March 22, 2011 by Marj Hatzell
People say the same things over and over.
How do you do it?
I don’t know how you do it.
Wow. You are amazing.
The truth is, I couldn’t do this without support. And I don’t mean underwire, yo (though, as I get older, that helps more and more).
I am very, very fortunate and I thank my lucky stars every day that I have this support. I have family who drops everything with little notice to give me much-needed respite. I have friends who are always willing to lend an ear when I’m having a rough time. I have neighbors who pitch in to help whenever they can. I have amazing schools and teachers and therapists who are always willing to give suggestions and advice. I have friends online and IRL and support groups and such. I have friends whom I’ve just met bring me dinner when I’m having a rotten week. I have friends whom I barely know drive me someplace or offer to shop or help me with my kids. It’s amazing.
I am totally covered.
I am one of the lucky ones. So many of my friends do not have support. They get what they can from agencies but they never, ever get a break. They never get a night of respite without their kids. They never feel validated. They never have someone call just to “see how they are doing.” They never have a neighbor do something nice for them out of the blue. They never have a good experience with schools and teachers and therapists and fight for every single little thing. They never have support.
Darn, y’all. I have a good life.
Sure, we have a garage climber. We have a Super-grumpy-pants-cheeky-monkey-ten-year-old. We constantly have to go over the rules about electronics. I can’t close the door to the bathroom because our little Houdini will escape (and I forget sometimes when other people are in my house and it’s a teensy bit AWKWARD). It’s stressful. I’m not gonna sugar coat it. You get to hear about the poo running down Bugaboo’s legs and Bug Boy’s rants and my sleep deprivation and tears and all of it.
But I’m still very, very fortunate.
So, thanks friends and families and neighbors and schools. Thanks for being there. Because you have the ability to take a very yucky day and make me feel all soft and warm and squishy inside. You have the ability to bring me back from an ugly, cathartic cry just by sending me a text or an email or leaving a message on my machine when I’m deliberately avoiding the phone. Which I do most days anyways because I have rotten social skills. And relate better to dogs than people. Ahem. But still. Thank you for being there. I couldn’t do it without you.