My life with the Sullivan boys

"Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length." Robert Frost That was the quote on the spine of the Real Simple magazine when I glanced down at the stack next to the rows and rows of nail polish. I kept looking at it while I was receiving my hand massage by the Asian man assigned to paint my finger nails. Indeed the quote was true and very fitting for today. I've been sad the last few weeks, and I've let you know about it. But there's happiness involved here too. On Wednesday the doctor told us that whatever type of therapy we're doing seems to be working with Dermot and he won't need Botox injections in his legs. Hooray! Progress for sure. Then there was a great evening out with dear friends that same evening, lots of sharing and lots of laughs. And today, a friend ask if I'd like to join her to get our nails done. I would, I did. Sometimes the bad stuff outweighs the good in quantity, sometimes it transforms me into a sad but com...

"That's how our life is, so we should probably start living it that way!" I replied defiantly to my husband. I was the driving the familiar route to the Y to swim with the whole family. I had suggested that he take the two typical kids on a spring break trip and he balked at the idea that we wouldn't go as a whole family. How? I can't see driving twenty plus hours to Florida, let alone fly there. The last time we took Dermot on a plane we were very lucky to get first class and that his wheelchair wasn't trashed in the baggage compartment. On the way home we were in trouble. Dermot needs full support while sitting, we bring his large carseat and after that is installed in the narrow airplane seat, there's not even an inch of space left for his long, six year old legs. After we returned home from that trip I knew it would be a long time before we would travel again. So I listen to your stories of family vacations to Steamboat or Orlando and I envy you. I...

It's eleven o'clock. I don't want to go to sleep. Or even try. I put my head on the pillow and the thoughts come rushing in. Thirty five days ago someone else's little boy died. Thirty five days ago my husband and I wept on our knees in the hallway of our home and tried to explain why to our four year old boy. I immediately made lasagna and M & M cookies and a CD of my favorite songs to cry to. I drove it over to their house the next morning. We went to the visitation, then the funeral. I made more food and delivered it with a note. And then more food and more cookies. More notes. More cookies. Every night since the death, I can't seem to sleep. The first two weeks I spent late night hours in my dark living room drinking sleepy time tea, watching a rabbit at the bird feeder outside the window. Images of the funeral and details of the tragedy keep my mind racing. Complete sorrow for the family, complete. I know this is grief, I've felt this before. I...