Roughhousing.

In the deep of summer and its unrelenting excessive heat, once again our air-conditioning is caput.  Our landlord is great about getting an A/C company out to remedy the problem as soon as possible, but time marches slowly over the days of sweltering heat.  I wonder if time stands still the heat is so unbearable.  During those days, our home often would reach temperatures that exceed the heat outside.  One day, the boys are at camp all morning and then we spend all afternoon at a friend's pool.  We are there until the evening hours and the boys are so drained from the heat, they both pass out in the first minute of being in an air-conditioned car.  I would come to refer to our house as "the inferno" during these few days.  Case in point, that night at 11 o'clock the house would still hover around 86 degrees.

We get through three days and nights of the discomfort and on the evening of the fourth day, our house is starting to finally cool off.  82 degrees never felt so good.

Nine o'clock and both boys are finally in bed and the house is a chilly 73 degrees.    I hang up the telephone with my brother for a mid-week catch up, nicety, 'how are you?' talk, when something catches my eye on Pinterest.

First, an admission.  I am a Pinterest junkie.  I pin and repin and well repin.  The “what if’s…  the “some day” home…  the idyllic childhood crafts that the perfect mommy is doing with her kids…  The superfood recipes and the junk food game-day recipes…  a treasure trove of the “I wish’s” and the “If I were a better mom” ideas.  Or the “Only if I had time” ideas.  Pinterest in itself is an addiction… it oozes visual delights and reflects on self-improvement.  It is all things that busy moms need and love.  A virtual bulletin board of the best and the brightest.  But let’s be honest here, my life boards are piles of magazine cut-outs, notes from the schools, junk mail that needs to be shredded and scribbled unchecked to-do lists.

On this occasion, it's not the multimillion dollar interior of a great room that captivates me or an adorable artsy craft that seems so simple and a great idea in concept...  instead it's a "The 20 Things No One Ever Told Us About Raising a Boy:  And Every One Is True".  I am curious and instantly am taken.  Okay, people if you know me, I am not an "email forward" type of person.  I am not a chainletter person.  I once in a great while read the political comics of a weekly news magazine, but I rarely believe sharing around those adorable puppies or that story supposedly from so-and-so's cousin.  I believe that an article a “Top List" of anything can not sum it up.  At least not for me.

I am intrigued and compelled to click through.  The first one on the list that I click through to is "The Penis Comparisons Start Early".  I start laughing thinking of my boys.  And all products of the Y gene for that matter.  After I read the comical, albeit true, blurb I continue to click through the list...   

• "Star Wars Takes Over Earlier Than You Expect" (You can say that again, check out my thoughts on Star Wars here)...
• "Matchbox cars and trucks will multiply on their own in your home" (yep, step on ‘em every day)...
• "You Will Revise Your Wedding Fantasies -- And Be Fine With It" (my greatest fear come true)... 
• "Rough housing is Innate...  it's normal and experts say it's healthy" (I break up brawls daily in my house)...
• "Boys Love Their Moms" (I smile.  That really says it.)

Faint tears well in my eyes.  I feel my self giggle as I lift my tired body up the stairs to bed.  As I crawl in, I begin telling my husband about the list and we laugh at the humor.  “It’s all so real…  So true,” I tell him.  “You must read this article.”

The next morning my bed feels icy.  I love it.  I stretch and roll over.  I can barely lift my dull head.  I don't know if body is in recovery mode after the marathon of heat, but I linger in bed for some more time.  The rushing of water in the shower tells me that my husband is getting ready to leave for work.  I hear the boys playing downstairs.  Laughter and hysterical shouting fills the house on the bright summer morning.  I want to stay in my ice box bed all day.  The cold sheets encircling me and my lazy head sinks down in my pillow.

I stretch and roll out and greet my husband.  He tells me that I should really go check on the boys.  I feel like telling him that he can.  But instead I slowly drag myself up and then fling my feet over the side of the bed and drop my weight onto my feet.  I walk halfway down the stairs and peer down to see the boys wrestling on the floor of the foyer.  I smirk and remember the article...  "Roughhousing is normal and even healthy."

I am snapped into a new dimension of boy insanity, as the most unbelievable event happens right before my eyes.  The boys don't even realize that I am watching.  Dylan stands up before I can even comprehend what's going on as he hurls a fluffy, white object at Michael's head.  I rub my eyes, still trying to wake up and be sure that I am seeing the scene accurately.  The object smacks Michael squarely in the face and explodes.  LITERALLY, EXPLODES into a million tiny pieces.  I can't really make out what it is, but the large object gives the appearance that it's a sack of flour dulling slamming into Michael’s face and raining tiny white particles everywhere.

