The little girl from my kids’ school, who was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor in November, died on Saturday. I was at a party for school faculty and staff when we got the news.

As we hugged, cried and toasted Ellie, my mind drifted to how I was going to break this news to my children. The two of them have suffered an abundance of loss. If only I didn’t have to tell them.

It is hard enough for an adult to deal with death, even though we know it’s coming. Even though we are fully aware that it is part of the cycle of life. It still hurts. I don’t like to hurt my kids. If only they didn’t have to know this pain.

Death makes our fragility abundantly clear and the death of a child reminds us that, as parents, we aren’t always in control. If only I could protect them forever.

My mom was babysitting on Saturday evening and as I walked in to greet my children and tell them Ellie had passed away, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath. If only I could be strong.

As I gently broke the news, my eleven year old daughter started to cry. I pulled her close. If only they could bounce right back from this.

Then I turned to my hard-of-hearing son and said, “Did you hear me, buddy? Ellie died today.”

He looked up at me and said, “Oh. I have the hiccups.”

I found myself completely jealous. If only we were all so innocent.

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My husband’s birthday was Tuesday. One of his favorite meals is beef stroganoff made from a family recipe. It’s the same stroganoff he ate when he was growing up and since he’s creeping up on 40, I thought it best to try and make him feel like a kid again. Also, does anyone else feel that I’m aging myself by talking about stroganoff? Oh good, everyone then.

After work on Tuesday, I managed to straighten up the house, wrap presents and make dinner. My husband got off work early so he could celebrate with the kids before an evening meeting and once 6:00 pm rolled around, the whole family was hungry and the table was set for a nice, family meal.

Until my son sat down, saw my creation and said, “Ew! Throw up!”

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Last week I went through a rough spot with my son at school. The details of the situation aren’t important. What is important is that it left me devastated.

The details don’t matter because, from the day my son was born nearly eight years ago, there have been constant situations. His life has been one, big struggle and therefore, my life with him has been as well.

In the midst of last week’s ordeal, I was shooting off an e-mail and made a statement about how having a child like my son is “such a challenge.” The person to whom the e-mail was sent, responded by saying that “all parents feel challenged” and that “I am not alone.”

I understand she was reaching out. I understand she was trying to make me feel better. Misery loves company, after all. The problem is that I do feel alone.

My son is different. He is unlike any other child I have ever known. I have had experiences as a parent that most people never will.

All parents know what it’s like to get up with a baby in the middle of the night, but how many moms had to feed their baby every three hours, round the clock for thirteen months? And, it took an hour and a half at a time just to feed him two ounces of milk.

How many parents have handed off their kid to a surgeon? Nine times.

Most kids don’t obsess over the number 10, want to rub people’s arms or have to take medicine every day of their life. Most parents don’t have to worry that their child will have a stroke, or watch him to make sure he doesn’t look more blue than usual.

My son can’t hear well, can’t speak well, chokes easily, vomits easily…and all of this? Is after he has come leaps and bounds thanks to countless therapy sessions. The occupational, physical and speech therapy sessions that most parents never have to attend.

I find myself constantly clenching my teeth, my body tense, my mind anxious.

My son is not a typical child and that’s okay. With the exception of taking away the physical pain he has suffered, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Watching him overcome so much, seeing him grow and become someone we never thought possible has been amazing. It is a journey like no other and, though the road has been bumpy, it has taken me to beautiful places that I didn’t even know existed.

The events of last week left me upset, not because I wanted pity, but because I wanted understanding and respect for my child. I don’t want his struggles to be dismissed, because they are not average. They’re monumental.

As for me? Well, every parent faces challenges, but I am guessing that they don’t dredge up the memories of the hundreds of challenges which came before. That is where I was last week; standing alone, in a place where images of our past were swirling around my head. Visions that left me sick and dizzy and ready to circle the wagons around my boy.

My son is not every child and I am not every parent. There are times when we can stand side-by-side with our peers, but there are just as many times that there is no comparing us whatsoever.

There are times when we are alone. And sometimes, being alone gets awfully lonely.

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On Saturday night we invited some friends over for pizza. Let’s say, hypothetically, that this was a last-minute get-together. I actually knew about it for days.

When you have two dogs, two kids and a husband who doesn’t care when the house is dirty, it won’t do any good to clean ahead of time. You can’t straighten up until an hour before your guests arrive or else dirty socks and half-chewed dog bones magically appear.

After my daughter’s morning track meet we came home and went to work. She dealt with the clutter, while I vacuumed, mopped, dusted and cleaned the half bath. Although there were random shoes laying around when our friends arrived, for the most part the house looked clean. Well, clean enough anyway. They’re friends, not royalty.

Everything was fine until one of the moms in the group offered to read my son a bedtime story. She took him upstairs, made sure he brushed his teeth and got him into bed. I got a night off from the bedtime routine and my son got a night off from me rushing him through it.

So, what’s the problem? The problem is that she went upstairs.

Upstairs to the land of unmade beds and a kids’ bathroom with soap on the faucet, toothpaste on the mirror, dog hair on the floor and a huge rust stain in the tub. And there is a table in the hallway that looks like I am trying to feed the dust mites until they’ve had their fill.

If I had remembered the mess that awaited her, I would have never let her climb the steps. I was this close to faking her out and letting her believe that I’m a decent housekeeper.

Clearly, I need to be more conscious of where my guests go. Either that, or my next house needs to be a ranch.

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