As a dog returneth to its vomit…so also you can find me with a stash of these nasty little things in the immediate weeks before Easter. Only before Easter. Nothing worse than a stale Cadbury egg. Unless you hate Cadbury Eggs…like most human beings…then they are probably equally as bad. I reserve them for particularly stressful days. This also feels like a good place to admit that I stress eat WAY TOO MUCH peppered hard salami. It’s my weakness and I like to blame it on my polski roots. So if I live to 93.5 years old like my gramps…let legend have it that it was the Cadbury eggs and the salami…like those old people who smoked a pack a day and ate only hotdogs.

Daisy pulled the little fish bowl off the table today. I thought I was being slick, letting her watch Rick the Beta fish swim around while I got some housework done in her immediate vicinity. It actually was not slick…because I had a lapse in judgement and only remembered after the fact that you absolutely under no circumstances can trust a toddler. EVER. As I wrapped her bloody hand in a dish towel and fumbled around looking for something to scoop Rick off the floor with…somehow a butcher knife ended up being the utensil I used. After the immediate panic of the event, I pictured Rick flopping around on the dirty wood floor as I approached him from behind with the dull side of the butcher knife just thinking “What in the actual @&$*!?  Can I just get a ride back to That Fish Place!?”

I saved Rick. He’s in a little glass for the time being. Daisy wouldn’t let me near her hand. It was pretty sliced up. I got her to agree to keeping a paper towel wrapped around it.

Then after much bribing and finally a detaining…she let me apply neosporin and a bandage. Just in time to get out the door to pick Noah (6) up from school and get him down the street to the dentist. He came home last week with a paper that stated he had a dental exam at school and he had “Multiple dental caries.  Top/bottom.”  I am always clueless as to which kids have been to the dentist and how recently. Covid really threw our whole schedule off and I never got back in the swing of things…but I felt positive that he’s been there more recently than some of the others.  So I got on the horn to the dentist yesterday…they were booking out to September. But you better believe that the woman I spoke to had six of her own children and I didn’t have to explain how I seemed to have lost track of this one in the grand scheme of scheduling dental check ups and now I’m officially a bad mom with a kid with a rotten mouth. She was so wonderful. Got me in the next day.

So we rushed out the door with Daisy’s wounded paw and I proceeded to really have a “nice time” holding impatient, writhing Daisy while the hygienist informed me that Noah actually had NO DENTAL CARIES…top OR bottom. He just happens to be a teeth grinder like many of his siblings before him and there is some discoloration as he’s worn some of the teeth down…but no cavities.  So that was awesome. Not as awesome as Daisy losing her mind at the little prize machine because she chose poorly and the tiny cactus eraser just wasn’t as satisfying as she’d hoped. I tried the old “Okay, well we’re going bye bye!  See ya later!”  She wasn’t buying it. Then I tried, “Come on Daisy!  Let’s go get a treat!”  Still nothing.  Actually, as another patient went through a nearby door she bolted and headed off to…I don’t know…start a new life with that person.  So yea…I ended up running after her in the dentists office and carrying her and all the coats and the note for school and my purse and whatever else under my arms.  She was kicking and screaming with her Civil War-esque bandage on her maimed hand and it’s moments like that when I think “This is a Cadbury Egg kind of afternoon.” Now let’s go make chicken stir fry for nine people before this sugar high wears off!!  Cheers!

Today I can’t escape this sadness. Even with the busy work of this monstrous house and its 8 bedrooms and 3 bathrooms and 7 kids.  One of the children pulled out an ancient photo album and left it on the dining room table and as I began the post breakfast cleanup I was stunned by a photograph of Andy and Joey and I, having a really fun time at my family home. We were so young. 21 years ago. Practically just kids. Joey is in jail now and Andy was shot by a serial killing cop. There isn’t a bright and sunny way to spin that…at least not that I’ve discovered. So I sat and cried. And cried. And cried. And when Daisy approached me and asked “You tired Mom?”…I guess the answer is “Yes.”  Grief can be so very tiring. Looking at the darkness of this world is so exhausting. But I’ve had to consistently choose to ACT instead of REACT. To let my loss change me, shape me, tenderize me…but not define me. 

