Wave after wave crashes down on me.
Sickness after sickness after sickness. Vomit. Fever. Hives. Coughs stifled only with nebulizer treatments.
Doctor after doctor after doctor. Greg in West Jordan. Brad in Phoenix. Sally in Salt Lake. Lily in Gilbert and Mesa.
Crisis after crisis after crisis. Lost jobs. Horrible grades. Dashed dreams. Difficult discussions. Impossible decisions.
And now this.
Christmas presents stolen out of our garage. I stashed them in their unmarked boxes on the counter when they arrived two weeks ago, but when I went to wrap them this morning . . . the counter was empty, along with the spot where Brad's chop saw used to be. My boys' entire Christmas--gone.
This was it--the wave that took me out at the knees.
I'm not a great swimmer. Never have been. I grew up in southern Idaho where access to water was limited to the stinky lake in the canyon or an occasional invite to the YMCA. I almost drowned once in a wave pool at a water park. I don't love water.
I stayed strong as long as I could, but that last wave did it.
I lost my footing on the rocks and down I went, blubbering and struggling for air.
Kids will be home from school in five minutes, full of peppermint and chocolate and Christmas crafts to hang on my kid tree.
Three deep breaths. Wash my face to erase the salty streaks. A quick search on Amazon to see if something can replace what has been stolen.
Back to standing on the rock.
That's what moms do.