I used to pride myself on my laid-back attitude about knowing ‘I ruin everything’. It became almost comical. Whenever someone launched an angry tirade my way, I plucked the energetic strings and pocketed them eventually weaving a nifty little “emotional blanket” of my transgressions. I wore it like a cape. Queen of the fuck- ups! My subjects, mini versions of me running into each other in an effort to make everything right.

Except now, as an adult... as a mom... as a mother of three boys...
I’ve reconsidered my take on the purpose of the cloak.
I’m much more affected by it than I thought I was.
Bound by the weight of the threads…. I am not the queen, I am the jester.
The jester who was buried for not providing the court proper entertainment.
RIP jester girl.

There’s a sore spot in my heart when it comes to parenting siblings.
A quiet, drippy wound where blood plops from my heart and pools at my feet.
When the wound first began, it dripped so slowly I couldn’t see the blood as it faded into the floor.

Now, as an adult, the puddle has become a lake.
I’m drowning in the ache of my grief.