What To Do When There's Nothing Left To Give

In life, we get many choices. One of those choices is if we want to be “all in” or not. We decide how much effort we are willing to exert based on the priority of needs we are presented with. Some people may choose to give 50% of themselves in any given circumstance. And I don’t judge those people. Not anymore. It is the Halfers that are capable of self-preservation – protecting those vulnerable, deep down parts by not giving their all.

Halfers know that by risking all they have, they could also lose everything. They weigh the pros and cons, list the checks and balances, and move on accordingly. This particular group knows how to hold back when necessary. They’re capable of watching as things that don’t work out roll somewhat easily off their shoulders. They’re able to rebound with speed and at least half of their reserved strength.

These people are survivors.

And then in life, there’s a second group – the group that makes the choice to go 200% in. The Doublers. These people are the ones that aim for the stars instead of the clouds. They give all of themselves in all of their exhibitions. When things go well, they double their strength and fly high until the next time they lose. And when they lose, they are left with nothing. They are broken and exhausted. There is no hidden reserve of care or energy, no speedy bounce back. Recovery is long and it is dreary and it is awful.

Doublers fight to the death, give away their last slice of bread despite their own hunger, and sweat blood. There is no self-preservation – no bodily armor to protect them as they live each day.

Doublers are not survivors.

I have no idea which category you fall into. You’re probably like most people… individual circumstances allow you to choose which team you will play for.

Grocery-shopping? Halfer. Math homework? Doubler. Making time with friends? Budgeting money? Resolving spousal conflicts? Your own personal health?

You see, there are no rights or wrongs. You pick your battles and choose to accept the consequences. Most of us tend to go halfsies on the smaller matters in our lives and double up on the main events, am I right?

Except here’s the problem. Sometimes, everything in life seems to be a main event. Sometimes, everything requires 200% of us. There are some of you reading this right now who feel that you are gambling so much of yourself that the consequences may even prove fatal. The risks are too great and you have no idea if you will survive.

Let me explain what a Doubler’s lifestyle may look like when everything requires them to be all in:

You are raising a special needs child. You are caring for aging parents. You are a work at home AND work out of the home parent. You have more bills than you have paycheck. You or someone in your immediate family has a life-altering health concern and doctor’s appointments are a full-time job. Your career is in a field that requires you to care for the physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health of other(s). You are married. You are single. You have a hormonal or mental health imbalance. Your children outnumber the adults in your home. You have therapies, sports, early intervention, Bible study, something that needs to be baked for charity, laundry that hasn’t been done in weeks, lab work, vet appointments, meetings, and grocery shopping all in the same day because you CANNOT serve ketchup and crackers with canned fruit 2 meals in a row.

Have I described you yet? Are you sitting there saying to yourself, Oh my gosh, I’m Doubling on EVERYTHING because there is simply no other choice! If you are, then you know you are playing Russian Roulette with your own sanity. You’re driving full-speed at a brick wall, believing that it can and hopefully will move. You’re holding onto a breaking heart so tightly, fearful of losing even just one small piece.

I know this because I, too, am a Doubler. Sure, I’ll go halfway when I can. When the house is only somewhat deplorable and I’m sorta sure we’ve got enough money in the account to put gas in the car… and even then, maybe I’ll only put in a few bucks, just to be safe.

But everything in life… it all feels so important. There’s so little that I can lay aside or put on the back burner. My kids with their mental illnesses, I can’t half that. My son with his kidney disorder and all the things that trigger it, that has to get my all. My advocacy for a foster child that was taken from me and placed into an abusive situation – how could I ever do only 50%? My husband, my church, my clients, the finances, my health, our family… who gets cut?

And what do we do when there’s nothing left to give?

I have faced this same dilemma so very many times. Because all the things in my life deserve more than all that I can give. And that is how I know that Doublers are not survivors.

They are world changers.

For every person that finds themselves so close to the fire that they can feel the heat burning their skin…

For every person who battles to the death for a cause that is noble or to save the ones they love…

For every person willing to lay themselves on the line in order to keep another life going…

You may be too exhausted to see it, but you’re changing someone’s world.

If you fought to keep your wits about you when your child was screaming in your face, when you hold the hand of someone as they lay dying in a hospital bed, if you never stop loving even when you’re being thrown through the wringer – then you are changing the world.