Next, I see the remaining object that wasn't decimated sink from Michael's face to the ground with an exhausted thud.  I react immediately since Dylan threw it with such menace, and the residual mess is now undeniably decorating my foyer.  As I run down the stairs, Dylan laughs his mischievous snickers.  Michael is frozen in his place completely stunned.  His expression still in a state shock.  He doesn't know whether to laugh at his brother's antics or to start wailing out of anger.  I begin yelling as I approach and Dylan throws his hands over his ears.

Roughhousing, yeah right.

Matters only get worse when I identify the weapon of mass destruction.  A diaper.  A fully-loaded pee-soaked diaper that Dylan had been wearing overnight.  No mistake.  Size 6.  Heavy in mass and large enough to hit a target like his brother.  I don’t know if this kid is insane or brilliant.

The particles that are now all over Michael's hair, his shirt, the wood floor, our throw rugs and frankly the entire foyer are the gel beads of a diaper.  These weird spongy gel beads absorb the urine and its yuk smell.  You might never know they are present in the high-tech diapers of today, unless, frankly, your three year old lobs one at his brother.

My GAG reflex is emerging.

Only my boys.  And, to think, for once I was going to let the roughhousing go...  Normal and healthy...  I snort at the thought.

Dylan is now (clearly) pants-less, Michael is coming to, and my husband is late for work.  I am in a fit yelling in tongues.  Somehow, I am able to communicate to my husband that Michael needs to be bathed and Michael heads upstairs to get cleaned up.

Dylan is sent to the "thinking spot", which is our version of time out.  How politically correct of us.  I feel myself sneer as I send him to the “thinking spot”.  The term, thinking spot, doesn't exactly carry the "heavy-hitter" weight to underscore how truly upset I am.  Something like "the drama dungeon" or the "smarty pants asylum"...  anything else might have more zest or umph where they can wait out their issues.

I refocus.  This is not just a mess, it is downright UNSANITARY.  GAG again.  I wonder where my mom HAZMAT suit is at this moment as I envision a urine cloud over the area that I am trying to conceive of cleaning.  Might it take a mushroom cloud appearance?  Or more of a stealth odorless, tasteless WMD that we are dealing with?  I had no idea years ago that moms also earn a degree in chemical or biological weaponry.

I try to vacuum the gel beads with the hose of the vacuum.  Only half of the beads give way and are swept up.  The other half remains on the floor further provoking me after a pass with the vacuum attachment.  The gel material is sticky enough that it doesn’t immediately pull into the suction of the vacuum.   I concede and try the vacuum in the upright position.  None of the gel beads move.  I try wiping it with wet paper towels and the gel beads bounce around in all different directions taunting me.  They pull against the paper towel and do not cooperatively sweep up or disappear.  Finally, I try sweeping these suckers up with a broom and pan.  They bounce, stick, and pull with traction against the flow of the bristles of the broom.  I am livid.  HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO CLEAN THIS?!

I excuse Dylan from the thinking spot and direct him to come and help me clean the mess.  Like a lengthy question on a final exam, I mentally answer out my answer the best of my options.  Dylan stands there and stares at me as I try to gather my thoughts on the multiple choice Mommy exam.

“If you were a mom, and your kid obliterated a diaper, how would you clean the mess?”

A)   A vacuum that only works moderately

B)   Wet papertowels which does a mediocre job of catching the loose material

C)   A Broom that spreads the mess around

D)   Leave the house running and screaming down the street

E)    D is not an option.

With few options, I grab the vacuum and tediously begin cleaning with the attachment.  I have to pass and repass the same spot a couple times to clean up the disgusting gel beads.  I make Dylan help me with the clean up.  My husband has bathed Michael and heads out the door.  As he walks toward the door, frankly with freedom in view (lucky guy!), Dylan is frantic and upset.  He begins begging Daddy to stay.  After quite a few hugs, high fives, fist pumps, blowing kisses, waves, Dylan runs out the door after my husband.  I see his bare bottom head out the back sliding glass door, his little feet moving frantically and his voice wailing.  I run out after him and my husband sees pants-less Dylan running toward the car.

Daddy scoops him up and brings him back into the house. We get Dylan in a pair of underwear so he is no longer baring it all.   Now on the third try, my husband successfully makes it out the door.  The boys and I sit on the front porch and wave at him as we do every morning as his car pulls out of the drive way.  The boys shout their send-offs to Daddy for the day.  “Daddy, tonight I will read you THREE stories!” Dylan yells.  Michael projects, “I love you, I will tell you stories tonight, Daddy.”

