A few days ago, we pulled the kids out of school, piled into a car with some friends and drove to an amusement park where we spent the day going in loops and curves, laughing, and preparing ourselves for the oh-so-wonderful-post-amusement-park-shampoo-and-shower.

We had so much fun, minus the few minutes I spent on the swings with my son, where I had my eyes tightly shut and spent the entire time trying to distract myself by counting. Not to any particular number, mind you, but just counting because OHMYGOODNESS the spinning.

Of course, roller coasters and swings aren’t the only attractions. If you are an amusement park aficionado, you know that the rides are great, but equally enjoyable is the people-watching. For instance, the woman who won our prize for “Best Outfit” was wearing very tiny, cut-off shorts and a hoodie that stopped just under her breasts; her belly free to hang out from in between.

Because my ten year old son often says whatever is on his mind, we have been attempting to show him how to filter his words. I have gone so far as to draw a brain and write words that are allowed to be in there, but that shouldn’t come out of his mouth.

And, apparently, the adults in our group weren’t the only ones who were people-watching at the amusement park, because when we pulled into our driveway at the end of the day, my son said, “Mom, I did a REALLY good job of keeping my thoughts inside my head today!”

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Dear Miss Teacher,

Look, I understand that the paper was on food safety, but I’m thinking he should get partial credit for this. Why waste time with hygiene when there is a sandwich involved?

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Ten?

Give me a minute to wrap my head around that.

To be honest, it’s hard to wrap your head around something when you’ve spent the last ten years spinning about. Half the time, I haven’t even known where my head is.

The decade since you were born has been the longest, most stress-filled quarter of my life. I’ve watched you get poked, prodded and wheeled away from me to an operating room over and over again. I’ve seen you choke and vomit so many times, it would be impossible to count. And, there were times that we saw so many different doctors and therapists that I felt like you were a pinball; bounced here and there, from one cold stethoscope to another.

Would I change all of that if I could? Yes. In a heartbeat. Would I change the person you are because of it? Never.

Sure, I wish things were easier for you. I wish that you had more friends. I wish open-heart surgery wasn’t looming over your head. I wish that you didn’t need hearing aids, or sensory cushions at school, and that your small stature wouldn’t limit you.

But, if your life had been easy then you would just be a typical kid. You wouldn’t be the funny, unpredictable, clever, kind, insightful child you are now. Every needle, every analysis, every illness and every remedy made you who you are. And, you are somewhere we never thought you would be.

You are ten.

Happy Birthday to my amazing boy.

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You know how you sleep for 10 hours and it is the longest you have, maybe, ever slept in your entire life and it feels amazing, and then you sleep great again the next night and think it MUST be because the window is open and your mom was right about fresh air, and she’s probably right about catching a cold if you go outside with your hair wet, but you’ll still never forgive her for slapping a ski cap on every kid who ever came over to play if it was under 40 degrees, because “they may come over without a hat on, but I’ll be damned if they’re leaving without one,” and you’re so well-rested that you spend the weekend pulling weeds, trimming trees, and washing windows, and you sleep well AGAIN, and think maybe the insomnia is FINALLY going away after 14 years, and then you wake up the third morning with concrete in your lungs and realize that the only reason you’ve been sleeping well is because you’re getting really sick?

Yeah, me too.

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