One of our two dogs passed away last year. My husband would say, our dog traveled over the rainbow bridge. I would say our dog died. We are pretty different in that regard.

So it’s safe to say that when our dog died last year very unexpectedly, we weren’t prepared to have the conversation about death with our three-year-old son. Like all parents do who love their children, we did our best.

…And now our three year old thinks our dog lives in space, watching us from above.

If you can’t tell, things got a bit lost in translation.

Subscribe now

Before our dog had died, we had visited the cemetery where David’s grandparents are buried. At that time my husband, David, had explained that our son’s great grandparent’s bodies were buried there, but their souls were everywhere, watching us from above.

Since then, we’ve learned “From above” can take on many meanings, especially if you’re a toddler.

To most people, especially those of the religious sort, this means heaven. While David is spiritual, he’s not religious. And so he had not mentioned heaven. He just left it at “from above” and that seemed to satisfy our son at the time. He didn’t have any further questions about that day.

When our dog had died, David explained to our son that our ol’ pup was now with our son’s great grandparents.

“Oh. So he’s in space.” Our son had said plain and simple.

That’s when it occurred to my husband and I that “From above” to a toddler who loves trains, excavators, and…space ships… “above” is obviously outer space.

And honestly, David and I are very open ended and curious about spirits and life and death, so—while we both realized why our son had come to that conclusion—we didn’t need to have a conversation to decide that, perhaps, our son’s great grandparents and now our family dog was in space. I mean, who’s to say?!

So we left it there.

Share

Which brings us to today while we were walking under the cherry blossoms that a warm March had brought us.

Our daughter’s birthday was coming up and we started to comment on how much our children were growing.

“I’m growing so much!” our son exclaimed.

“You are. But you gotta stop,” I joked. “Stop growing so fast!”

My son took on a very serious tone. “No, mom. I have to grow.”

“Why?” My husband asked.

“Because, I want to grow so tall that I can see into space and visit our dog.”

My husband and I looked at each other.

“So I’ll just keep growing, and then I’ll get too see him again.” Our son continued.

“You still have a ways to go,” my husband said. “You’ve got a lot of growing to do before then.”

My eyes began to tear up.

But isn’t that even more accurate? I thought. We all are just growing a little taller, a little closer to sky—or in this case, space—and when we grow tall enough, it will be time for us to see all of our friends and family in space. Isn’t that a nice way to think about death? Reaching a height that returns us to our loved ones?

Death is a complicated topic to take on with children, but I’ve found myself impressed by the resilience and openness our son has taken it on with. I hope to be like him one day, when I’m older, and a little closer to the sky.

There is a world I can’t control, despite what you might think. And that world leaks inside the doors of our own home. And each day, I decide how to go about it. Some days, I fight it. Battle it. Swing at it with my sharpest sword. Other days, I surrender to it. Peaceful, but unsettled.

When I kneel so that your eyes mirror mine, I tell you what I’m about to do. I do so with intention.

“Mama is going to work. Can I eat with you later?” I say.

“Play with me five more minutes,” You say.

“Dada really wants to play with you. And your sister too. I will eat with you later, okay?”

I’ve already made a mistake by asking you a question. “Okay?” doesn’t matter. Because even if it’s not okay for you, I will work and eat with you later. I know this because even when it’s not okay for me to work now and eat with you later, I will work now and eat with you later anyway.

There is a pain I want to explain away as I close my door to the sound of pretend engines and race cars, make believe tigers and kitty cats, construction sites and fire-breathing dragons. I want to explain that I’m not choosing work over you. I’m choosing work for you.

But then I have to explain what that means. What paying bills are. What jobs are. What money is. And though some say it can’t bring us happiness, others say it’s what makes the world go round. I want to explain that what I do pays for the magic that keeps water flowing and heat blowing into our home. That it pays for the magic that allows us to afford the rising cost of groceries, gas, and doctor visits.

But that’s something that I can control: what I tell you. What you understand about money as a three year old.

And I don’t want you to be wondering how much your happiness costs. I don’t want you to think about the world in that transactional way. Not yet. I want joy to stand on its own for you. For our family.

I bite my lip as I start the workday.

I just wish I knew how to explain that I would pay any price for your well-being. For the priceless pricetag on the sound of your giggle, on those bounding footsteps I hear pitter patter endlessly across our wood floor, on the knowledge that you’re safe.