A few weeks ago I was inside my own head about how I feel I’m approaching 40 and haven’t accomplished much professionally or in any way that the “world” would call valuable. Having toddler snot on my shoulder 90% of the time can make me feel that way. My wonderful 17 year old daughter, who is one person I’d love to spend more time with but it turns out the entire world feels the same and everywhere she goes she is asked to bring more of herself because of the effect she has…she could sense how low I was feeling and offered her wisdom. She didn’t say “You should go outside more.”  Or “Maybe try to make more mom friends.”  Or “Daisy would probably love to go to the park tomorrow.”  She’s been there with me…at a thrift store when a toddler loses their shit. At the park when someone has to poop and the bathrooms are locked. At the library when the bad news that “it’s time to leave” doesn’t land well. Watching me try to visit with someone and suffer interruption after interruption. She knows how frail I am. She simply said “I think if I had to be here all the time…I would just make it my sanctuary.”  Somehow that statement laid on me like a healing balm. She sees me.  She knows me. She spoke to my soul. She recognizes that I already strive to make our home a sanctuary and likely just needed that encouragement…and she knew it wasn’t out of my reach to accomplish. After her words, I felt a renewed energy and I started committing to walking into each kids room when they are away at school and spending 10-15 minutes loving that absent child through my service. I make their bed. If they have a basket of their laundry on the floor I fold it. I put a house plant in each of their rooms and I water it and care for it. I open their blinds. I have made it an act of worship…to be present. I have chosen to love my children through my grief and sadness. I spend those moments considering how blessed I am and how Andy would love to spend even 10-15 more minutes just loving on his 2 boys. I have chosen to take that time…even when deep in grief…being intentional. It also helps ease the fact that they are all growing up so fast and some days I don’t see some of them for more than a few minutes.

A few weeks ago I popped my head into Flynn’s (17) room to say goodnight. He mentioned, “Thanks for always making my bed mom…”. I said “oh, you’re welcome.  The way I see it, you’re too old to ‘tuck in’…and making your bed feels like the grown up version of tucking you in.  It’s just a way to say ‘I love you’ without saying it.”  This grown man who goes around dead lifting 265 pounds and drives everyone to school and runs to the grocery store for the family and gets up at 5 to go to the gym because it’s too crowded and chaotic in the evenings and watches The Hobbit with his dad every chance he gets…it’s a privilege to make his bed. 

Owen (12) got Out Of School Suspension yesterday for saying “Yo Bitch Ass!”…at one of his teachers. Naturally, he has a different story…says he was talking to his IPad…either way it’s not an appropriate way to speak in school…or maybe ever. I share this only to make very clear that our family is dynamic and we aren’t doing anything by any books and we have no idea what Owen is going through but middle school has proven to be close to breaking the boy and us as parent. We’re ready to pull him out and seek alternative education. Through tears I explained that he won’t be ours to parent in a mere 6 years…but right now our only job is to figure out what this kid needs to thrive. And it obviously isn’t present at the Lebanon Middle School. Between peer pressure and wanting to fit in so he doesn’t become a target (why does it seem like kids are nastier than ever right now…?) Chris and I feel considerably lost in parenting Owen. He’s different than the others and we’re blindly feeling our way through a dark valley. He’s a kid with a part time job and a great work ethic who would do anything for his friends who is our only kid who gets every family member a Christmas gift and needs external validation like no one I’ve ever known. He has a huge heart and wears it all out there on his sloppy sleeves. So he went to work with Chris today and we’ll just keep plugging away at figuring the boy out and letting him know we are on his team…even if it feels like a losing team. 

Iris rolled in late from musical practice a few weeks ago and said something about how much she appreciates that I did her laundry. I told her that her words to me about making our home a sanctuary stuck with me and encouraged me. I told her that her presence brings me peace like no one else’s does. Her music. Her words. Her mindset. The way she expresses herself. Her laugh. When I’m in the kitchen late at night, picking up the slack for kids that haven’t done their chores…she abandons her schoolwork and comes along side me and lightens my load. She is a gift. 