I know you’re tired, friend. So am I. I’m so tired it hurts. But take comfort in this:

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this world’s darkness, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore take up the full armor of God, so that when the day comes, you will be able to stand your ground – and having done everything, to stand.”  Ephesians 6:12-13

Picture from Central Christian Church

This is not just another spiritual cliché. I’m not here to boost anyone up with feel good words and fluffy analogies. But when your child is in your face, remember that it’s not him that you’re battling. And when you’re holding your loved ones hand as they near death, it is not their spirit that is dying. And when you’ve loved with your whole heart and feel that it’s been given back to you time and again, wounded and shattered… then you know you have done everything. You have doubled up, given all that you could, and fought against all that is wrong until you’ve taken your last step.

And when you can go no further, just stand.

Because the key to changing the world is doing all that you can, then stepping aside and allowing God to finish the fight.

Be a Halfer when you can, be a Doubler when you must, and rest in God always.

If any of this hits home with you and you're looking for some extra support, click here to read about joining the Mommyhood: Striving for Sanity Membership Program.

When Bio Parents Die

           In the world of adoption, there are so many issues that parents and children face. Whether the parent is adoptive, foster, or biological, there are numerous decisions and issue to consider. Open versus closed adoption, visitation schedules, when or if to tell a child they were adopted, what information to share about biological parents and health histories are only a few in a sea of vast choices that families need to make, depending on their particular circumstances.

            My older two children were adopted out of the foster care system when they were 4- and 6-years-old. There was never any question they were adopted, as they had and still have vivid memories of their pasts. They are half-siblings, both sharing the same mother but having different fathers. My daughter knows nothing of her birth father – he was incarcerated at the time of her birth and signed rights over immediately. My son, Cameron, however, knew very much about his birth father.

            He knew the feel of the man’s belt on his back, legs, and bottom.  He knew the signs of drug use and saw first-hand the relentless torment that an addict can inflict on young children. He knew the fear of seeing his pets killed, having his house set on fire, and being abandoned in a hospital – left wondering if anyone would ever be back to pick him up. And he knew the terror of nightmares. Ones that still haunt him to this day, reminding him that he may never, in fact, be safe enough to dream like a regular boy.

            And now, my son knows the feeling of confusion. While perusing the online local newspaper, I came across the obituary of Cameron’s birth father. In a state of shock, I jumped up from my chair, my body unsure of where it was going exactly, only knowing that it could no longer stay in its previously seated position. My husband had taken the kids to a local fair and would be returning shortly. I called him instantly, making him aware of the situation. Together, we decided to tell Cameron and his sister the news when they arrived home.

            Although some may question our decision to inform our 10-year-old of such traumatic news, it was a choice we came to easily. Cameron may not mentally be up to speed with other children his age, due to all that stunted him in his earlier years, but he knows more about this sad world than most children ever should. In fact, just a few days prior to learning the news of his bio father’s passing, Cameron was in tears at the psychiatrist’s office, reporting continued nightmares and fears that his first dad will return in the night and try to kill him – revenge for reporting the abuse those 4 years ago.

            Because of Cameron’s Reactive Attachment Disorder, he often doesn’t process his feelings well. They get lost somewhere inside, convoluted by all the grief, all the loss, and all the unreliable adults he has known. Why should he feel safe expressing feelings, or even feeling them at all, for that matter, knowing that he did for 6 whole years before anyone cared to notice that he was hungry, that he was sick, and that he was being grossly mistreated.

            My husband and I sat both kids down at the kitchen table upon their arrival home. It was then that we told them the news we'd learned only an hour before. Wanting this to be a teachable moment for both of my children (as they both struggle with RAD), we talked about how it’s OK to feel more than one emotion at the same time. We talked about how it’s OK to feel sad, even though this man was associated with so many bad memories. We also talked about how it’s OK to feel relieved – happy, even – knowing that this man will never hurt another child again, and knowing that Cameron could now sleep easy.

            My son sat there, taking it all in. He went through a few of the grief stages right away, starting with denial. He hit on anger a bit, too. There was also sadness. Confused about this strange amount of biological loyalty suddenly appearing within him, he tried to brush it away before I reminded him that his first dad, although incredibly flawed, was also loved and created by God – the same God that loves and creates each of us. And to feel saddened by his death is very normal. And in the same breath, I told him that he could feel happy, as well. He was allowed to feel safe. Free. He was able to put the past to rest and find new dreams to occupy his sleep.