Dad practices saying thank you to me from the family in front of you:

“Thank you for working for our family,” he says every now and then.

“You’re welcome,” I respond. “Thank you for caring for the little ones while I work.”

I want to say more to my husband in front of you: You’re welcome. I will work for our family every day. I will fight for my family every day. I will push for a better life for us every day. Just like you do…But I do wish sometimes I was the one who was thanked for caring for the little ones—if not just so they knew that, indeed, I work for them. For our family. For their childhood. For their futures.

I want to explain away the guilt I feel whenever I’m walking the opposite direction from the noise that fills our home, but that would be selfish. Instead, I busy myself by thinking about what we’ll make for lunch. And see if I can sneak an extra book to read with you before I return back to the job.

The job I choose every day for you.

This story is centered around Evelyn, a first-time mother who prepares meticulously for her baby to arrive only to find herself without any understanding of what motherhood would actually entail—this sudden realization I found all too common among mothers myself when I had my first child, Candland.

I’m currently querying this book and looking for agent representation. Please share with anyone you feel who may want to make a connection. I’m finding this space to be quite overwhelming, and I know this is just the beginning. That said, if I’m unable to find representation, I may jump in and create the damned thing myself—trust me, you’ll be the first to know if I decide to go the self publishing route.

Either adventure sounds rather exciting. Wish me luck. And in the meantime, enjoy one of the chapters below.

The first three days of my son’s life were the most difficult three days in my life I had ever experienced. The first two weeks of my son's life were the hardest two weeks I had ever experienced, with the first month being the hardest month as well. No baby class I took (this is how you burp the baby) and no advice other parents gave me (Just be kind to yourself) even came close to preparing me for what was to come. 

After labor and delivery, my body was wheeled out by a nurse while I held the soft, damp infant in my arms. My husband wheeled our bags, pillows, and car seat beside me. When I had first been offered a wheelchair when I arrived at the hospital, I had turned down the offer thinking it was silly because I was so…able to walk. When I sat in the wheelchair being rolled from labor and delivery to the recovery room, I found the idea of walking silly. After 17 hours of labor and a 2nd degree tear somewhere in the dark gaping hole between my legs, I had made it to the “recovery” room where it feels like I did everything but recover.

I was transferred from the wheel chair to the bed. My husband put the cargo down in the corner. He walked to the corner of the room where a nurse showed him how to swaddle the baby for the first time. From the bed, I strained to see the rest of my family. I could see my baby’s legs and the serious look my husband had on his face as he watched the first of many blanket wrappings our son would be conquered… or not conquered… by. 

There were many women in the room surrounding my husband and my baby. It was bright and then it was dark. And without being able to piece it together through bright, lively, swift chatter, my husband and I were somehow left alone in the dark room with our baby. Our son was in a small plastic-looking hospital bed on wheels next to me. My husband on the pull out sofa. The catheter was still attached to me, so I didn’t have a need to use the restroom just yet. The IV was still attached as well. When would these things be removed? It was quiet. So unbelievably quiet…I took a deep inhale to launch into my first sob for a much needed meltdown—when I was interrupted. My vent session balked.

A small cry cut through the silence, through the darkness, through the sob forming in my throat. My child. My newborn’s cry. How can I explain how it sounded? Like I had taken this soul from its peaceful place and wretched it out into a world full of cold and hot and loud and bright. To a place where hunger was relentless; and yet nutrition must be consumed from another body with a new, difficult, and exerting act rather than how it was before: continuously flowing from one body to its own, effortlessly. It was the sound of a being that knew I had taken him from that safe, warm, easy harbor and wanted me to know that for the rest of my life I would pay for it. 

From this realization, the baby let out this anguish. I felt bewildered, but before I had the time to cry angrily in response (for this little tyke was stealing my terrible and great thunder), I realized the strength of the cry was still…small. The breath was short. The cry only contained the beginning and endings of shrieks with no middle tone. The baby was too small, too young to let out the long bellowing wails he desired. He was too fragile. And I knew he couldn’t communicate all of the pains he wanted to tell me about. So, he chose one pain to communicate—a pain a deeper part of me, a primal part could not ignore: hunger. 

