Category Archives: My Life

Running Back to the Saddle

In the crisp autumn air of Indianapolis, with leaves crunching underfoot and the promise of adventure hanging thick as morning fog, I found myself standing at the starting line of the Indianapolis Half Marathon. It was October 2023, and I was about to embark on a 13.1-mile journey through the heart of the Hoosier capital, a feat that seemed as improbable as finding a cowboy riding a horse down Broadway in New York City.

You see, dear reader, this wasn’t just any race for me. Oh no, this was my first major foray into the world of competitive shuffling since a rather inconvenient stroke had decided to pop by for an extended stay in my brain. Here I was, a former college athlete who once squatted small cars for breakfast, now questioning whether I could manage a brisk walk to the corner store without keeling over.

But let me tell you about the ingenious decision I made, one that would make even the most seasoned race veteran nod in approval. I splurged on the opportunity to start my day in the hallowed halls of the Indiana State House. Picture it: while other poor souls were huddled outside like penguins in a snowstorm, I was stretching my questionable limbs in the warm embrace of democracy, munching on a breakfast that didn’t come wrapped in tinfoil. It was a stroke of brilliance if you’ll pardon the pun.

As I waddled to the starting line, a mere stone’s throw from my cozy State House sanctuary, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of panic. Had I trained enough? Was I still the same person who had once pushed out babies with the ease of a vending machine dispensing snacks? The identity crisis loomed larger than the giant timing clock ticking away mercilessly above our heads.

The race began, and to my utter astonishment, I found myself running. Not the graceful gazelle-like strides of my youth, mind you, but a determined shuffle that would make any powerwalker proud. For five glorious miles, I was unstoppable. That is until my right shoe decided it had had enough of this foolishness and came untied.

Now, dear reader, picture if you will, a somewhat disheveled woman bent over a curb, fingers swollen to the size of small sausages, attempting to tie a shoelace. It was a sight so pitiful that a kind stranger took pity and performed the task for me. I briefly considered asking them to carry me the rest of the way, but my pride (what was left of it) wouldn’t allow it.

The next few miles were a blur of monotony, broken only by the occasional cheer from a spectator who had clearly mistaken me for someone else. But as we approached mile 10, something magical happened. We found ourselves running alongside the race’s overachievers – those annoyingly fit individuals who were already finishing. It was both inspiring and mildly infuriating.

As I crossed the finish line, my boys waiting with expressions that were equal parts pride and “can we go home now?”, I wanted to shout from the rooftops about my triumph over adversity. But instead, I settled for an internal victory dance, and the knowledge that I had, indeed, proven something to myself.

In the end, as I hobbled what felt like another half marathon to reach our parked car, I realized that toughness comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s squatting small buildings, and sometimes it’s putting one foot in front of the other when your brain has other ideas. And since that realization has landed me in therapy, well, at least I have plenty to talk about.

Running from my Birthday

Ah, birthdays. Those peculiar annual rituals where we’re expected to celebrate the inexorable march towards our own mortality with cake and forced merriment. For most, it’s a day of joyous reflection and an excuse to indulge in socially acceptable gluttony. For me, it’s become a rather more complicated affair, thanks to a mischievous little cerebrovascular event that decided to gatecrash my party just as I was about to hit the big 3-9.

Picture, if you will, a scene of impending festivity. Balloons at the ready, candles poised for their fiery demise, and a cake so laden with sugar it could send a hummingbird into diabetic shock. But instead of blowing out candles, I found myself blowing bubbles in a hospital bed, my brain having decided to take an impromptu vacation without so much as a postcard.

The next few days passed in a haze of confusion and medical jargon, as if I’d suddenly been dropped into an episode of ER, but with significantly less George Clooney and a lot more bewildered mumbling. By the time I resurfaced, I felt compelled to inform my long-suffering husband that “something was definitely wrong.” I imagine his response was along the lines of, “You don’t say, dear. I thought lying comatose in a hospital was your new hobby.”

Now, birthdays and I have a relationship that’s about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus in a snowstorm. The stroke merely added an extra layer of complexity to our already strained association. It’s as if my birthday has become a sort of morbid anniversary, a day when I’m supposed to simultaneously celebrate my continued existence and mourn the person I used to be. It’s like trying to have a party in a funhouse mirror maze – disorienting, slightly nauseating, and with an unsettling sense that you’re not quite who you thought you were.