            Cameron and Taylor both peppered me with questions and a wide variety of emotions that evening. Cameron even went as far as to make me promise to read the obituaries religiously, just to make sure we don't miss it if his baby brother dies, the little boy that has been missing from out lives for nearly a year.  But what I wanted Cameron to see the most was the obituary itself. In the list of this man’s children was Cameron’s name.

            What you have to understand is that my son’s first family was very bitter that he caused them the inconvenience of all the court hearings that followed. Not only had they refused to attend the CYS-scheduled visits with him, but they refused to acknowledge his very presence at each hearing that followed. They would glare at him from across the courthouse lounge or lavish his sister with attention, ignoring my son completely when he would sheepishly try to say hello. They even went as far as to refuse to give CYS the family’s medical history, which has been a significant stumbling block as we’ve faced all the health scares with Cameron’s kidneys.

            And as he sat there, slowly reading through the many words he didn’t understand in his bio father’s obituary, he finally came to a name he knew. Seeing his own name in front of him, his head popped up suddenly.

            “They remember me? That means they don’t hate me anymore!” he said as tears slipped from beneath long eyelashes. He showed more emotion from the relief of simply being acknowledged than he did at the news of a close relative’s death. Because from the start, that’s what all children want. They want acknowledgement, assurance, care, and love. And from his first family, he didn’t get any of that. So, in one small gesture, a family that could have left his name out of the newspaper, chose to include my son and heal a small part of his heart – a part that I would never have been able to heal.

            I don’t know where this man stood with his Maker when he passed. Quite honestly, we had stopped praying for him a couple years back when Cameron made it quite clear that he didn’t want to do anything that would make him remember the man. And as time went on, he was only mentioned in therapeutic moments when being listed as a source of so much early childhood trauma.

           Also relieved at his passing, I am grateful to the writer of the obituary. I am overjoyed that Cameron was not passed by once again. And I do pray that this man, Cameron’s biological father, was able to find peace in God at the end.

The Day The Fridge Died

Yesterday I found myself in a bit of an odd situation.  It was mid-afternoon when I found myself sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by scattered condiments and salad dressing and a random jar of maraschino cherries.  Looking back, I’m thinking I should’ve just tossed them out then and there.  After all, I couldn’t recall the last time we had ice cream sundaes, so they were probably expired… if items like that even do expire.  But there I sat, a broken open container of almond milk pooling towards me lazily as I glared at it through bitter tears.  In the background, my children frantically knocked on the door – the very door that I had locked moments before after banishing them into nature.  It was a mere 30 seconds before they both realized they needed to pee.

 I feel the need to explain my emotional state to you all.  

 This week was Day Camp Week for my oldest (my oldest who is on a new medication that has made him speak every thought that pops into his head… I had no idea that he was capable of thinking so frequently).  This week was also Vacation Bible School Week for our church, which I help lead.

When I first realized that both events landed on the same week, I immediately went into a state of hypervigilience.  Frantic, I planned out each hour of each day for the duration of the craziness.  Throwing in three doctor appointments, setting up for VBS, and the half-hour commute to and from day camp, all the while accounting for the toddler’s nap schedule, I estimated that I had roughly -8.65 hours to accomplish all that needed to be done for the week.

I hadn’t even started yet and I was already behind!!

Obviously this was also the week my trusty babysitter had to travel out of state for work, so I did what I had to do – I panicked and then reminded myself that it’s only a week.  And we can accomplish anything as long as we know there’s a time limit, right?

Well, that’s what I used to tell myself anyways, before this week happened, that is.

To sum it all up, here are some of the daily events that got jammed into my already crazy schedule:

1)      To start the week off, I stabbed myself through the middle finger of my dominant hand.  Yes, there was blood.  Yes, there was nausea and dizziness.  No, this is not what caused the refrigerator to explode its condiments all over the kitchen… that happened at the end of the week!  Using a fondue prong to poke a hole in dried up nail glue for my daughter, I accidently pierced through the top of my finger and straight out the side.  After bandaging it thoroughly, I realized that I was going to be attending VBS with the inability to bend my finger down all the way – causing me to flip off each and every parent, child, and volunteer I met.  Nothing says “Welcome To Our Church” like the worship leader giving everyone the finger.

2)      This week, my toddler threw a royal fit in the mall parking lot, a place where we were killing time before having to pick Cameron up from camp.  This occurred during the middle of a thunder storm, and I dropped my purse, spilling all the contents under our van.  I climbed under the vehicle to retrieve my things, coming up soaking wet and filthy... and then my shoe broke.  My new shoe.  It broke beyond repair, leaving me to go collect my son from camp a wet, muddy, shoe-less mess... and all the other parents looked at me with pity.  

