The last four weeks have been a doozy.
Dot had an allergic reaction to…something. We still aren’t sure what. One evening before bed, she was laying on her tummy time mat, and when I picked her up, her coloring looked off. Within minutes, her little face started to swell. When she began coughing, I loaded her into the car and headed for the ER.
Exactly a week later, she broke out in hives again. This time, I was able to keep things under control with the antihistamines prescribed to us, but we still can’t figure out what triggered it. The pediatrician put through an urgent referral to an allergy specialist and walked me through what to watch for and how to respond if it happened again.
My in-laws came for a visit that weekend, and then Dot and I packed up and flew out to see my parents. Flying alone with an infant and a bunch of medical equipment? Not for the faint of heart. (That experience definitely deserves its own post—because wow, did I get a crash course in what to do and what not to do.)
While we were there, we had another mild allergic reaction, our first experience with constipation, and the biggest diaper blowout to date. After a week with Grandma and Grandpa, we flew home—just in time for Dad to get sick, Dot to catch her first cold, and teething to make its grand entrance. Sleep? Practically nonexistent.
It’s weeks like these that feel the hardest. Doctor visits and ER runs have a clear beginning and end. But the slow, relentless grind of everyday chaos—the kind where everything keeps going sideways and sleep is a myth—that’s what wears you down.
All that to say: I’m still here. I haven’t forgotten this space or the calling behind it. I’m just deep in survival mode.
But then, this week, something shifted.
I was feeding Dot some smashed bananas, and apparently I wasn’t moving fast enough because she threw herself backward in her seat, arched that little back, and bellowed. Normally, I’d respond immediately—gently push her hips down, sign as best I can while and saying “no, you can ask for more or say all done, but you can’t scream.”
But this time, I was too tired. Just a few hours of sleep, not nearly enough coffee. So instead of reacting, I waited.
She fussed for a minute, then calmed down. I took a deep breath, looked at her, and signed and voiced: “No, ma’am. You can ask for more.” I repeated the sign for “more” a few times and then offered her another bite. She smiled, and I realized I felt calmer too.
The next time, before she even had the chance to arch her back, I noticed the signs. I asked, “Do you want more?” and signed again. She leaned forward for her next bite—no meltdown, no tears.
And it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I’ve been living in a constant state of reaction—just moving from one crisis to the next. But when I paused long enough to breathe and act with intention, things changed.
So that’s my goal right now: to breathe more.
To slow down.
To act instead of react.
Because God is in control—so I don’t have to be.