I’m well aware that my attitude towards this annual milestone is about as cheerful as a wet weekend in Miami. But when you’ve spent over a year cataloging your deficits like some sort of neurological accountant, it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for party hats and noisemakers.

And let’s not forget the baby – my third little bundle of joy, who had the misfortune of being born just 6 weeks before his mother decided to audition for a medical drama. I missed out on all those precious newborn moments – the sleepless nights, the endless diaper changes, the spit-up on every clean shirt. It’s enough to make a person weep, or at least wish for a time machine and a neurologist on speed dial.

So here I am, forever 39, stuck in a perpetual loop of birthday ambivalence. It’s a day that serves as a stark reminder of what was lost, what was gained, and the peculiar journey of rediscovering oneself post-stroke. But who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll embrace the occasion with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. Until then, I’ll be here, blowing out candles and silently thanking my stubborn brain for sticking around for another year of this bizarre adventure we call life.

Running from my Superpowers

In the curious realm of parental entertainment, my 6-year-old has developed a penchant for a game called “This or That,” a sort of pint-sized Sophie’s Choice, if you will. The rules are simple: choose between two options, each more absurd than the last. Would you rather consume earthworms for superhuman abilities or possess ocular laser beams? The latter, naturally, unless one harbors a particular fondness for soil-dwelling invertebrates.

During a recent expedition to the Ohio State Fair – a veritable cornucopia of deep-fried delights and livestock beauty pageants – we found ourselves embroiled in this peculiar pastime for what felt like several geological epochs. As we navigated the labyrinth of exhibits, dodging the occasional overzealous turkey leg enthusiast, the topic of superpowers inevitably arose. Flight versus strength, the age-old conundrum that has puzzled philosophers and comic book aficionados alike.

By some cosmic coincidence, we soon stumbled upon a children’s exhibit where young visitors could declare their superpower of choice. My offspring, clearly well-versed in the art of snap decisions, were ready to stake their claims in the pantheon of imaginary abilities.

Oz, ever the speed demon, declared himself the Usain Bolt of the prepubescent set. Wynn, apparently fancying himself a pint-sized Hercules, opted for strength. But it was Cub, our resident boy wonder, who threw us a curveball worthy of a major league pitcher. With the solemnity of a Supreme Court Justice, he proclaimed his superpower to be “brains.”

Now, Cub’s intellectual prowess is no secret. The lad’s cranium practically hums with cognitive activity. But in the cruel world of childhood social dynamics, being the smartest kid in the room is about as popular as a ferret in a sack race. It’s a predicament I know all too well, having spent my formative years as the class brainiac, a role that’s about as comfortable as a corset made of cacti.

Since my unfortunate tango with a stroke, my own cerebral circuitry has been performing a rather unorthodox cha-cha. The thoughts in my head and the words from my mouth seem to be engaged in an endless game of telephone, with predictably garbled results. However, this neurological rewiring has bestowed upon me an unexpected gift: a finely-tuned hogwash detector that would make even the most seasoned carnival barker quake in his boots.

It’s taken some time to adjust to this new superpower, but I must say, it’s far more useful than any gadget you might find in the pages of a Sharper Image catalog. Though I do sometimes miss the days when I could string together a sentence without feeling like I was solving a particularly vexing crossword puzzle, there’s something to be said for being able to spot nonsense at fifty paces. In the grand game of “This or That,” I’ll take my newfound bullshit radar over laser eyes any day of the week.

As I pondered the peculiar phenomenon of superpowers, it occurred to me that we’re all walking around with our own unique brand of extraordinary ability, like a vast collection of human Swiss Army knives, each with a different set of improbable gadgets. The real trick, of course, is figuring out what your particular superpower might be. Is it the ability to fall asleep instantly on long-haul flights? Perhaps you’re blessed with the uncanny knack of always choosing the fastest-moving queue at the supermarket. Or maybe you possess the otherworldly talent of being able to predict rain by the throbbing of your left knee.

Whatever it may be, there’s something truly magical about witnessing someone else’s superpower in action. It’s like stumbling upon a secret garden or finding a trap door in your living room that leads to Narnia. These hidden talents are rarely on display for the general public, tucked away like family heirlooms or embarrassing childhood photographs. But when you do get a glimpse, it’s as though you’ve been granted access to a sliver of that person’s very essence, a fleeting peek behind the curtain of their soul. These moments of witnessing raw talent in action are to be cherished, like finding a four-leaf clover or spotting a double rainbow.