3)      Wyatt also decided to pack his cuppy into my purse before we left the house for the day.  Only the lid wasn’t shut.  Only after setting my purse on my lap later that day did I realize that my legs were getting wet.  When I lifted the purse, RED juice dripped from the lining of my brand new bag, staining my pants AND all that was inside.  My umbrella is now pink, you guys.

4)      While at the store, Wyatt basically exploded in his diaper.  This occurred shortly after we realized that we’d left the diaper bag at VBS the prior night (because having no sitter, he was forced to come to VBS and eat his weight in cheese balls with the very generous ladies working the snack station!)  Seeing that the only thing we had left was a swim diaper in the van, I tried to make due.  Except a half hour later, we stood in the middle of Walmart as peed dripped down Wyatt’s legs and shoes.  And since he fell asleep on the way home, the fact that I had to change his drenched clothes completely woke him up, rendering him napless for the rest of the day.

5)      Taylor tried to tell me that she broke our ceramic garbage can by “looking at it”.  When I looked at her like she had 3 heads, she burst into tears, saying, “You never believe me!”  Of COURSE I don’t believe you, honey!  Because you’re 8 years old and you don’t have dark magic!!  You obviously didn’t cause the garbage can to explode with your laser-focus!  But what do I know?  I only have 2 degrees… and she can’t even spell “garbage can”.

6)      This week, our audio-visual system at the church decided to malfunction.  Why?  Who knows, because I have about as much technical experience as a giraffe.  I spent over an hour unplugging and re-plugging cords in, turning machines off and restarting them, calling and recalling friends that could tell me what the “little red button” does and if the “blue knobby thingys” are important or not.

7)      Over half of our VBS volunteers also had crazy weeks, causing most of them to cancel some, if not all, of the days they were scheduled to help out.  Luckily, we had other random people stop by the church and we sucked them into our madness (after having them fill out the necessary paperwork, of course)… not that it helped me remember several of their names.  Sadly, I ended up calling everyone Sweetie or Buddy in order to save face.  (Bur rest assured, they were needed and they stepped up, so I love them.  Whoever they are.)

8)      Because our church welcomes those that sometimes don’t fit in at other churches, we found ourselves on the receiving end of a group of kiddos that were “energetic”, many of whom have special needs.  Now, for the record, I LOVE that our church is this place.  I love that we open our arms to everyone and are willing to make them our family within seconds of shaking their hands.  This, quite honestly, is my favorite thing about where we worship.  But as the needs of the many flew around me like confetti in a tornado, I found myself running after AWOLing children, pulling a googly eye out of a little girl’s nose, keeping a child from pulling up little girls’ shirts, and uttering the phrase “For the last time, please stop licking your neighbors’ ears!”  And to top it off, I found a half-eaten lollipop in my purse, securely stuck to the inside lining… and we didn’t even have suckers at VBS this year.

Photo by www.scholarcenter.com

And then, finally, as the week was drawing to a close and my sanity was waning (OK, let’s be honest, I lost it somewhere on Tuesday after my shoe broke), someone ate all the pepperoni out of our fridge.  My pepperoni.  And the VBS power point I was working on took 6 hours to do something that should've taken 20 minutes.  And did I mention Cameron’s new medication and the incessant talking?

 Friends, this is when I broke our refrigerator door.

I'm not exactly proud of breaking the fridge.  They say that it is in our moments of weakness that we find our strength.  And I did.  But there was no pepperoni and I hadn't eaten, and therefore, the fridge needed to die.

My husband returned home that afternoon and quickly surveyed the children locked outside, fear etched onto their little faces.  He cautiously unlocked the door with the key and worked his way to the kitchen.  Shattered pieces of broken plastic and food residue littered the floor.  Silently, he walked towards me as I hyperventilated at my computer, willing it to work.  Kneeling down beside me, he gently offered me a hug.

“So… are we having a rough day?” he tried.

My face still puffy from crying, my hands still shaking from anxiety, I received his hug and just let myself relax into his big arms.  When he pulled back, there was a trace of a smirk on his face.  He lovingly nicknamed me “The Hulk” before allowing the children to come back into the house and finally pee.  And I was given strict instructions to go out to eat and have some alone time.

I didn’t argue.  After all, he was right.  I needed some alone time.  I needed to regroup after all the craziness and constant running from place to place this week.