Undeniably, there is the truth staring every parent of boys in the face...  the things that occur when you raise boys.  The ones you wish you knew before you even considered having kids.  The ones you wish you were prepared for.  And the ones that there is no conceivable way you CAN prepare for.  To say the least, I would’ve never believed that one morning I’d watch my own toddler son squarely nail his brother in the face with a soppy diaper.  To raise boys takes will, guts and tenacity.  To raise my boys, well that’s a whole other level. 

And off we go.  Another day at the races and I haven’t even had my cup of coffee.

One Red Balloon

In the mania of life, I find myself sitting in a vet's office with Dylan and our chocolate labrador retriever, Haley.  Dylan scales the bench in the lobby while Haley trembles violently.  She sits tucked neatly under my legs and her head tightly adjacent behind my knee.  I know she is convinced if she can avoid eye contact with any of the office staff, she can prevent any further harm.

As we wait for the dog to get her immunizations, Dylan picks up the two ceramic treat jars that they staff have placed out for the pets corraling through the office every day.  Brilliant.  Wonder how they haven't figured out to keep these treats at a level for "grown-ups only".  But a shattered ceramic treat jar is the least of my worries these days.  So, I let him happily open and close the jar and feed treats to Haley.

As passers-by compliment Haley, she shakes harder and more violently.  She normally loves attention.  Apparently, not here.  Dylan tosses her the umpteenth treat.

The tech comes and gets Haley for her dreaded shots and I am left with Dylan and nothing to occupy him.  Dylan starts to play with all the items they have for purchase...  dog bones, dog toys, and the like.  I am just waiting for the argument to begin about taking home a new dog toy that Dylan will surely take under his care.  In this moment, a kind woman with the staff greets us and suggests they can give him a balloon if would like.  She asks Dylan directly, what color would he like?  No hesitation, he blurts out, "Wed!"

The two receptionists behind the counter laugh and one of them starts filling a red balloon with helium.  He excitedly takes the red balloon and grasps it tightly since last time his green balloon floated up to the ceiling and popped on a hot light.

Haley barrels out from her shots and the tech can hardly handle her strength and desperate pulling to get to me and Dylan.  Her loud crying can almost be translated as, "Thank GOD you are still here!  Get me home, get me home!"  She couldn't be happier to see us.

We all pile in the car to go get Michael from school.  Dylan's little fist clutching his red balloon.  We forge ahead with our day remiss in bringing Dylan's prized red balloon in the house after school and errands.

Dylan discovers the forgotten red balloon the next day as we depart for school.  It is still in our car, and surprisingly still floating.  Today is a day both kids are in school at the same time.  It's the only day of the week that I get two hours, YES TWO HOURS, without either one of my little guys.  Not really a break since I have to fold probably a mountain of laundry.  Let's just say it's a mental break.

Both Michael and Dylan are revved this day with energy and the sillies as they climb into our SUV.  The sillies are when the boys can't wind down.

No.  Matter.  What.

They are obnoxious.  They are silly.  They are savages.  I now read the book, "Where the Wild Things Are" with an entirely new appreciation.  And as we get into the car, Dylan is surprised to see his treat from our trip to the vet's office the day before.  He giggles and continues speaking their silly, gibberish with Michael.  What is it with little boys and the potty language?!  Four letter words alright, at least the tame ones...  "poop, poop, poop"  And I think if I hear the word, "balls" one more time, I will lose it.

Neither will get in the seat and we are running late because I was tempted to throw a chicken together in the crockpot as we were walking out the door.  Dylan starts taking the red balloon and hitting me and Michael in the face.  On the eighth time, I snap.  "That's it!"  I have ignored the nonsense long enough.  I grab the balloon out of Dylan's hand.  As I go to strap Michael in, in my haste, I let go of the balloon.  Not on purpose.  But not not on purpose.

OH NO.  Holy Hell is about to break lose...!  I lower my head.  Dylan starts screaming as he watches his red balloon float up into the gray New Jersey skies.

The balloon slowly drifts up.  Since the helium is tired presumably because it's a day-old balloon, it moves painfully slow.  But it's full enough of helium that it tracks upward with no end.  Michael yells at me about what a bad mother I am.  Mean Mommy.  Dylan is inconsolable watching the balloon waft up to the clouds.  I just have no words.  Dylan is sweating as scalding tears stream down his sweet, soft cheeks.