My pain, my anguish, my fear. It all disappeared. I rushed to my baby. I only needed to turn and prop myself up, to lift my baby from his box to my own hospital bed. But it took more effort and coordination than I had anticipated. The process just to bring him to my breast was enough to prompt the trembling of my body. It didn’t matter though, at least not once he latched onto my nipple. And whenever he did and began sucking, I thanked God I didn’t have any latching issues that I had heard others had had. I sat in the darkness, tears sliding down my cheeks for the mothers who could not respond to the hunger cry in the way they had hoped. 

I had often heard mothers say “I bore you into this world.” I always shrunk back from that kind of mentality. The mentality that children owed their mothers for bringing them into the world. I was told that once I had had a child, I would understand the sentiment. Now on the other side, I’m relieved to know my resentment of that ideology has not gone away. Instead, I now understand why I disagreed. It was common sense: All mothers owed their children for bringing them into this world. 

That is why when they’re cold, we warm them. Why when they’re wet, we change them. And why when they’re hungry, we feed them. And we do those things until death, where we return to wherever we go before and after life, where we will leave this world of constant bodily needs, and our children will eventually join us and confront us with a smug and simple: If the world was so great, why did you come back here?

In the recovery room, I was unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. I was woken up to take medication, to sign medical papers, to submit a birth certificate, to learn how to breastfeed, to be asked of my pain, to be helped to the toilet, to be detached from my catheter, from my IV, to order food, to be given food, to permit my son to be tested for hearing and sight, to vaccinate my child, to do more things than should have been possible in the 48 hours or so we were there.

I remember my son being rolled away for the hearing and vision test. The nurse said he would be gone for 15-30 minutes. I realized this would be 15-30 minutes where I would not be disturbed. Where no cry of hunger could send me into action. I agreed with the hope of sleep in mind. And as soon as the door shut and my baby was no longer in the room, I wondered about him. I worried about him. I obsessed over the absence of him in our room as well as the existence of him elsewhere.

What if they got mixed up and returned the wrong baby? What if he was deaf or blind or both? What if they found something else wrong with the test? What if they were too rough with him? What if he was crying and needed me and I was in here sleeping? What if—.

And before I could think of another scenario, he was returned to me. Hungry. And I welcomed him, completely and utterly sleep deprived and exhausted. But he was safe. And that was the only thing that I could process. No sleep or rest could defeat my demons now. Only his safety.

When we left the hospital, still under the 72 hour mark, I recall watching one of the nurses show us how to fit our son into his brand new car seat. I nodded, watching carefully and taking in her instruction. However, I looked at my son. Examined him. Closed eyes, red-pigmented face, no neck, tiny fists, soft, fleshy skin. He would not survive a car accident. There was just no way a human this small with all of the fancy straps in the world could survive it. I doubted he could survive much at this point. He was so small, so delicate. It was then a line came to me I had read once: “His mortality was always with me, constant as a second beating heart.” I couldn’t recall then where it was from. But I related to these words too much, and they haunted me as we clicked him into the car seat base in our SUV.

I was relieved to find my husband believed the same. We did not speak when he drove, but I knew he felt the same because he drove 5 under the speed limit and we avoided the highway. This was very unlike Henry. And as if worrying about a small baby wasn’t enough, it was then that I realized I was desperate for Henry to continue living as well. It wasn’t just my baby I would worry about. As capable as I thought I once was, I could not raise Oliver on my own. My eyes scattered as we approached each intersection. I was ready to holler at the sign of any impending danger. Please God. I thought. If one of us must die, make it me. I cannot bear the idea of my son or husband’s death. And Henry is stronger than me. Let them live and take me instead.

There was no accident. No member of the family was called by the reaper. It was somehow unbelievable to me that all three of us had been spared and made it safely home.

When we pulled up to our house, I recall how I felt. My eyes were so tired, they were dry, causing me to constantly blink. My lips cracked and flaky. My tailbone throbbing. My labia burning. My spine tingling on the inside, itching on the outside. I took slow careful steps and used both rails when taking the 5 stairs up to our front door. My husband carried our son. The welcome mat laid in front of us. We looked at each other for a moment, each of us realizing our home would never be how we had left it again. That we were beginning a new era. I unlocked the door and opened it. My husband waited until our eyes locked before he took his first step inside our house…The first time in our house as parents.