That night, four children came to know Christ at VBS.  Four small souls that didn’t know who God was now will spend their eternity with Him.    

I tell you all this because of one important thing:

In the midst of it all, It Is Well.

When VBS seems like it’s a disaster, then It Is Well.  When my purse and all its contents are ruined and I’m left shoeless and muddy, It Is Well.  When my pepperoni runs out in the middle of a low-sugar moment, then It Is  STILL Well!  (And when my husband saved me from breaking the rest of the appliances with my super-human strength, It Was most definitely Well.)

I got thinking, maybe your week has been somewhat like mine.  Maybe you've felt the stress and maybe you've lost your cool.  Maybe you've felt the pressures of having to be everywhere for everyone, doing everything and not feeling like you've got any help or like everything you touch breaks or falls apart or you have a toddler (enough said) or a child (or two) with mental health issues or behavioral needs or emotional trauma.... 

Maybe you've reached your limit this week and you think you can't possibly go on... that a day of rest cannot get here soon enough!

Even so, It IS Well.  It is so well that God gives us the right to cry and be frustrated and angry and sad without Him losing control of our situations.  He allows us to be human and emotional - and then to rest, knowing that He's got it.  He's got your kid.  He's got your job.  He's got your health.  And he's even got that relationship that's on shaky ground.  He's got YOU, Friend.  All of you, every single part.

And even if you don’t have big arms to physically rest upon, know that God’s arms are always there.  He’s holding them out to you, just like He held them out to four beautiful children this week.  Just reach out and remember that He won’t let you go… no matter how many fridges you destroy.

We Don't Have to Agree in Order to Love

            I am a parent of children with special needs.  Oftentimes I find myself on the receiving end of terrible behavior and on the giving end of yet another lecture or adult tantrum.  I do not always agree with my children’s behavior, but I love them anyway.

            My husband is not perfect.  He sometimes says bad words while doing home improvement projects and he lets our children ingest far more junk food than I would ever allow on my watch.  I do not agree with each of my husband’s choices, but I love him anyway.

            I don’t feel that this is a difficult concept to understand.  Do you?

            Because lately it seems like society is struggling to realize what is so basic to me.  That we can love without agreeing.  That we can find a way in this world without feeling the need to be cookie-cutter in our beliefs.  That we can reach out to others, even when we are on different sides of the political, religious, racial, and gender fences.

            I ask myself daily, What is going on with this world?  Why is there so much need to make everyone believe the same way in order for us to exist with one another? Why must we “take sides”? Why are we judged for not changing our Facebook profile pictures to support the latest world crisis?  When did being either Republican or Democrat mean that we are no longer united, or even simply American?

            I am a Christian.  I am a registered Independent voter.  I am Heterosexual.  I am a Caucasian woman, wife, mother, and daughter.  And I’m terribly concerned about the fact that our culture is pushing me into a corner where I am only allowed to associate with those of “my kind” out of fear that my love for ALL mankind may be tainted by intolerance or disagreement in some way.  I am even more concerned that so many of those around me seem unaware that they, too, are being pushed into their own very specific corners.

            As a person, I don’t have to agree with your views on sexuality, your opinions on gun control, or your stand on immigration.  And as a Christian, I most certainly do not have to change my own beliefs to co-exist with my neighbors.  Because in my eyes, ALL human life is precious.  And that is why I will mourn for every life.  Whether that life is lost to cancer, a shooting, suicide, war, or even execution on death row – you will not find me on the rejoicing end of anything that means one person is given permission to take the life of another.

            Perhaps that makes some of my Republican friends angry.  And maybe some of my Democrat friends will send me frustrated emails.  I would guess that even my Christian friends could find some way to disagree with something I believe.  But here’s the thing, folks.  Are you ready?

            I still love you.  We don’t have to agree on everything.  We barely have to agree on anything!  You are created by a God that has a plan for your life.  And whereas you may not be on the same path that I think is correct, I still love you.

            Understand this.  My love is not a Tolerance vs. Acceptance kind of love.  It’s not a love that means I’ll bad mouth you behind your back when I walk away.  I will love you with the only kind of love that I know… the kind that allows me to still hug my kids before bed, even when they’ve been complete turds.  And it’s a love that lets me snuggle close to my husband at night, even though we fought about money just hours before.  It’s a Godly love – plain and simple.