Noah (6) is home for the third day in a row with a fever.  Today he’s more upbeat than the previous 2 days. I sat up in bed to see him outside my door on the 3rd floor landing. He had gotten Daisy (2) out of her crib and he helped her drape her blankey over her shoulders and stayed by her side as they walked down the steps together. I love watching him enjoy his role as the big brother. 

Micah (14) just made the JV baseball team. He acts like it’s “stupid” and the only reason he made the team is because he’s “Flynn’s brother”. I told him “Who cares! You get to play baseball!”  There were multiple kids who got cut and were crying because of it…kids that just want to play baseball. I’m hoping his perspective changes and the chip on his shoulder remedies itself…cause he’s a solid ball player and I’m excited to see him play this year. But we can’t really make others see themselves the way we see them. A hard pill to swallow as a parent. Their first scrimmage is this afternoon, and I’ll be there! 

Max (8) is just a pleasure to be around and he’s smarter than any of my other kids were at his age and I think it’s because I’ve always said things like “You’ve got a big ol’ brain in that big ol’ head of yours…” and other such things referencing what a bright kid he’s always been. He desperately wants to fit in with Owen and his posse of neighborhood kids…but I think he’s smart enough to know what matters and to make good choices. Like getting off the trampoline when everyone on it is 3 times his size. 

Daisy has been up my butt like no toddler before her!  If she happens to find me seated in this house she runs to sit on me and wrap her little arm around my neck and she gives me these sloppy kisses that are nothing to envy! 😆. But I’m trying to enjoy it and I’m trying to focus on what an opportunity I’m given to teach her love and patience and kindness and general goodwill towards others. She’s my shadow right now and I’m keeping that in the front of my mind while I go about my day. My little leach.  A true sponge. 

Just writing about my beautiful distractions has helped me through this day already. I don’t know what I would do without them. They are an overwhelming force to be reckoned with…and it turns out that I need just that to keep me from wallowing for too long. 

And so today, I cried as much as my tear ducts would allow and then I went off to make beds and water plants and put cereal away and rotate laundry and read a book to a kid and start some dinner prep and let my life be an intentional act of creativity…creating a sanctuary for joy and laughter and grief and pain and anger and happiness and failure and success and LIFE to flourish. Some days it’s an unrecognizable mess and it’s hard to understand how it got that way…and it’s out of our control. But what I can do is continue to control what is mine to control. My intention. My thoughts. My life. My sanctuary. 

Thanks for witnessing me. 

Today my brother Andy would have been 41.  Last year I spent the month prior to his death watching him fall apart on Facebook. He was obviously struggling emotionally and I kept my distance, believing he’d get through it and land on his feet. I have lived with that guilt. Today, I don’t feel guilt anymore. Today I recognize that I was chosen to be close to this trauma because I remember Andy before meth took him. Before he came to an unthinkable end.  Today I celebrate that I remember Andy before he was consumed and overtaken. If I had it to do over again, I would have engaged that last month…but then maybe I would have had to see how bad things had gotten. It is what it is…and I’m living with it and working it out.

This past month I was really forced to look at how much painting and writing have gotten me through the darkest year of my life.  I’ve never thought much of my own art. It isn’t fine art.  It’s preschool principles…applied to the wall. I’ve thought at times that my art is similar to passing a front yard with artificial flowers jammed in the ground…it’s maybe a little tacky but it’s nice if they want to do it at their house… I’ve thought of myself as more of a doodler than an artist. The writing thing I can’t take any credit for. I can take credit for my strength in written communication the way I can take credit for having dark brown hair. It just is. But the painting…I’ve never quite wanted to own it. This past year has changed that. I’m a painter. Specifically wall painting. 

