cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Growing up, our family of four did life with many other families of four. Each relationship held unique traits, and yet a few core identifiers overlapped. There was a dad, a mom, a daughter, and a son. One family in particular stood outside of the predictable family dynamic: they had a son with a genetic…
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He swiftly exited from the building and his eyes darted around until he locked in on mine. Quickly turning, he ran to his teacher and pointed to me. She smiled and waved and released him into my care.
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One year has passed since the day we walked out of the neuropsychologist’s office with another diagnosis for our son.
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On any given weekday, after work, I get into my car, turn off the radio, then text my husband to let him know I am on my way home. The drive takes fifteen minutes and silence is welcome after the noise of the day.
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I have been invited to join a secret society.
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My life is scheduled and ordered.
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My dear son, Your dad began whispering through the phone and I began to feel frustrated.
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“We’re a mess.” Those three words spilled out of my mouth just as I had rehearsed them in my head for the previous few days.
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