It is part frustration, part sadness swirling as the damn balloon lifts higher and higher.  While it was a mistake, I tell myself with brutal honesty, I was just trying to remove it for a minute and didn't realize that it was a 'gone forever' moment.  I just needed to get the uncooperative kids in the car.  I am not entirely sure if I didn't also sort of mean to let go.  I just needed to let go of it...  for a moment.  One less factor to already muddle my complicated day.  In this mental consoling, I realize that I need to just let go more often.  Just maybe not of my toddler's balloon outside.

I certainly wasn't trying to crush my three-year-old's heart.

After Dylan's tantrum of full throttle kicking and thrashing to hit home he is mad (as if the screaming and crying wasn't enough?!), the raw emotion in the car radiates from each of the three of us as I drive the familiar route to school.  Michael tries to give me his dissertation on the event...  how would I like it if he threw out all of my jewelry?  And maybe he will make me a new necklace now because he knows that I am sad and sorry the balloon is now gone.

Dylan pouts and is angry, scrunching is little mouth in a tight pout and angling his eyes out the car window.  I continue to mutter to words of apology to Dylan.  He scoffs at me.  I try to touch his leg and he kicks me -- hard.  There is no use in trying.

But I am a mother.  I gotta come up with something.  In this moment of awful dread, I weirdly need him to forgive me.  I love these boys so much, and we are all so overstressed with all the demands of early childhood and rigors of a chronic disease.  The stress in our lives is maxed out.  I fear it is all taking its toll and we are all unpleasant to each other these days.  I want us all to find the love.  The laughter.  And the joy.  This is not how it should be.

I gotta figure out something.  I tell them I will try to find the lost red balloon if they can both just go into school nicely.  "You're going to find it?!  How are you going to find it?"  Michael is reluctant.  I will, I promise.  Mommies can some times fix things...  some times not.  I will try to fix this.  I explain that might even call the "balloon people".  Michael says, "What balloon people?" in a serious and not-buying-it tone.  He is too smart for his own good.  I explain not to ask questions, but sometimes there are people who can help in these kinds of situations (yeah, like stores that sell latex balloons...)  He is satisfied with my answer and responds, "I'll bet they have tall tall tall ladders."  Yep, buddy, I am sure they do.

This is enough to motivate both boys out of the car and into their classrooms.  Dylan tells every grown-up he sees about the red balloon, but once in his classroom he is shy and withdrawn as I get him settled.  After a few minutes of playing with blocks, I hug him and whisper that I will do my best to find his balloon.  He gives me two pecks on the mouth and nods when I ask if he'll be okay.

Once in my car, I realize with all the commotion, I am left with about one hour to do anything.  So, I head to the store to buy the one red balloon with a red ribbon.  At the floral counter of the grocery store, the employee smiles warmly at me as I approach.  She is working on a massive floral arrangement of deep scarlet roses and green leaves.  The yellow daffodils also smile brightly at me.  I explain that I need one red balloon with a red ribbon.  She quickly fills it from the helium tank, I notice the balloon is HUGE, much bigger than the other day-old red balloon.  I politely ask her to let some of the helium out.  She gives me a funny look and I explain the situation.  "I am trying to replace it to match the one I lost for my three-year-old."  Maria smiles brightly and releases some of the air.  As she ties the knot of the ribbon on the balloon, she affixes a weight (no charge) to the end of it.  She winks as I turn to head to register to pay.

An hour later I enter the classroom to pick up Dylan.  The children enter as they were playing in a different room.  Dylan is the third tot to enter through the doorway and the millisecond he sees me, he darts for me.  I am crouched and waiting to hug him with open arms.  He nearly plows me over.  We hug long and hard and then he stops and pulls back.  Dylan stares deeply into my eyes and whispers softly, "Did you find my wed bawoon?"  I nod and his face slowly reveals a grin.  He takes my hand and guides me over to the hooks where his coat is hanging.  He is ready to get his red balloon.

As the rest of the day would go, there would be more outwitting, more silliness, and more reprimanding.  The chicken for dinner would be ruined, CF treatments would be a course in tactical negotiating, and hubby would not be coming home until late.  But even with all of this, for one moment in my day, there was love, laughter, and joy.  All from one red balloon.

Well, two red balloons.

21,000

21,000 times a day.

You do this 21,000 times every day and are generally unaware of it.  But for some, it isn't so easy.

You BREATHE.

Let me explain...  next time you grab for your Big Gulp, take a moment to pull the straw out and try breathing through it.  Now breathe through it for 30 seconds.  Next try breathing through it all day.  Then consider what it's like to do this -- every day.  Imagine 21,000 breaths like that.