“Why the walls?” I don’t know. Maybe cause I don’t want to buy and stretch canvas or maybe because we have ugly wall paper and it felt like it couldn’t get any worse. Thankfully, Chris rarely protests when I’m slinging paint around. He’s been known to walk in the room and say “This is my favorite one yet…” and I don’t believe him but I let him say the nice thing. I think I’ve decided I don’t know why I choose to paint the walls…because it truly is the most nerve wracking thing to be in the middle of a painting EVERYONE can see and be feeling insecure because maybe they aren’t seeing the vision you have in your head and it’s going to take days to bring it to life and we’ll all have to sit with the weird stages in between and like most art I produce…its NEVER finished.  Sometimes it’s just that I needed to wash out the brush one last time and touch up a color and I just never do it. And it isn’t a big deal. But the point I’m making, is painting on the wall forces me to become comfortable with discomfort. I have to be ok with people seeing an unfinished product…maybe forever. And it’s a very vulnerable position to be in. To potentially feel your painting may sit incomplete and no one will ever know what you had in mind. What a gift it is to see so many paintings to near completion!  To be raising 7 beautiful kids!  To be married to a good man!  To know a life that is equally as radiant and beautiful as it is dark and terrifying. To breath it in everyday and actually know what a gift it is. Andy has given me that.  

The painting began shortly after Andy’s passing. 

The day the New York Times published the first article about Andy being the fourth person killed by Trooper Jay Splain, I stayed in our bedroom the entire day with Noah and Daisy and painted a mandala above our bed. I needed those kids and I needed that mandala that day.

After a few months I noticed a pattern…that on the most difficult and dark days I found myself with an insatiable need to paint. It helped my mind to think all the thoughts it needed to…but to remain in the physical body. It kept me grounded. I’ve thought of it like I was right around the edge of a very deep, very dark pit and painting was the distraction that was keeping me from getting too close to the edge and going down. I painted through it.

Over the last several months I’ve been waking up at 5AM and asking, “What is my purpose?”   Andy’s death has done that for me. It has caused me to take much more seriously my time and space and presence here…because it can be unexpectedly over. Andy left a half folded pile of laundry that night. No warning. No signs pointing to how vital those moments, days, years had been in leading up to that night. No goodbye. No legacy to redeem. No coming up from his rock bottom. Just the rock bottom. Cold. Dark. Hard. Final. 

My mental health and healing of past trauma has become a passion that I choose to pay attention to everyday. No one is going to do it for me. It is my singular responsibility to be OK…and if I’m not, I need to be able to evaluate what is going on and what kind of support I need.  In the worst way imaginable, my brother Andy has shown me this. 

I woke up one of those mornings a few weeks back and felt the need to fill the space on the walls in our front room. For whatever reason, I remembered a doodle I used to do when I was maybe 10 or 12 years old. A squiggly line that filled an entire piece of paper. Then I would color in the sections that the squiggly line had created. I haven’t thought about that squiggle in 25 years. My brother Andy really thought it was cool. He thought it was cooler than I did. He made me look at it and see it differently. I made him one.  He slipped it in a clear plastic notebook sleeve and pinned it to his wall with a thumb tac…like some kind of exhibit. I remember how it felt. He was always forthcoming about his admiration for my creations. In high school I made a clay mask every year in art class. I always gave them to Andy. They hung above his couch. 

Today, I celebrate Andy’s contribution in helping me to find a beautiful and life giving way to weather the storms this life has to throw at us. Not ironically, 6 months before Andy’s death, I became unexpectedly close to someone who was prior to that point merely an acquaintance.  We were meeting weekly as she was completing classes to get her masters degree in art therapy. All throughout this past year she has helped to validate the immense role that art can play in our healing and wellness. 