The next 24 hours would continue to be part of the hardest 3 days of my life. There was no sleep. There was no strength. There was no escape. Survival, I had accepted, was impossible. I was simply waiting for my body and soul to fade away and dissolve into nothing as I continued to try to function and run on no sleep, no nutrition, and—most obvious—no experience.

There were peaceful moments, but even in the most peaceful moments, when Oliver suckled from my breast, eyes closed, hands slowly loosening from a demanding fist to a content open palm…I still worried something might go wrong. And I could not smile, I could not laugh without wondering if Henry or Oliver would unexpectedly, for lack of a better phrase, drop dead.

And the only time I wasn’t worrying was when another irritant had superseded my anxiety. It might have been screams from Oliver, it might have been our baby’s unwillingness to negotiate sleeping without our touch, or visitors trying to push their way through the door to give baby a kiss. It was all a type of stress. The adoring smiles, the baby coos, the little moments of joy I had been promised by every diaper commercial I had come across. Where were they? I wondered. They weren’t to be found. How old were the babies who were on the Gerber baby ads? When did my baby start to look like that? When would my baby be able to track me with their eyes? Know me with their fingers? Smile by my voice? 

When?

No. I think back. No class. No advice. Nothing prepared me for this. No one painted the picture of the ordeal we had faced. However. Only one thing had brushed the surface of the experience. That line on mortality that had come and haunted me. I had remembered where it was from—An excerpt from the book Circe, by Madeline Miller.

It starts with, “I did not go easy to motherhood. .  Thank the gods I did not have to sleep. Every minute I must wash and boil and clean and scrub and put to soak. Yet how could I do that, when every minute he also needed something, food and change and sleep? That last I had always thought the most natural thing for mortals, easy as breathing, yet he could not seem to do it. However I wrapped him, however I rocked and sang, he screamed, gasping and shaking until the lions fled, until I feared he would do himself harm.” 

This precious section of the book ends with a line that gave me what I needed to—perhaps not to survive—but to understand. The line is the following: “This was the child I deserved.”

Driving to dinner to meet the family who flew in for the birthday weekend.

My son is one year old.

Reorganizing the fridge to fit a half-eaten Kirkland Chocolate cake.

My son is one year old. 

On the toilet.

My son is one year old.

If someone asked me about my approach to parenting, I would think, approach? Despite all efforts…books read, webinars attended, classes taken…I didn’t approach parenting. The only thing that approached was the baby. And though it’s 10 months of approaching, the baby—our son—was still a shock to our systems when he arrived.

So, when I look back…What do I remember really?

Month 1

The first month of Candland’s life from his parent’s perspective isn’t even called “We survived.” It’s actually called “Did we survive? Are we still alive? And most importantly, is the baby still breathing?”

There is so much worry and concern with a love like this. It’s hard to get past life and death. Life and death—both extremes which have always existed in our lucky and mostly uneventful lives—suddenly had a presence in every room. The mortality exists even outside of rooms too. There was no more fresh air. Only air where our son is alive which means… he could die. 

His death is a possibility now. It wasn’t before he was here. And sometimes that in itself is hard to accept. How could I ever have said this world is a beautiful world or this life is a good life when that is a possibility?

And it is. And, even so, month one comes and it goes.

Month 2

Month two is where I started to understand what true sleep deprivation was. I read recently that new parents lose 45 days of sleep in the first year. I’m convinced that number is wrong. I feel like I had lost 300 days of sleep by the third week of Candland’s life. My eyes burned for sleep, and I cried many dehydrated, sleepless tears. And by month two, I was sure of one thing mostly:

Our understanding of being parents and what a baby was…was completely and utterly wrong.

My mind wondered about the return policy for infants. Could we return him to the hospital? But visit in a couple of weeks when we had caught up on some sleep and then decide if we really, actually wanted to be parents?

In the second month, I wondered if I had ever really seen a baby that was a month or two old. They don’t look like the babies on the diaper boxes or baby food bottles. These little immature gremlins are small and move in short, strange jolts as if wired by some electric energy from another realm. Their cries come out in such a strained sound that it seems like they’re only inhaling when they screech out—if that’s physically possible. Their eyes aren’t able to focus. They can’t see me. They don’t even know me, and yet they’re already demanding my submission.