If you frequent Two Salty Boys, you know that both of our sons have Cystic Fibrosis.  CF is genetic disorder where two little genes create a LOT of problems.

Our boys spend a couple hours, yes you read that right, A COUPLE HOURS every day doing breathing treatments with special inhaled medications.  They also do chest physiotherapy to clear their lungs of sticky mucus that is a magnet for dangerous bacteria and life-threatening lung infections.  These lung infections are the culprit of progressive lung damage and lung decline.  IV antibiotics are a given in the CF world.  Not a matter of "if" they will have IV's, but "when".  Treatments are labor-intensive and time-consuming.  And they are 2 or 3x...  EVERY DAY.  That's approximately 2 months of their lives each year working hard to breathe.

They also take a regimen spanning 60 pills a day and countless medications to help them eat, digest food properly, and grow normally.  Every time they eat or even simply drink a glass of milk, they are forced to take a handful of pills.  Belly aches are a state of normal for them.  Oh, and they need 150-200% more calories just to maintain weight and grow like other kids.

The hardest part for me is knowing that the clock is ticking...  And every breath is precious.  If you have made it this far, you probably aren't taking your 21,000 breaths for granted now.

My plea is a challenge to YOU, Two Salty Boys fans.

$21.

A buck for every 1,000 breaths you will breathe today to help my boys breathe easier.
And the catch is that you then SHARE this with all your friends with the same request -- $21.

That's 14 big gulps, if you're counting.
Or 4 coffees at a gourmet coffee shop.
Or 2 cocktails out on the town.

It's simple.
$21 and SHARE this with all your friends over email, Facebook, and Twitter
and ask them to donate $21.
And ask them to ask all their friends to donate.  Just $21.
 Pay it forward again.  $21.
And so on.

Donate $21 TODAY at...

TwentyOneThousand.com

And pay it forward to help someone else BREATHE.

Wouldn't it be a miracle if we could get 21,000 people to donate $21?   Let's see just how big we can take this.

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away."  ~Anonymous

Shadows.

"Mommy!  Where are you going?!" an exasperated Michael yells.  I take a heavy sigh and explain that I am just leaving the room to make a phone call and to get the basket of clothes I need fold.  Dealing with his insane attachment issues and anxiety about not having me in his line of sight at all times has been very stressful...  for him and ME.

I am exhausted just thinking about how many times this week I have reassured him that Mommy is not going anywhere, he is stuck with me.  But no matter how many hugs, cuddles, kisses on his porcelain forehead I give him, he is still not buying it.  At almost four years old he is has full blown separation anxiety.  It has become extreme since he has been staying at home so much the past two months with our quarantine to get Michael well after his hospitalization and fallout in recent months.

He has become my shadow.

It is sweet, almost endearing.  There are moments that I know I will miss that he wants to be two steps behind me.  I certainly know that I should cherish these moments.  And believe me, I do.  But there are also the times it is...

(WARNING:  bad mom comment coming, turn and look away if you can't bear to read this)

ANNOYING.

Like the times he just has to check on me in the bathroom.  Or the times when I go to quickly spin around and rush into the other room and in doing so completely level him to floor.  Or the times he starts to get anxious when I walk out of the room to check my email on the computer in the next room.  I know, I know.  I realize it sounds cold.  But on some level, a person needs a quiet minute to themselves.  And quite honestly, until my kiddos go to bed, I don't get it.  Not one minute.

Nonstop energy leaks from the windows of our home.  Playful activity spills over from the boys' baths.  Extra globs of blue gel toothpaste smeared on the counter reveals the overzealous workings of a four-year-old.  The pace around here is a million miles per hour.  And in all of it, to simply have some personal space shouldn't be all that much to ask for, but in this circus it is an impossibility.

My boys are loud and rowdy and full of life, which I love.  But it's plain draining.  The kids jump off my sofas (even with all the scolding in the world!) in a heated firefight with other robots.  As I lunge for the ringing phone, the robots in the other room start yelling at eachother.  I clearly miss the phone call in the commotion and our answering machine picks up.  Over the loud volume of someone's voice leaving a voicemail about a check up on the boys' respiratory vests, there is toddler shrieking and crying (Dylan).  Then, there is growling from the older robot  (Michael).  Then I hear a pitiful response from Dylan, slurred behind his pacifier firmly in his mouth, "I saaaaa."  (Translation:  "I'm sad.")  He comes running in to me with his dramatic scowl and asks for me to pick him up.  "Uppy?  Upppppy!!!"  I have been having chest pains lately probably from constantly having to break these brawling boys apart and navigating the complicated waters of toddler negotiating.  Or maybe the chest pains are from lifting and carrying around a hefty kid.  Either way, I am living in a circus... or a madhouse depending on what you call it, where chest pains are normal.