As for my own brood of pint-sized superheroes, I count myself fortunate that they’ve already identified their unique talents at such a tender age. While I’m still grappling with the intricacies of my newfound bullshit detector, they’re out there embracing their powers with the enthusiasm of a labrador at a tennis ball factory. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most extraordinary abilities are found in the most ordinary of places – even in a household where the primary superpower seems to be the ability to generate laundry at an alarming rate.

In the end, perhaps the real superpower is recognizing and appreciating the extraordinary in others. And if that’s the case, well, I might just be ready to don a cape and tights myself. Though on second thought, perhaps I’ll stick to admiring from afar. Lycra, after all, is not particularly forgiving on a middle-aged frame.

Running from Myself

So, it’s been a while.

A lot has happened since October, 2020. To say the world has fallen apart is an understatement. Since the last time i’ve posted, the world has gone to shit, i’ve gotten a new job, twice, i’ve had a baby, and most importantly, I had a stroke. Yes, I said that right. I had a stroke.

It’s hard to explain what has happened, and not just because my short-term memory is virtually non-existent. I’m gonna try to go through the timeline, if for no one else but myself.

May 2021

I started a new position at my workplace, Labette Community College, as a Workforce Coordinator. I immediately knew that it was a stepping stone. I was just nothing that I was interested in, but I was good at it, because I am organized, meticulous, and trust-worthy.

June 2021

I started the month by finding out that I was pregnant, so surprise, with my 3rd boy.

July 2021

I was asked by my husband’s boss to apply for a position within his school district. The position was for a Marketing and Communications Coordinator, and it was everything I dreamed of. The position was the first of its kind in the school district, so you were basically creating your own position. I had free reign, and a solid marketing base. It was a dream to be asked to apply, and even more exciting when they called with an offer.

October 2021

At 22 weeks pregnant, I started having concerning contraction. We went in for the first time on October 22, and the contraction didn’t stop until February 9, 2022. I started working half days then, as it was almost too much to sit at my desk for 8 hours a day.

February 2022

My baby boy is born. It was a tumulus delivery, and there was no doctor present. I was induced, but even with warning that the baby would come fast, I delivered at 8 cm. I never made it all the way to 10.

March 2022

On March 22, I had my 6 week follow up appointment with my doctor. My exam went fine, the baby was great, and we went on about our business.

March 24th was like any other day. I was attending a conference in Pittsburg, about 30 mins away. I got home that evening, went to the grocery for a pick up, took hot chocolate to the tennis coach at the court across the street from our house and fed the baby like normal. I was still breastfeeding, and sat on the couch while my husband is at wrestling practice and my mom was in the kitchen with my 4 year old. Once he was done, I went to get up and felt like my eye was on fire! My left eye was watering so bad, I went to the kitchen to tell my mom, when all the sudden I got so dizzy I couldn’t hold the baby anymore. The rest is just faint memories until the next afternoon, my 39th birthday, and my mom Facetimed my dad. He said, “Go to the hospital.”

They sent me home…

But are you bleeding?

Let’s be honest: how many times have you shouted up the stairs, “Are you bleeding?”

If your answer was “daily,” then we have already established the foundation of a meaningful friendship.

At my house, the response is “YES!” roughly 40 percent of the time, which sounds alarming until you realize that my children are 5 and 2 and are not, as a rule, in possession of a great deal of blood. What they do possess is an instinctive understanding that the word bleeding has a certain urgency to it. It causes a parent to put down whatever they are doing and travel upstairs at once, usually to discover that someone has bumped an elbow, dropped a Lego, or experienced a disappointment of such magnitude that only an adult witness can make sense of it.

After yelling this question approximately one million times during the long, strange months of quarantine—and considering my boys are still only 5 and 2, with decades of household emergencies ahead of us—I began to think about it differently.

I am an overthinker. I can take one small concern and, with enough quiet time and internet access, turn it into a full-scale disaster scenario involving emergency food supplies, school closures, government notifications, and the gradual collapse of civilization. I worry about things that might happen, could happen, or might possibly occur under a very unusual set of circumstances involving poor timing and someone sneezing near a shopping cart.

It is exhausting work.

So recently, I decided to use one simple question to sort through my worries:

But are you bleeding?

It is not a perfect system, of course, but it is surprisingly effective. It helps distinguish between a real emergency and the sort of problem that merely arrives wearing a dramatic hat.