And not even a smile. I’m all for everyone smiling whatever amount that makes them feel comfortable. They don’t need to smile for me. But still, I kept telling my son through my desperate glances, If you would just smile at me. Once. ONCE. That would be enough. And all doubt would fade. All envy and frustration would melt away. We would see you and your happiness, and then two things would happen: We would know what your happiness looks like and, two, we would know your happiness was possible. That you could be appeased. And then we would work all of our lives to make it happen more.

Month 3 

In the third month, he smiled. He made sounds that weren’t cries. He slept one night for 10 hours straight, and I woke up and recognized the stranger on the other side of the bed. It was my husband all along—thank goodness. I didn’t know who I was without sleep so I had certainly not been able to discern who he was in the last couple of weeks. But it was him. He was here. He had stayed. And I like to hold him to another, higher standard, but the thought had crossed my mind then when the last couple of months had been hard. Many men leave or have left or will leave the mother of their child and their child altogether. Here was my husband and father of my child. He was here and he was just as tired, just as worn, just as broken down. But we were here for our baby. For each other. For ourselves.

In month three, we were on an actual schedule. Our baby slept. Our baby smiled. Our baby cuddled. And his wake time and sleep times were rather predictable. I looked at my husband midway through the month and thought, Okay. That was hard, but we’ve got this… And then I remembered, Two more weeks and then I have to return to work. I have to do this and my old, full-time job. And I was filled with incredible doubt and disbelief. But I tried to stay present. Let’s just enjoy the next two weeks. We’ve figured this thing out. Let’s just enjoy. I thought.

Month 3.5

I had asked for an extension for going back to work. Two more weeks. Our efforts to get our son on a schedule had paid off, because his sleep was so predictable in the hospital. He slept quietly in the bassinet and the nurses were kind enough to be quiet when they checked in on my husband. I had started pumping now for some weeks to prepare for returning to work. David was able to feed Candland from his hospital bed. One arm holding our baby’s head, one arm holding the bottle. But my husband wasn’t strong enough to hold our baby long enough to finish the bottle. But he tried. And after a few moments, he looked at me, not smiling. Then he nodded. All done. And I stood up and took our baby and the bottle from him. 

David was always so good with bottle feeding, but I was inexperienced and I struggled a lot to try to finish those bottles while he recovered from his first surgery. I had felt good from breast to baby, but just couldn’t figure out the bottle to Candland’s lips. He seemed to understand bottles were only for him and dad and disliked that I was trying to encroach on their “thing”. So I would usually give up and breastfeed him directly, trying to breath and stay calm. The last thing I would need then was for my milk supply to disappear, and I had heard stress could do that to a mother. And I was a stressed mother.

In quiet moments when I watched David and Candand nap — their wake windows had kind of become in sync after a few days — I would laugh bitterly and quietly to myself. How hard I thought month 1 and month 2 were. How I thought returning to work would be thee struggle. The ultimate challenge of my version of motherhood. David was our primary caretaker for when I went back to work—.

Is. 

I corrected myself. He IS the primary caretaker for Candland. We would figure it out. He would watch Candland while I worked. He couldn’t stand. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t hold Candland or a bottle for longer than a minute or two. But he would always be the primary caretaker, leg or no leg. That was the plan, and we would stick to it. Perhaps because it was this month where a lot of identities were ripped away. He was no longer the home builder. He was no longer the student. He was no longer the protector. He was no longer who I called on when I needed a heavy object moved. But I needed to work, so he would primary caretake. And we never discussed otherwise.

Month 4 

Our son must have missed sleeping in the hospital, because he now refused to sleep when we first came home. Our whiteboard that was used to record Candland’s feeds, diapers, and sleep schedule became the tool we used to keep track of David’s medication schedule. Our son learned how to turn onto his belly without any help, and he started to sleep face down so that I had to lightly put my hand on his back for a few seconds to make sure he was still breathing. 

By day, I was working full-time again. My team had wanted to schedule a team activity with me now that I was back. They were trying to decide between river rafting an hour and a half away from where I lived or bumper cars. They ended up going with bumper cars, and I happily heard all about it the next day.

Month 5 Month 6 Month 7 Month 8 Month 9 Month 10 

I had started an old fashioned calendar (made of paper) for Candland when he was first born. I have some milestones written down, like when he first said “mamamamama” or first smiled. And that calendar is quite full from May - August. September, however, there are no milestones. And none in October or November or December and so on and so forth. Nothing written down. But he is sitting up and crawling all the same. He started eating solids, loving ribeye steak and totally indifferent to banana. He transitioned from a swaddle to a sleep sack beautifully. He babbles in different consonants, and pulls to stand like a champ.