We’ve all heard the saying, “Life isn’t about what happens to you, but your response to what happens to you.”  I am so pleased to say, that while I responded to Andy’s death quite poorly at first…because it was shocking and traumatic and horrific…after that subsided…I was able to stop responding to his death and was inspired to respond to his life. He was a vibrant and inspiring individual with deep character and a sharp wit and a massive heart. He was fun and friendly and generous. I know the pain he had to suppress to be that charismatic person. I now know that without serious therapeutic attention, that kind of trauma cannot stay under the surface. I think when you love someone who dies while in the throws of addiction, you can look back and distinctly recall 2 deaths. The first being that initial introduction to the substance that took them, and the next being their physical death.  While there is no excuse for the use of lethal force against my unarmed brother that night, I want to look beyond a need for justice in an unjust world and spread a message of hope and healing. There is a reason people turn to substance. There is a reason people slowly kill themselves long before their final death. Until we can become a more trauma informed, compassionate society…we can only expect more of the same. I’m now part of an ever growing group of people who have loved someone who has met their end by way of lethal force while at the lowest point in their life. This isn’t going anywhere. This is life. I hope we can learn how to better handle and care for one another.

I considered sharing this on the anniversary of his death, November 7th…but I decided I don’t want to acknowledge that date with my writing and art. His birthday is 2 days and 2 years before my own. We celebrated our birthdays together many, many times…something I always enjoyed. So it feels right to share this in celebration of his time here. 40 years and some days.

On this, his 41st birthday…I dedicate “The Life Line” to my big brother, Andy.  One single line from beginning to end. Every single human life is a different length. And we never get to know how long ours will be, but we have to believe we are creating a masterpiece. I’m so thankful that my life and his were meant to intertwine. 

Happy Birthday, Andy. 

This is my husband.  Christian Philip Emanuel Krouse. I forgot that today was our 18th wedding anniversary. I never pictured myself forgetting such a special day. But it turns out that committing to working every other weekend through the summer and turning your dear sweet mother over to the care of a mental hospital that week…7 months after your older brothers murder…and raising seven kids in your spare, clear, constant moments and attempting to turn inward and ask your own damn self what it is that you need…occasionally you forget about these man made celebrations. I know I’m married to him. I know because he is a constant source of love and support and a connection to reality when I just want to go away for an undetermined amount of time. When I met this man I was a mere 14 years old. He spent a short amount of time with my family and thought “I can’t leave her with these people…”. I resented that for the longest time…but the more time we spent raising our own family the more I understood what he meant…what he felt. I am to the point in my maturity that I’m no longer embarrassed or ashamed to say that my family didn’t have a lot of guidance or clarity on how to raise my four brothers and I. It’s painful. To come to terms with the fact that an entire substantial chunk of your life was done “WRONG”. You have to face facts. Facts like people you love coming to their end while they are at their very worst. Facts like “you need medication”. Facts like “you are depressed.”  The world is what we make it. Through multiple therapy routes I’ve come to the conclusion that my life is ultimately what I choose to focus on. If I decide to pour all my energy into how miserable and unjust the world can be…then guess what…I find more misery and injustice. I have so very much to be sad about. But I’m done being sad. And so….today I choose to be thankful for my beautiful husband. Our life is a legitimate shit show. 9 people asserting their wills on a daily basis and only a select few willing to sacrifice for the greater good…it’s no paradise. But it’s good. Because it’s real. I’m not trying to be long winded or overly emotional about something as basic as an 18th wedding anniversary, but for real…for the first time in our lives…I forgot…and he was so forgiving and beautiful and “Chris” about it.   I rolled in hot off the road from working at the West Reading Farmers Market and he had an orchid and some fresh silverware because our kids leave our spoons in random local parking lots constantly…and a begonia and a beautiful card where he wrote out the 17 things he loves about me…because he believed it was our 17th anniversary. And we laughed. We laughed because we are in total maintenance/survival mode…and if you have the privilege of going through such a stage with someone…then you also know how much forgiveness and grace and humor is needed to muscle through such a stage with someone. I believe we have so many beautiful years ahead of us…but today…let’s just enjoy being driven around by our 16 year old son while our 2 year old screams next to us. I love you Christian Philip Emanuel Krouse. Thank you for being mine…for an official 18 years. We’re practically an antique! . 

A. Krouse

Is the goal to eventually make the girl stop crying?
Is that the desired effect?

Because it’s happening…
but not because everything is all better…
instead because her heart has turned to stone
and trying to get water from a stone
is as sad as it gets.
Just move on now.