My son was having trouble falling asleep last night. His room was hot, as it usually is, after having the sun shine through his window most of the day, so I told him to climb into my bed where there was enough of a cross-breeze to keep him comfortable.

I lied next to him and watched him drift off. After a few moments of sleeping peacefully, he experienced that sensation of falling where you gasp and your entire body jumps. Then he settled into his pillow and dozed off for the night.

That sensation is called a hypnic jerk and my son used to experience them a lot when he was young, especially when he was sick. And, he was sick all the time.

In the mere seconds it took for his body to jolt, my mind traveled from watching a typical kid going to sleep, to the very ill child I used to know. His hypnic jerk not only shook his body, but shook my memory as well.

I thought of the heart monitor that went off constantly and the sound of him gasping for breath as his nasal passages filled with the contents of his stomach. I remembered watching him play with toys in a hospital crib, three hour long appointments with neonatologists and geneticists and him crying in pain because we just couldn’t get his meds right.

I thought of him weighing 13 pounds on his first birthday and how his GI doctor was this close to putting him back on tube feeds because of it. I remembered therapy sessions where he didn’t do anything but lie there because he simply didn’t have the energy to do anything else.

I thought of his heart diagnosis, his surgeries, and his struggles with eating, crawling, walking and talking.

I remembered everything.

I was reminded that all of those things are deep inside the boy I know now. He is tough, yet parts of his body are still weak. He is strong, but he is very small. He is smart, but still talks like a three year old. He is healthy, for now.

Although his struggles are much easier than they once were, he still faces an uphill battle each and every day.

I needed to be reminded of that; to know that he tries his best and has to work twice as hard as an average kid. I have been trying so hard to make him typical that I have forgotten that he, quite simply, isn’t.

My son is different. He is one of a kind and I wouldn’t want him any other way, even though I forget that sometimes. He is a challenge, but that makes his accomplishments all the more special. I needed to be reminded of how far he has come.

Thanks for the jolt, buddy.

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My family and I visited an indoor water park over the weekend; here is what I learned.

1. If the water in the toddler pool is warmer than the big kids’ pool, there is probably a reason for it.

2. Either having a lot of medical procedures has toughened up my son, or he is immune to pain, because after he got tossed off his raft in the wave pool, knocked over another kid as he tumbled under the water, slid along the ground for five feet and came up bloodied, he got right back on his raft.

3. Going down a slide in a giant family tube is a lot of fun.

4. If your friend is bitter because you’re leaving the water park to go watch Ohio State play in the NCAA tournament and she says, “I hope they lose” and then they do, you’ll hope she doesn’t own your likeness in voodoo form.

5. Teenage girls should wear bigger bathing suits.

6. My son needs his back waxed.

7. I need to lose weight.

8. So do a lot of other people.

9. If your son is 43″ tall and he climbs steps that are the height of his knees, and there are five flights of those steps to get to one of his favorite slides…that won’t stop him from wanting to do it again and again.

10. Kids can go for hours and climb lots of steps on cold pop-tarts alone.

11. Later, they’ll practically inhale an entire Big Boy franchise for lunch.

12. And they’ll sleep peacefully all the way home.

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Have you ever had your heart ripped out of your chest, thrown to the floor, then watched as it was stomped on, then a dog comes by and pees on it and another dog comes by and chews it up like rawhide?

That’s what it feels like when you have your first crush and that crush isn’t exactly crushing on you. Not that I would know.

Okay, I know exactly. I liked the same boy from the third grade all the way through junior high. Yes, I know it was a long time to be stuck on the same boy and yes, I know that saying “junior high” makes me sound ancient. That’s because I am.

Let’s be honest. I was not Blair from The Facts of Life. I wore glasses and had short hair, which was permed so I could look just like Annie. You should have heard me during my piano practice when I would belt out show-tunes. I know that all of this makes me sound homely. That’s because I was.

Let me give you some words of wisdom; just because you know all the words to Tomorrow, doesn’t mean the sun will come out. I will never forget lying on my bed, burying my face in my pillow and crying huge tears. The 10 year old boy I liked didn’t like me back! Oh, the pain of it all. The horror! Boys are stupid!

You think the throbbing in your chest means your lungs will close and your heart will cease its beating and no one seems to understand. Your mom wants you to set the dinner table when the world is getting ready to stop. How can she expect you to eat when your throat is closing up?

But, as any good mother would, my mom had a secret weapon. She could always stop my tears by pulling out the big guns. Mini-cheesecake.

Lately I’ve been hoping I don’t have to make mini-cheesecake anytime soon. My 11 year old daughter is at just about the same age I was when the hurt started really hurting. I know that crush isn’t too far away.

Lucky for her, she doesn’t look a thing like Annie.

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My eyes are burning. My cheeks stained with tears of exhaustion. I can’t remember the last time I got a good night’s sleep. I have to wait for our new insurance to kick in before I can talk to my doctor about my insomnia. Again.

My legs are cramped from standing on a hard floor for the past five hours, my hands are dry and cracked. My heart, heavy. I worry about my kids, my husband, our health, our finances, my parents.

Looking around the house makes me anxious. There are dishes, laundry, dog hair. Piles of papers, kids’ projects, things needing my signature or my response, volunteer work, writing assignments, insurance nightmares. I feel buried.

I need to work on math with my son. I need to take my daughter to practice. I need to find babysitters for upcoming events. I need to buy birthday presents, a sweater for my daughter’s choir performance and I need to send in her camp forms. I have to find a new therapist for my son. I need to change the sheets.

I want to set up piano lessons and swim lessons. I want to take the kids out to play catch. I have to call the pediatrician’s office. Maybe I can get to that after I start making dinner.

I need a minute. I collapse on the couch and let out a sigh. My head flops back against the olive-green chenille. I close my eyes and rub my forehead. I have had a headache for three days.

I rest my hand on my thigh and feel my young son’s fingers grab mine. He reaches up and brushes my hair from my cheeks. He tells me I am “so, so, so, so pretty”.

I muster half a smile and say, “I love you, buddy.”

He says, “I love you too.”

Then he hugs me.

And just like that, the dread is gone.

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