Here’s another slice of our week, in pictures!

I have been awake for a few minutes, and I alternate between looking over at her and staring at the ceiling (she hates it when I stare at her).  She looks so soft and peaceful.  Sometimes I sneak down and gently hold her hand, depending on whether or not her position allows me to.

She starts to stir and her eyes open a little bit.  They close briefly, and I know she’s making sure that she’s really done with sleeping for the day, and then half open again.  Then it’s either “morning” or “hi”, in a very soft sweet voice, a voice that has forgotten any woes from the day before and is ready to start taking on a new day.

She asks me how I slept, and then I ask her.  Sometimes we discuss our wacky dreams for a minute.  Then she’ll suggest that it’s time for breakfast.  Before I go make us breakfast in bed, I always lean over and kiss her on her cheek.

I come back with the tray and we eat our breakfast.  I put the tray away, and we usually lay on the bed and snuggle while watching a show for awhile.  She has an indescribable glow to her in the morning and her hair always falls just right.  I tell her how beautiful she is in the morning and she’ll either indicate that I’m lying or crazy (or just wrong).  Sometimes she’ll let out a small, very cute yawn, with an innocence that brings to mind an image of what she probably looked like as a little girl yawning.

She is my morning sunshine, and she is probably going to roll her eyes at me while reading this.

Kid: I tried to make a smoothie, but we don’t have a blender. So, I put it in the microwave. Yeah, it just wasn’t the same. –7 y.o.

Kid: I’m really gonna miss you Jenn. I think actually I miss you so much already I probably need more therapy. So… you should probably just keep working with me. –9 y.o.

I’m a social worker. Crisis and trauma are kind of my bread and butter. When I worked for a homeless shelter, calling 911 was what we did, between intoxication, seizures, tuberculosis,  and a variety of other health concerns.

There’s a difference between calling 911 when you’re at work, and calling 911 because your husband is downstairs, disoriented, after having collapsed while exercising.  Suddenly you cannot remember you own name, your address, or why you are calling.

Every day, I work with young children to become desensitized to reminders in their lives of past trauma. To help them be able to react in a reasonable manner to their every day environment. To help them become less hyper-vigilant, less reactive to loud sounds, and triggers.Triggers which could be anything from the sound of a male voice, to the color of a shirt or nightgown.

There’s a difference between teaching others how to adapt and cope with their environment, and recognizing that you yourself have a physical reaction to the sound of ambulance sirens ever since you heard them turning into your driveway. 

I am not immune. I may have a lot of training and intellectual understanding about trauma, but it doesn’t stop the feelings. It doesn’t stop the reminders. It doesn’t change the fact that over a year later, I still stare at this spot above our toilet because the night my husband went to the emergency room for 7 hours, I left the candle burning in the bathroom and it left this mark on my wall.

It doesn’t stop me from looking at my phone every hour, expecting a text message from Casey letting me know he’s okay (a rule that I put in place when I had to go back to work while he was home recovering from the stroke). It doesn’t stop me from tearing up when I notice that Casey’s speech is slurring, or that he has dropped what he was holding because he can’t control his hand, or that when he runs he favors his right leg.

I am not immune to the reminders. I am not stronger than than what happened to us. And although I don’t think about it all the time, it is always with us. The stinging reminder of mortality, the questions from well meaning friends, the burn on my wall.

Soon it will be wiped away with a fresh coat of paint. I suspect I will continue to stare at that spot on the wall.

A reminder of a night my 32 year old husband had a stroke. The night that changed everything.

He won’t often sit down for heart to heart talks.

But he will make sure that you have safe tires on your car, and he’ll even go have them put on for you so you can avoid the smelly tire place.

He won’t be up for a chick flick marathon with lots of junk food.

But he will fix your computer on a moment’s notice, even when it’s probably your fault that it’s broken.

He won’t always be good with expressing how he feels in words.

But he will hug you hard, he will interrogate your future spouse, he will teach you how to ride a bike (and he will make you get back on when you fall).

He won’t know how to tell you what’s on his mind.

But he will whisper to you in the dark how proud he is of you, when he thinks you are asleep.

There will be rocky times – between Dads and daughters – there will be times of exasperated sighs, eye rolls, and dramatic exits. There will be times when neither one knows how to get through to the other.

But then, you will dance together on your wedding day, he will hold you when your heart is hurting, and you will watch him take care of your  mother with such tenderness that you feel as though your heart is on the outside and you will know you were born of love.

And then one day, you will call him in tears. Because you’ve had an eyelash stuck on your eye for 6 hours, your eye is swelling and you don’t know what to do.

And he will tell you to pop your eye ball out of your head and remove the eye lash.

And then you’ll ask him to have your Mom call you back when she gets home.  

<center><a href="http://caseyandjenn.com/"><img decoding="async" border="O" src="http://www.caseyandjenn.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/kidquotebutton2.jpg" /></a></center>

Kid: I’ve been doing a whole lot better in school.
Me: Oh that’s great. Have you been studying more?
Kid: No, I have my lucky shoes.
Me: Oh, why are they lucky?
Kid: Well, I drank this really good soda. Then I took the soda tab and tied it on my shoe. Obviously.
Me: Oh, uhm, of course. (8 y.o.)

Kid: I’m a pilot now!
Me: Oh yeah? Of what?
Kid: Paper airplanes. But I’m pretty sure it’s the same as real airplanes . . right? (7 y.o.)

Okay, now it’s your turn! Grab a button and link up funny stories about the things your kids say, or kids you know!

The snow is crunching beneath our feet.

The sun is playing hide and seek with the clouds.

He is jumping between rocks, telling me about his day in the way that only children can. Fast thoughts running together, flowing out of his mind and mouth like a waterfall of words.

He comes upon a big rock, covered in snow. He is hesitant, clearly unsure of whether or not he can make the jump.

I want to say “be careful!” but I bite my tongue and watch.

He bends his legs, preparing to jump.

I hear him begin to say to himself quietly, “I can do this. I CAN do this.”

And he’s airborne. Flying through the air.

I hold my breath, hoping he lands safely.

And he does.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up the afternoon. He is proud of himself. He did it. 

That smile makes every hour of my job worth it.

In six short months he has changed his thoughts from “I am stupid, I am worthless,” to I can do it.

He is facing situations that months ago he would have shied away from.

He is jumping. Even though he is afraid.

And just like that, in this one simple moment, I know my work with him is done.