He is so much more than that empty calendar, so I put it away.

When David saw a stock photo image of a dad carrying his son over his shoulders, he frowned. And I was pulled back to the days after we had had our first miscarriage, and we saw a father holding hands with his toddler on the sidewalk by the fire station. He had frowned then too. When my Google Photos created a video of memories, I showed him the pictures we had taken of us when Candland had turned 3 months old. David was holding him with ease on his lap, smiling, and Candland was giving one of his smug little yawns pretending to be tired. When I showed David this photo, he was gentle with his voice, but stern: “I can’t look at that…Sorry.”

Despite the pain of the memories, I had continued to take photos of everything all the same. David couldn’t look at photos from before the accident, whether they were from our wedding or just simple firsts of Candland’s like his first bath or first swaddle…And I couldn’t find the time to write down and record the magnificence of Candland’s seemingly daily changes. But we would know this story. I would take photos of everything. And when we were ready, and Candland was older, we would look at everything all together.

Subscribe now

Candland will one day see where he slept during his father’s many surgeries. He will see how he loved grasping the tennis balls on the ends of dad’s rented walker. He will see through very terrible selfies how I carried him around my chest with a carrier and some straps while I pushed his dad in a wheelchair around the block. And he will know how his dad managed to still rock him to sleep with the up and down movements of his core, chest, and shoulders from the corner of the couch. He would see and he would know. 

Month 11

When Candland was younger, I had wanted him to smile when I should have appreciated those one-hour wake windows and how content he was to just be held. David often did his exercises he learned from physical therapy at home, holding firmly onto the countertop and taking shadow steps by swinging his legs one at a time slightly forwards and backwards, and we found that Candland had started copying him from the play pen. Our little baby would watch dad while holding the top of the barrier and lift his foot and send it back. Then he would return his foot to its place and do the same with the other foot with a little bend in his knee just like dad.

“When he starts walking,” David had said, “It’s game over for us.” 

“It was game over for us months ago,” I had said. 

We laughed. Our humor is now darker, but at least it’s still there.

Month 12

Everyone is here for you. Both our families traveled from near and far. There is talk. There is laughter. Balloons. Cake. More cake. Cookies. A red wagon. I looked around. This year has gone by so fast. I try to pause here and there and take it in. 

My son is one year old.

I turn and look at you. Held by grandma. She is whispering something to you by the blossoming trees to the north. 

I answer the question only I am willing to ask as I watch you point at the white blooms: Do I feel guilty that you didn’t get the first year we had pictured for you? 

There were things that we had envisioned doing with our first child at certain ages and stages that we didn’t get to do…There were the long 5 mile walks I was so looking forward to having you join that we loved doing in the summertime. There were the day trips and road trips and hikes that we wanted to show you before winter came. There were the snow days that we wanted to toss you into and the icy canyons we wanted to visit…those were the memories we had planned for you.

Instead, we made smaller, unplanned memories. And I remember them fondly… 

Your dad, bending over the crib, balancing on one leg, leaning over the bars, just to pat your tummy. Seeing you lie in the Dock a Tot beside your dad on the couch, tears streaming down his eyes, as Bluey laid down some magical parenting wisdom. Dad and I ordering a random assortment of items from Amazon to build a makeshift “leg elevator” so we could go on walks outside while still keeping his leg up. (I’m proud to expose you to the appropriate swears when someone leaves a scooter on the sidewalk that I have to move so we can continue our stroll.) I remember how long it took to pull Dad's cow suit over his leg so we could walk the block as a true herd and take you door to door for your first Halloween. I’ve never seen a 34 year old man more pleased with the candy “haul” we collected that day. I remember him reading The Song of Achilles to you while you laid contently on his chest, belly down. He finished his chapter whether you stayed awake or not…

So the answer is no. No, I do not feel guilty we didn’t give you the year we had imagined, because we gave you everything we could. 

Happy Birthday, Candland. My love. If you have learned something that stays with you forever from these 12 months of your life, let it be that we love you and we will do everything we can so you know that. And that’s all that matters.

Leave a comment