Photo by www.pocketcultures.com

            For some reason, we always try to include ourselves into the tragedy of others.  We put our own views ahead of what we’re called to do, which is love others through their pain.  Why can’t we just grieve our country’s repeated losses without being judged, lessened by disagreements over lifestyle, or arguments over political debate?  At what point are we just blatantly disrespecting another’s loss by including ourselves in the mix, like it’s somehow about us personally?  

            Just as easy as it was in the beginning of this post, I will say it again:  I do not have to agree with someone’s choices in order to grieve their loss.  Period.  Because it’s not about us.  It’s never been about us.  It’s always been about a sinful world, in need of a Savior – in need of large amounts of grace and mercy.  And when the world is hurting, I want to be Jesus’ hands and feet of that mercy, not another roadblock that pushes people to their respective corners.

            So today, as a concerned citizen, I say this:

            If you do not have love for any particular person or group, then please allow God to check your heart and fill you with His love – one that is pure and prays for those who struggle or who are causing contention or who have committed a crime.  Ask Him to give you love for those who are like you as well as for those who are very unlike you.  Let yourself be overwhelmed with the loss of any life and to pour yourself out in any way that you can.

            And I also have this to say… to those of you who feel defensive – to those who walk around feeling targeted or unsupported – to those who are always ready for an argument or judgment or political battle – You, too, should allow God to check your heart.  Learn to accept love from those around you without turning everything into a debate.  Learn to disagree peaceably and to not make every act of kindness from another group into something that fits a particular agenda.  Allow yourself to put down your weapons and your fists when someone offers a helping hand.

            Because we are all people.  And we were all created by the same Holy God.  And we all need His love.

            And we can all learn to love, despite disagreements.

            Choose to be peace.  Choose to be hope.  Choose to be love.

Cody and the Hairy Thing

Cody and the Hairy Thing

            A dear friend asked me if I would be interested in reading two books written by her children.  Because I love reading and whole-heartedly support anyone pursing the art of writing, I immediately agreed.  And in doing so, I decided that I would read the books to my own kids, in order to get a younger perspective of the stories as well.

            Little did I know that this reading would turn into a bonding experience between me and my children.  Despite the busyness of the end of the school year, both my 8- and 10-year-olds would religiously remind me that we needed to “read that cool book!”

            It has to be said that neither of my children are big readers.  And even when I choose to read to them, their gnat-like attention spans take over and they can’t ever tell me anything that I’d just read to them.  In fact, I once read 4 chapters of a book before realizing that my son had been sleeping… with his eyes open.

            All of this to say, if my kids are excited about a book, then it HAS to be good!

            As an adoptive mom, I’m always looking for literature that helps reinforce a positive message to kids about finding their forever family, all the while reconciling their past grief and loss.  And in this first book, Cody and the Hairy Thing¸ young Briton Lafreniere has done just that.  At only 9-years-old, he penned an easy-to-read story filled with imagination, faith in Christ, and the importance of “finding one’s clan” in this life.

            Filled with moral dilemmas, a range of emotions, and difficult decisions that any grade school child may face, Lafreniere found a way to creatively inspire his peers to look to God, respect their parents, and follow their hearts - things that many of us parents are desperately trying to instill into our children at this vulnerable age. 

           When asked how they could relate to the characters in the book, my kids instantly shared a level of insight that is normally not present.  Cameron, my 10-year-old, said that he was taken from his family and placed with a new one, just like one of the story’s main players.  He revealed that he, too, felt a range of emotions, both happy and sad and scared, while we were all working to figure out this new life together.

            In turn, my 8-year-old daughter, Taylor, struggled to hold back tears as two main characters had to part from one another.  She shared that it reminded her of parting with her baby brother.  And for any parent looking for a story that allows for teachable moments, Cody and the Hairy Thing is chocked full of those very moments.  We were able to stop, process feelings, relate the scenarios to our own lives, and talk about how Cody, the boy in the story, may handle them.

            When all is said and done, I’m tired of having to proof everything that my kids are exposed to.  From the friends they choose to the music they listen to, the television shows they watch to the books they read (or are forced to read, in our case!).  And to find a story that didn’t require me to worry, that didn’t need me to monitor, and that inspired my own children to be interested in readingAND writing?  To me, this was a blessing too great not to share.

            I hope that every parent out there supports this young author, purchases his book, and sits back as your own child steps into the imaginative world of Cody and the Hairy Thing.

Cody and the Hairy Thing

By Briton Lafreniere