You have no idea of the shitstorm of events about to start just by brushing the sleep from your eyes.

Instead of birds chirping. The smell of coffee brewing. Even the sounds of weekend cartoons bringing me into full consciousness

My heart stopped at the words I read on my phone.

A friend was at the hospital with her daughter.

They thought her leukemia was back.

This didn’t just strike average fear.

This child had already gone through cancer treatment for the same cancer as Peyton.

This meant that years after health, the chemo had failed.

The pain I felt was unfathomable. Unexplainable.

For her mother who was sitting panicked in a room. For the little girl.

For myself, who couldn’t stop thinking about the 8yo I felt at more risk than ever.

The fear led to an angry temper and irrational outburst.

The outburst led to led to a remorse and shame.

The shame led to a hole and gaping need.

The gaping need can never be filled and I have chosen that for myself.

Then just when I’m starting to put a bandage on the wound so I can be friend MOM needs, a sucker-punch comes out of the blue.

It hit hard.

It pulls the scabs off a freshly bleeding gash.

I’m left tonight pulling the pieces of the wound together so they can be bandaged.

I’ll put on a bigger bandage.

It’ll work.

Tomorrow will be better.

I’ve got stuff to do. Lots of it apparently.

That’s the “d” word I was thinking about.

What were YOU thinking of?

Douchebandits. Douchebag McGreggor. Douchemover.

All good words to describe certain behavior.

I would LOVE to justify it by saying that *I* have never acted that way.

But I have.

So has Pete.

Out of anger. Confusion. Fear. Frustration. Hurt.

Just because I’m deciding to end a marriage for reasons that go SO MUCH deeper than you could even dream of knowing, I’m not doing it easily.

It doesn’t come painlessly.

I hurt for my kids. I hurt for myself.

And, yes, I hurt for Pete.

I just can no longer take responsibility for trying to FIX his hurt.

It was printing a picture for each year to build a timeline of PEYTON.

We printed the pictures out.  Peyton as a baby.  Peyton as a toddler.  Peyton with cancer. Peyton just before I had the strokes.

The final picture was one of my favorites.

One I had snapped of Peyton sleepy, with her arms wrapped around her daddy, looking at me from over his shoulders.

The picture showed love and total trust and safety.

I looked at that picture and it made me cry.

The me that walked along behind my husband.

The me that could just raise my camera and capture a moment.

The me that took caught our lives in picture to keep forever.

That me was gone.

Oh, she can be replaced with tools and tricks to try to make that passion live again.

But the truth is there are certain gifts that can’t be replaced.

That was one of them.

Catch me at Babble today: In The Homework Battle: Score One For The Teacher

It gets on my nerves that I have to sleep every day.

I love naps, mind you.

Don’t get me wrong.

But the fact that my body wears out and I HAVE to rest hurts me.

I have no choice.  Like a child, a nap is critical to my ability to play “Words with Friends” function.

I get blurry.  Fuzzy.  My ability to think unclear.

Then I slip under the comforter and let sleep put everything back in order.

I wish it were my decision to float away.

But it’s not.

It’s one more footprint the strokes left behind.

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You can also read me at Babble today: It’s All Your Mom’s Fault You Have These Kids

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also at CafeMOM: Five Ways To Keep The Dinner Table Popular

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I’m guest-blogging at Life Rearranged