For example, yesterday my husband—who is now an elementary physical education teacher, a development I am saving for another day because it deserves its own chapter—texted me to say that my son’s teacher was quarantining because her husband had tested positive for COVID-19.

My first thought was entirely calm and reasonable.

Then came the questions.

How much time had my son spent with her since she had been exposed?

Her son is in my son’s class, so how much time had the boys spent together?

My son sits next to him. What had they both touched? Pencils? Desks? Glue sticks? The shared classroom air?

Had my younger son been around either of them?

What if we had to quarantine?

Did I have enough food to feed two small boys for two weeks?

And, perhaps most importantly: would quarantine mean that I could sleep in?

The questions kept arriving, one after another, like relatives who have heard there is cake in the kitchen. Before long, I could feel myself slipping into the familiar whirlpool of worry, where every possibility expands until it needs its own zip code.

And that is when I asked myself: But are we bleeding?

In this particular case, there were certainly legitimate concerns. COVID is not something to shrug off. But no one in our home had symptoms. None of us has a pre-existing condition that required immediate panic. Everyone had been wearing masks. We had not been contacted by the health department to quarantine.

So, no. We were not bleeding.

At most, perhaps there was a tiny trickle.

And even a trickle has practical solutions. I could order groceries online and pick them up at Walmart. My mother-in-law could leave supplies on the porch. We could pay attention, act responsibly, watch for symptoms, and take the next right step if something changed.

That is what “stopping the bleeding” looks like: not pretending a concern does not exist, but refusing to turn every concern into a catastrophe before it has earned the right.

Everyone felt fine. No symptoms. No quarantine order. No emergency grocery bunker required.

Winning.

Of course, if we had needed to quarantine, there was still the possibility of sleeping in. That would have been a significant victory, though perhaps not significant enough to justify the rest of the situation. Since we did not have to quarantine, however, I suppose that means I lost that particular round.

So that is how you stop the bleeding in approximately 27 mental steps.

Any questions?

Wait. What was I saying?

Is confusion a symptom of COVID?

And just like that, we are back at the beginning.

Still, no one died. Everyone is okay. And that is worth celebrating.

But Lord, am I tired.

Life position reclassification

I’ve decided that I am redefining my position in life as of yesterday. To be honest, I listened to a podcast that gave me sort of a brilliant thought. How the fuck am I supposed to know how to do, well, anything?

Sure we have role models and specialties in our fields of study, but am I truly supposed to know what it takes to be the perfect wife to my husband, or the perfect mom to my kids? No two marriages or births/babies are alike. So how can anyone in their right mind do it right?

Reclassifying things in my brain helps me think about them in a less overwhelming fashion, and the thought that I “shouldn’t” automatically know how to do everything has lead me to reclassify my position in the world. I am now officially an undergrad student in LIFE. Once my kids graduate from high school, I will move onto the Master’s degree in Life, to be completed when I kick the bucket.

Maybe it’s good to die young. Maybe people like Kobe Bryant have completely mastered what they needed to and that’s why they leave us so suddenly and at such a young age.

We all know those people that live forever too, made of grit and grizzle. Often times they have the worst habits, drinking, smoking, and maybe living as long as they do is the universe telling them that they didn’t learn quickly enough, so just stay there till you do.

Of course this is not a suggestion to go find a way to die. This is just a thought on the fact that if we are not students for life, we will never continue to grow. Our experiences will change our knowledge, but maybe that isn’t enough. Maybe we should all be more conscious about trying to be life’s students. Maybe that would make this world a better place, and potentially keep people from posting so many stupid videos on TikTok… probably not, but it would be worth a try.

The Story of Two Wolves

Funny, this is my first post in over a year. Funnier still, I started this post about 3 weeks ago, and am just now finishing it off. But I think that tells you a lot about my life right now: NEVER “stable”, “safe” or “predictable”.

I have been dealing with depression over the past few months, some of it created from reasons I am not going to get into here, and some of it from past trauma that I am still trying to overcome. I am not a naturally depressed person. My normal state is happy and interested, but this time I have really been hit hard with overwhelming feelings of being caught in a whirlpool with no entrance and no exit. Thinking I just needed some rest, I have spent the last month really trying hard to organize my life. I know I feel better when I feel like I have control, so that is what I have been trying to regain.

The good news is that I think its working. By making sure that every bobby pin I own is attached to the magnetic strip in my bathroom drawer, I have actually started to feel better. Well, I don’t know that that did it, but by controlling what I can and accepting what I can’t control, I feel like I have REGAINED control… Wow, that’s a weird sentence. But it’s true.

