Bandaids

Parenting is hard. Like really hard. I remember a particular night when Blythe’s Glycogen Storage Disease diagnosis was still somewhat new, and I was still crunching numbers, deep in online forums, and digesting any GSD related information I could get my hands on, and a sad Crosley walks up to me and tells me that everything we do is about Blythe.

I was dealing with my own overwhelming stress and constantly feeling like I was doing everything wrong because there was just so much to learn in a short time. I felt offended that Crosley only saw herself in this difficult time. But how ridiculous is that? She was a little girl. An honest, forthcoming, unfiltered little girl. And she felt ignored.

My heart ached. I’d failed her.

So we held each other and cried.

And now Crosley is almost ten years old. And she’s starting to go into herself. She doesn’t always tell me what she’s thinking anymore. And I can tell that some days she’s got an empty tank of confidence. We’ve been trying so hard to fill it up. And there’s softball most of the week. And school projects, and we’re working on hygiene, and then there’s all that curly hair to tame.

But then Blythe comes home from school today and completely unravels. “MY life is so hard on this diet! No one understands. It's just so hard.” She’s crying deep hard tears and I can’t help but think about my own laziness as I’ve made her the same breakfast and snacks four times this week. And I didn’t add cucumbers to her sandwich because it’s a minute faster when I leave them out.

And my heart ached. I’d failed her.

So we held each other and cried.

I don’t know. I guess this post won't end on a happy note. We’re in the thick of it. We went to Menchie’s frozen yogurt and had pizza for dinner.  But those treats just felt like a bandaid.

Maybe sometimes there’s not a quick fix. Just bandaids to hold you. While you cry. Together.

Meanwhile Brox is hiding in a bathroom putting a bandaid on a nonexistent owie because “maybe I might be blooding.”

Oh God, help us. Amen.