Michael is also now the biggest tattle on his baby brother.  Maybe it's a sense of obligation since he believes he is my wingman, but in this moment, Michael purses his mouth.  He looks down then up again at me with his meanest robot face he can drum up.  I appeal to Michael's sense of brotherly play and love.  "Please play nicely with your brother.  Okay?  Mommy is going to start counting and if I get to 3 that means no more Transformers (his favorite show for CF treatments, so much so he ASKS to do his treatments.)"  I don't know if this more of a threat to him or to my sanity as we lead up to treatment time without his favorite show cued up.  Michael rolls his steel gray blue eyes and heaves a sigh.  "But Maaaa'm..."

I walk away.  No sooner am I heading up the stairs in our foyer holding Dylan, than Michael is at my heels.  He races around my even paced strides and stops directly in front of me.  I stumble and he starts moving his feet faster, "I'm going to win, huh huh.  I am going to beat you Mommy."  Great, all I need is a fall down a flight of stairs because of a foot race with my four-year-old while holding my hefty two-year-old.  I am convinced that kids his age don't understand cause and effect.  At least, they don't understand their own behavior as the causes and the resulting effects to other people.

It's not until later in the day when the dog starts her booming bark and aggressively heads for the front door that I realize Michael's constant patter behind me is a much deeper issue.  The pooch's ears are perked forward attentively and her tail is straight out.  Her fur is standing  up as she lurches forward in her barking ferocity.  She hears something on our street (probably the UPS guy) and her mania startles even me.  Michael whines with a dramatic squeal, "Oh no!" and follows it with a "The are strangers outside are coming to get me."

What?!

I immediately stop the clean up of the dominoes that I have been furiously tossing in the metal bin.  Every domino that lands in the bin is deafening.  I am surprised that we could hear the dog's booming warning over these stupid dominoes.  I walk over and pull Michael into my arms and hug him.  In all the loud chaos, we find a quiet moment.

It all crystallizes.  Even though I am around, I am not always present for him.  And his concern and fear are completely real.  You can feel them in the room.  The laundry can wait.  The email can wait.  The calls can wait.  The mail can wait.  Dinner can wait.  Treatments can wait (a few more minutes anyway). 

Even that personal space I so need can wait.  This little boy just needs his mommy.

Minutes later we are playing on the floor when the trippiest show ever, "Yo Gabba Gabba" radiates from the TV underneath our playtime.  Happy songs, psychedelic characters, and Jack Black all parade across the screen.  I am convinced that some dudes in a dark room tripping on LSD created this cheery show, but obviously they did their job since I walk around regularly singing its tunes.  Dylan drops his head and declares in a distressed tone, "I no wike him."  He wails.  He clearly is not a fan of the Jack Black.  I turn and view the chubby man stuffed into an orange suit with a scraggly beard and beady eyes.  Jack is now dancing and singing, swiftly moving around the brightly colored TV set with the screwy characters dancing around him.  I look at Dylan.  Sparkling tears well up and his eyes turn pink from crying.  I scoop him into my arms and Dylan clutches on and he continues to sadly share his distaste for Jack Black.  "I no wike him," he says shaking his head looking at the floor pathetically.

The only supporting response I can give him is "Neither, do I, Dylan, neither do I."  Afterall, Dylan is right.  Jack Black is a little...  off.  I can't blame the kid.

I glance over at Michael who is now lining up Thomas trains meticulously, one by one, preparing them for an imaginative playtime attack of train robots.  He is sprawled on the carpet of our family room floor concentrating on the impending attack.  I hug Dylan and I plop on the floor with the boys.  "Which train can Mommy have?"  I put my hand out and Michael drops a train in my hand and explains the battle landscape that is developing.

My shadows.  They are more pronounced some days and even downright independent.  And other times they are more reserved appearing only when the timing is just right.  But when the light has shifted, my shadows cast beautiful shapes.  They show up and are playful, these shadows bring joy.  The revelations of my shadows in each appearance teach me new things every day.  I don't ever want to miss my shadows two steps behind me.

My favorite shadows pictures from last year.

Who's got your back?

My recent months have been a rollercoaster of emotion.  No stability and certainly no consistency except one thing - support.