In general, I think its really dumb to say you have control of toddlers. The truth is that they have control of you. You are on their schedule, cleaning up after their spills, making sure they are fed and clean. This is not something you think about or envision when you think about the joy of parenthood, but none-the-less it becomes the reality.

Marriage is the same thing, sort of. At least for me it is. His emotions, his schedule, all that controls my schedule because of the piece of paper that was signed by the Hamilton County clerk and our minister.

I am not going to lie to you and tell you that my life is perfect or that I love every minute of it. The last 2 months have proven to me just the opposite. I can feel like I have everything a person would want, but yet I can feel empty, alone and like I want to escape it all.

Whether or not this is my new year’s challenge post is up for debate. I think one of my main challenges for myself this year is to try to find happy again. I am working on it. But knowing that the end to finding happy is your eventual death makes it an exhausting task, because it will be a constant cycle of finding a new happy as you move through the stages of life. I am still trying to find it right now, but I think I am on my way.

Give me a break

How come night after night your kids can be perfect angels, but the one night you have to be up at 5am, they are up forty times making your life completely miserable? Just my kids? Well, crap.

We had so much trouble getting them to sleep last night. I had to drive them around Hays for at least 20 mins to knock Cub out, but Oz was still screaming relentlessly when we returned home. He was up until at least 9:30, when Chas finally put his foot down and just let him cry in his crib for a bit. Fortunately he was pretty worn out by then and fell asleep without too much of a fight.

It didn’t last for long. By 1am Oz was back at it again, not hungry, not even wet. Just awake. We were up until 2:20am when I decided to give the crib another try. He yelled for a little bit, but after about 10 minutes settled down. While I finally went back to bed, not even that lasted long. I looked up to Cub standing next to my bed at 2:37am. I took him to the bathroom, tried to get him back to his bed, but he refused and climbed in with Chas, who hadn’t moved by the way!

The alarm went off at 5:00am, and I was definitely not ready to get up. Lucy was whining wanting more water, and when the snooze went off, I finally got up. I usually go into the shop about 5:40am to get the books done before the boys get up, but while putting in my contacts, Oz started crying again. This time I just yelled at Chas to handle him so that I could go get my work done.

Needless to say the 3 hours I got from 10pm-1am was apparently all I was going to get last night. I wish my kids weren’t so dang cute so that I could be more mad about this! I love them anyway I guess!

The harsh realities of parenthood

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.52.54I think one of my biggest fears in life is being the person that people dread walking in a room. And that’s not to say I want to be liked by everyone. That is impossible. Plus I hate most people, so I don’t expect them all to like me. But in this sense I mean walking into a room with my kid and someone whispering to the person next to them, “Oh no. Not them.”

Now, to clarify, when my boys start wrestling, and they walk into the gym I want everyone and their dog to say, “Oh No. Not the Thompson boys!” I just don’t want people saying that when we walk into pre-school, which happens to be the exact situation I currently find myself in. We are starting week 3 of pre-school with Cub. Let me just throw a few items out there so people know the situation:

  1. Cub turned 3 on June 28th.
  2. We don’t necessarily expect to send him to kindergarten when he is 5. We think 6 is probably going to be better for him maturity wise (and athletically).
  3. He has been potty trained for 4 weeks, but took to it like a champ and has only had 2 accidents in his 8 days. One of those accidents was during nap time, and the other was because the teacher didn’t get his pants off of him quick enough in the bathroom (yes, he still needs some help with the clothing stuff). I am not blaming the teacher…
  4. Last Sunday he had what I would consider a significant head injury. He was ankle tackled by a friend at a birthday party and smacked his head on a chair, I mean HARD, right across the bridge of his nose and left eye.
  5. He had just started talking around the first of May. He is hard to understand, but he is repeating everything you say and has a pretty good vocabulary if you listen to him. His annunciation is not great yet, but the difference from 6 months ago to now is REMARKABLE.
  6. Cub does have tantrums. He likes to get his way, but I in no way think that these are any different from most kids.

The first week of pre-school was challenging for Cub. It was the first time he went anywhere all day, all week. He was still sort of potty training so the whole situation was new for him. I got multiple calls from the teacher, checking in, talking about a tantrum or two he had thrown, but everything was pretty normal from my perspective.

