructions for bystanders. I carry a laminated card in my purse warning well meaning bystanders off because he knows what he's doing. He's in charge until the seizure is over, or EMS arrives. Ezra knows how to hack my phone, and we quiz him regularly on the various steps and plans. In Avery's absence, my 10 year old would be in charge. This is no life for my children, but my hope is it will make them more compassionate and kind adults. Shawn took a WFH job to be home just in case. That's kind of how we operate: Just in case. Nearly everything I do, especially alone with the kids, I wonder if I should actually be doing it. Is it safe? Am I safe? Are my kids safe with me? We try so hard to not live in fear, but we are human. And this is our reality.

But still...

In the words of one of my best friends, who quoted Elton John at the time: "I'm still standing." 

Yeah, but we still don't celebrate. 

No cake here.

Angels Seen And Aware

 Last week, Avery and I had such a weird day--a glitch in the matrix, an experience that left us questioning reality. 

At my FNP's office that morning, I managed to run into a woman who, a little over a decade previously, had been part of a group who made my life in our old neighborhood a living hell. I knew her loud mouth before I even saw her. I immediately recognized her face, and her insecurity. Without acknowledging each other, I saw in her eyes that she recognized me as well.

Fewer than twenty minutes later, her daughter (who didn't recognize me, and I didn't say anything) was our cashier at a store on our errand route. 

Shaking our heads, Avery and I headed to the grocery store.

Making our way through the aisles, me acting like a fool like I love to do, and Avery pretending to be embarrassed (no, I swear, he only pretends!).

Coming towards us in an aisle as I barked out orders to Avery, was this delightfully cheery little gentleman, shorter than myself. He had a smile from ear to ear, greeted us with a wave, telling us that he hoped we were having a blessed day. 

I'm not usually one to stop and have a conversation with a complete stranger in the middle of the grocery store, but there was just--there was just something about this gentleman. I felt compelled to stop. Talking about it later, Avery described feeling pulled. Avery also said he felt as though this man was on a mission, specifically for us, and only us. Despite there being other folks in the aisle, we were the only two people he saw. 

As we exchanged pleasantries, this gentleman began talking about the past--how it can poison the present and the future, how it should stay exactly where it belongs, in the past. 

Then he turned his attention to Avery. He told Avery that he could tell he's loved very much, and how much I delight in him--he used my exact words, "You mom delights in you, I can see that in her eyes." He said that children are their mother's legacies, their life's work, and to always remember that.

And with that, he folded his hands in front of himself, telling us he'd taken up enough of our day. Avery and I were still too stunned, but managed to stutter something about enjoying talking with him, and we thanked him for his time.

This entire exchange took fewer than five minutes, but it's left such an imprint on both of us, it could have taken over an hour.

And then--folks, I know you'll be skeptical, and I don't blame you, because like I said, Avery and I are still trying to wrap our heads around it--he just disappeared. 

As he walked up the aisle away from us, I realized there was something I'd forgotten a few aisles back. I sent Avery on the wild goose chase for it, not even a minute--thirty seconds--in the same direction our new friend had gone.

When he came back, he said the gentleman had just disappeared. His cart was gone, he was gone. There was no sign of him at all. 

He was just gone.

Not in a *POOF* kind of way. He didn't click his heels or clap his hands and disappear in a puff of smoke. He just walked away.

Not in the way one would walk away from another person and disappear around the corner. Not in the way one walks away and out of sight. 

He was just gone.

So, where did he go? Who was he? Was he even there for groceries--what, who was he there for?

Avery and I have our theory. We have our story, which we've held close and shared with very few until now. It was such an experience though, the day was so weird leading up to it, it's a story worth sharing. I know some won't believe us, and I know others will have their own opinions. And that's okay--that means this isn't for them. 

But, this happened to us. It happened with us. And that day, we entertained an angel. 

Thank You, Kind Stranger

(From June 2025)

 I took the boys for haircuts the other day. Ezra just needed a trim, but Avery wanted his long locks shorn into a high and tight. It was quite a shock. 

As I sent minute-to-minute update photos to my two best friends, I got weepy. Too much inside my head, as I sent the photos, there was a third friend I was deeply missing. She should still be here too, I should still be sending photos to her too. 

The salon was busy, and there were quite a few folks watching Avery's transformation. Several noticed my red eyes and attempted to encourage me, thinking I was tearing up because of Avery's massive makeover. 

I let them believe that. They didn't need a trauma dump, and it was just easier.

As I sat down again after the last photos, the woman next to me started talking to me. Gently, kindly, soothingly. She asked questions about my kids, complimented my parenting (if only she'd seen us earlier that morning), and patted my hand. She told me about her grandson--also autistic, homeschooled and Avery's age. She beamed with pride for him, her son and her DIL. 

She kept me talking, never commenting on Avery's hair, never saying, "Oh, it's just hair, Mom!" She was such a calming presence. I don't know if she sensed something bigger in my emotions, or if maybe she also had something bigger going on in her own head, but I'm so grateful she was there.

Jim's wife, I know we live in a small town, but chances are slim we'll ever see each other again--but I hope you know how much you helped me. I'm still thinking about our interaction five days later. 

Thank you for your kindness, for seeing me, for hearing me. Thank you for being love in action.