Today has been one of those up and down days. We spent the morning with friends, and (despite the normal toddler drama) it was both relaxing and energizing to just stand in my backyard and chat. It isn’t very often that I find people who make it easy for me to be myself around, but I’ve lucked out on the last year or so. I’ve written here before about how bad I am at friendship, (and all the lousy excuses I can think of why) but there comes a point where you just have to realize that you don’t meet many authentically good people in the world, and that it is nice to have friends. Imagine that.

So, the morning was a nice cushion for the call we got not long after everyone left. It’s a subject that I’m not sure how to approach on a public blog, how far to go. It’s not my story, it’s not my place to share, even though it affects our lives every single day. I guess the vague and undramatic way to say it is that someone close to us has a long history of mental illness, and chose to be recommitted last night. And instead of putting their mother and father’s name as their next of kin, they put my two, tiny girl’s names.

Pink Dresses

And it just breaks my heart (that they thought that was a logical thing to do, that my girls will bear the weight of this love, that my girls share these genes. That my callous heart jumps straight to how this effects me, instead of thinking about their struggle.)

So, now both the girls are sleeping, and instead of celebrating and drinking a cup of coffee while it is still hot for once, I am staring at my hands, amazed at how fragile it all is. The two friends I spent the morning with have seen more than their share of sorrow. So much more. But here they are, standing with me, nursing babies, planning futures, telling their story with a steady voice.

Knowing them gives me hope that it will be okay – we will just have to redefine ‘okay’.

(ETA, just for clarities sake: The person who is struggling with mental illness is not Tom. I forget that sometimes vagueness leads to confusion, so I thought I’d just throw that one out there. Tom is as sane as any man who lives with 3 girls who all use whining as a major form of communication can be.)