Screenshot 2018-08-26 18.53.00Week two started out terrible. I was having a very rough day at work, went to pick Cub up at 5 and was bombarded with a swift, “We think Cub should go home from 11-2 for lunch and nap. He can be here from 8-11 and 2-5, but let’s have him go home for lunch and nap.” By the end of the week the conversation turned to sending him to a special ed. pre-school from 12-3 everyday. I mean, can someone help me connect the dots? Cub doesn’t nap easily, but he had been in the new environment for just over a week, they have already jumped to the conclusion that they don’t want him in a traditional pre-school classroom. The reports I have gotten have been nothing but good in terms of his cooperation, his involvement in activities, and interacting with his peers. But apparently because he won’t nap and can’t enunciate the same way other kids do he is now special ed.

I mean honestly. How is that fair?!? The kid has barely had a chance in the class. It makes me very upset. If you don’t want my son in your class, if you are the person who in your head is saying, “Oh no. Cub is here,” then just let me know, and I will take my dollars elsewhere.

Just a little rant on a Sunday night, but man am I stressed at the moment. If these people had met Cub in March, they would never believe the amount of progress he has made in 6 months. I tell you, this kid is going to be something. He is a special kid. He is smart, physically gifted, and doesn’t miss a beat. Someday these teachers are going to say, “Hey! That’s the kid that I kicked out of my pre-school class.” I can’t wait for that day.

Running from the Beach

Well, here I am, on day eight of a ten-day travel odyssey, and I can scarcely believe I’ve made it this far without collapsing into a heap of exhaustion. Since last Wednesday, life has been a whirlwind of suitcases, sunscreen, and sporadic Wi-Fi. From Florida’s sandy shores to California’s bustling streets, I’ve covered more ground in the past week than I usually do in a month. It’s been two weeks that feel like two years.

The first leg of this adventure was spent in Florida with Chas and the boys. Daytona Beach and Disney World were the highlights, and let me tell you, we packed more “magic” into those days than a Harry Potter marathon. Chas’ conference went swimmingly (pun intended), and the boys had the time of their lives. Now, I’m in California wrapping up work for Prep2Prep, but honestly, my brain is still somewhere between Cinderella’s Castle and the Pacific Ocean.

Let’s pause for a moment to talk about the Hilton Daytona Beach. If you’re ever in need of a place to stay there—and frankly, why wouldn’t you be?—I can’t recommend it highly enough. The location is perfection itself: smack dab in the middle of the boardwalk area, with nine restaurants (yes, nine!), a lovely pool area, and views of the Atlantic so stunning they could make a poet weep. Our room overlooked the ocean, which made mornings feel like something out of a travel brochure. Sure, we had a couple of minor hiccups—the TV decided to stage a rebellion, and we needed a fridge for the baby’s milk—but the staff swooped in like superheroes to save the day. Honestly, you could spend your entire trip within the resort’s confines and leave feeling utterly content. A heartfelt THANK YOU to the Hilton Daytona Beach for making our stay unforgettable!

Now let’s talk about Cub—our resident Aqua Lad. This child was in his element at the beach. I wasted precious packing space on sand toys only to discover he had no interest in them whatsoever. His sole focus? The water. Waves crashing? No problem. Surf pounding? Bring it on. He ran back and forth through the surf like he was auditioning for Baywatch: Toddler Edition. And when he wasn’t frolicking in the ocean, he was in the pool—so much so that his eyes turned red from all the chlorine. Did that stop him? Of course not. Cub has mastered holding his breath underwater to such an alarming degree that strangers started looking concerned.

Then there’s Oz, our little trooper-in-training. He’s teetering on the brink of major mobility—Labor Day will likely mark the start of our new life as full-time wranglers of two mobile children. On this trip, though, he was content to nap on the beach while I dug him a little shady spot in the sand like some sort of makeshift crib architect. He enjoys water too but prefers splashing over swimming—a distinction that makes him slightly less nerve-wracking than his older brother (for now). Flying with him wasn’t terrible this time around, but once he starts moving? Game over.

As this marathon of travel winds down, I find myself staring down the imminent arrival of school season with mixed emotions. On one hand, I know these moments with my young family are fleeting—Cub will be off to school before I know it, and then it’s all downhill from there (kidding… mostly). On the other hand, there’s something comforting about returning to normalcy after two years of pregnancies and ear infections throwing us off course. This year feels promising—straightforward even—and I’m optimistic it’ll be our best one yet.

But for now? Two more days on the road before I can collapse into my own bed and declare this epic journey complete!