Because of our quarantine in recent weeks, since Michael's doctor suggested avoiding large group settings (most places in the world) and highly trafficked places (and all other possible places in the world) we have no choice but to stay in lock down at the house.  While this sounds extreme, it isn't.  In our minds, it's simply smart decision making right now.  And we are adhering to the doctor's advice...  if it's not necessary, we just don't go out.  And while obviously we are not ones to lick the handle of a shopping cart or rub our eyes after getting of the Metra commuter train, there are germs everywhere even with best practices like hand sanitizer or good handwashing.

I know some unknowing parents look at us like we are crazy when we Clorox wipe restaurant tables regularly without the kids being visibly sick.  Or when I have a hand sanitzer bottle in every purse, diaper bag and a pump container of it my car.  I am not just a crazy mother, people.  I need to be crazy.  It's necessity.  So, keep staring and keep rolling your eyes at me in those stores and restaurants.  I am the better person, because, I know better.

Moral of the germ story is that we are just hanging at home until Michael gets over the hump of this most recent sickness.

I won't lie that it has been insane and overwhelming being at home with the boys nonstop.  They are stir-crazy as am I.  But these little guys get through the cabin fever with each other's help.  "C'mon Dy Dy," Michael prompts and grabs Dylan's hand as they run off to the basement to play.  Dylan turns around and fiercely looks at me.  As he is running off with his big brother, he shouts around his obstructive pacifier in his mouth at me.  I can easily translate his fervent demand to play Wii boxing in his mini dictator tone.

Dylan is dressed in a white t-shirt, a diaper, and a royal blue pacifier in his mouth.  He gathers himself for the big fight.  Michael's cheers his brother on in the boxing ring, "Punch him, Dy.  Punch him right in the face!"  And Dylan, clutching the white plastic Wii remote in his little tot hands and sucking firmly on his pacie, rapidly flutters his arms up and down back and forth.  He growls at the large screen TV, "GET.  GET.  GET."  Then he dramatically collapses onto the floor for effect.  Michael hurriedly shouts for him to get back up since the match isn't over.  Michael won't let his brother down that way.  He will cheer him to get up until the very end.  Very moving.

Ahh, my boys help each other out.  I see it in all ways, not just the rough and tough stuff either.

It's also in the sweet unassuming moments like when Michael excitedly puts in Dylan's favorite movie, Baby Einstein Shapes, for his breathing treatments.  Michael shuffles around our bazillion DVD's, locates the correct one and delicately pops the DVD out of the cover.  He loads the disc and waits anxiously to hit the play button and cue up the movie for his baby brother.  There are also the times when an airway clearance session has finished on the respiratory vest, Michael gently unhooks the tubes and unsnaps the buckles.  "All done?  Dy, you all done?", he prompts his baby brother.  Or even when Michael "helps" Dylan out by doing his chest therapies (this one we'll say is a little more pretending and acting out than actually doing).

But all of these are amazing illustrations of how these two little ones are bonded, deeply and inexplicably.  They are brothers and they are each other's pillars.

It has been lonely and surprisingly quiet for me at times during our lock-down.  Many friends and family have reached out to see how we are all doing or to lend help.  One of my best friends brings a warm dinner and we dish about more than food.  We catch up about all things life.  We do the math and realize that it has, shockingly, been months since we have seen each other.  She and I have a remarkable connection that I plan to memorialize in a book some day.

We met on a CTA bus eleven years ago commuting along the same train line from the suburbs into the city of Chicago.  We delivered babies on the same day with the same doctor (yes, keep scratching your head).  We left work in demanding sales careers at the same time.  We both have roots in West Virginia.  We both know what it's like to lose a parent at a young age.  We have both married our high school sweethearts, who are by the way both the middle sons of three boys.  We both planned our high school reunions.  We were in some bizarre way, lost souls that were looking for each other's completion.

We even sat licking our baby boys together weeks after they were born to see if they tasted salty.  Turns out that mine were salty.  Hers were not.  CF has had an all too real presence in her husband's family.  She is a wonderful friend who I admire greatly.  She has her own hands full with 3 little boys and a fourth baby on the way.  I am lucky to have her.  Our catch-up session over Mexican food at my kitchen table leaves me feeling normal.  Always like old times.  And in some weird way, things are as they have always been.  Because she's got my back.

Another one of my best friends, my college roommate and Dylan's Godmother, brings me dinner and puts in my freezer and tells me that she is coming to help me this week.  She knows that I am overwhelmed and knows that I don't even have a good minute to run to the grocery store or consider doing something like (sigh) a manicure these days.  She gives up a day of her freedom from her own kids to relieve me for an hour or two to get out and run much-needed errands.  I am continually humbled by her selflessness over the years.  We joke that our friendship was sealed the first week of classes at Indiana University. We met in an advanced Spanish class and strangely a few days later, 150 miles away in a different Big Ten city, I spot her standing on a street corner as I drive past.  We lock eyes stunned, me in the passenger seat of the car in disbelief pointing at her and she on the street corner her mouth agape pointing at the slow moving car I am in.  From that moment on, we are friends.

I clearly remember losing my voice on spring break in Cancun and she was my voice.  I cannot forget her considerate offers to watch Michael so I could go to my maternity appointments when I was pregnant with Dylan.  And I have vivid memories of our late night talks in our college apartments while slamming a Pizza Express pizza and bread sticks.  She has been there for me over the years.  I am so grateful to have her friendship and unwavering support.

I have received calls from my lifelong best friend a few times checking in.  I suspect she wants to hear my voice and I know that I too need to hear hers.  And my cell phone voicemail comes alive with my girls, my mother, and my mother-in-law.  All who have a sixth sense that life is beating me down.  Even my former high school friends who so thoughtfully send me a kind note and a Starbucks gift card, because they just know that I can use a pick-me-up.  Should I feel so loved and supported.  These are my women.  There are many days that I wonder why everyone is doing that for me.

* * *

It is a casual gathering in a room somewhere in middle of Chicago suburbia.  A private room at the top of the dramatic, winding staircase and to the right.  Images of the black and white checkered floor and bustling tables drift by as I near the room framed with massive velvet drapery.  We are not spies or some secret sisterhood.

Two of my friends and I duck around the velvet and enter the room with a volume ceiling and art deco touches.  We see our friend who planned this lovely evening.  As we hug and greet each other, more women fill the space with laughter and light.

The mood is comfortable and easy.  We settle in as though we have known each for many years.  A halo of indescribable warmth radiates around each of us.  The tables with classic white restaurant linens are dotted with miniature bud vases with single red roses.  A single word defines each vase stands on its own, but it's the trio that carries the weight of the meaning.

Couldn't have said it better for dinner with these women.

Different ages.

Different backgrounds.

Different appearances.

Same cause.

We fight the same fight in our homes.  We know the struggles each other face every morning we wake up.  We share the same hope every night we go to sleep.  We come together to share our grief and healing.  "So, when was he diagnosed?"  We trade our common challenges and disruptions.  "How did you get her to stop throwing up at night?  What did you change?"  We compare our surprise that even those close our community often don't even 'get it'.   "And could you believe the nerve of that social worker saying that?!"

Time fades away as we gab through our stories.  As we look at our watches, we realize another evening together has passed.  Slowly, we trickle out of the private room in the restaurant where the heavy velvet drape has kept us in a safe cocoon for hours.

These special dinners grace our calendars only a few times a year.  They are therapeutic and remind us that we are never alone on this journey.  I recall at one of these dinners a server once asked us, "So, how do you know each other?"  And we all looked around the tables, and with a collective smirk said, "I guess we are kind of a support group."

GASP!  Dare we call ourselves a support group.  That is stuffy and cliche.  And that's just not us.

We are detectives, project managers, problem solvers, lay physicians, referees, negotiators, culinary experts, germ specialists, and respiratory therapists.  Many of us are also mothers.  But the best title we can claim around these tables are 'friends'.  With no other way to explain how this ensemble of amazing women would have otherwise come together, it's the only easy way to share our deeply profound connection of fighting this terrible disease.

We can't always predict what life has in store for each us.  I would not have any of these strong and beautiful women in my life if not for chance.  Chance to meet that girl on the bus, or chance that I passed that classmate on a street in another city, or chance that my beautiful boys have CF.

I see it with my boys and how they lift each other up every day.  Every pill.  Every treatment.  Every time they play together.  They living together, laughing constantly and loving always.  They hold hands when they run off to find an adventure and they hug before bedtime every night.  One of my favorite pictures of all time was when I looked down at the boys in the stroller while walking through a shopping center and saw Michael clutching sweet baby Dylan's hand who was no more than five months old.

It's the moments when Michael gently kisses Dylan's forehead goodnight and they use their little hands to sign "I love you".  These little guys support each other in every way.

To truly live, to hysterically laugh and to deeply love is most rewarding when you are supported along the way.  And to those that support me, every day, I tip my hat.  Because, sisters, I got your backs.