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An Anniversary of Loss

October 2, 2012 By

Ten years ago today, I lost my first baby during the second trimester of pregnancy. Looking back, it’s remarkable that the pregnancy got as far as it did, having been fraught with problems from the very start.

The doctor I had at the time was absolutely dreadful. When I told her that I was having problems, she said I was being paranoid. She said that first trimester bleeding was “normal” and resolutely refused to refer me for an ultrasound. I tried to point out that every hit I got on Google disagreed with her, and she proceeded to make me feel like an idiot for having researched my symptoms.

What did I know, right? She was the doctor, and she made it very clear that she was the one with the knowledge.

Her attitude only got more arrogant and patronizing after my husband and I took matters into our own hands and went to the emergency room, where an immediate ultrasound was ordered. There was the baby, with a heartbeat and everything. The growth wasn’t what it should have been, but that did not deter the doctor. Apparently I was so stupid that I did not even know when my last period had been.

Not that I’m bitter or anything. I mean, the doctor had the worst bedside manner in the history of doctors, but it’s unlikely that better treatment would have changed the outcome. I was devastated when I lost my baby, but to be honest, I wasn’t all that surprised. No part of me had expected that this pregnancy would go to term.

The doctor could have helped prepare me, though. Perhaps if she had just been honest about what was almost inevitable, if she had told me where to go for support, the aftermath would have been easier to bear.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have.

Yes, it probably wouldn’t have.

I’m still mad at her though, after all these years. No-one deserves to be treated the way she treated me.

I always feel conflicted on this anniversary.

On the one hand, there is sadness, a feeling of loss, and a “what if” kind of wondering.

But on the other hand, if that baby had lived, I wouldn’t have George. And I just cannot imagine life without George.

Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the whole chain of events happened for a reason, that all along it was leading up to the arrival of this beautiful boy who had been waiting in the wings the whole time, just waiting for his moment to be born.

My baby took a piece of me with her when she died. But she gave me so much more by paving the way for George’s arrival.

 

Filed Under: Baby, Doctor, Pregnancy Loss Tagged With: , , , ,
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Tidal Waves of Anxiety

September 27, 2012 By

A few nights ago I had an anxiety attack. I have these attacks from time to time and they vary in their intensity, and this one was a real doozie. I woke up abruptly in the dead of night with my heart pounding. I sat bolt upright with a gasp of horror, clutching my chest just like they do in movies. Then I was clawing at the bedsheets, trying desperately to free myself. I got myself out of bed and threw on a bathrobe, ran out of the room, launched myself at the stairs and flung open the back door to let myself onto the deck.

It was some ungodly hour – two or three in the morning – and it was cold and I wasn’t wearing any shoes. But the only thing I could think about was getting air into my lungs to get rid of the feeling of suffocation. I gulped in one lungful after another, and gradually, I came back into focus. I stayed out there for a while to clear my head, and by the time I went back inside and crept into bed, I was kind-of sort-of OK again.

The whole thing was more than a little scary, but not entirely unexpected. There has been so much going on lately. I’ve been working  crazy hours and sacrificing desperately needed sleep just to go for my training runs. Things have been busy with my husband’s business and there has been a lot of family-related stuff going on.

To put it simply, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed, and when I get overwhelmed, I invariably reach a point of critical mass – that point at which I just cannot take anymore. I have some kind of meltdown that, while being terrifying to live through, does seem to press a kind of reset button in my head. I feel emotionally bruised for a couple of days, hit a point of exhaustion where I sleep for twelve hours straight (this is not voluntary – it’s kind of forced on me by my body), and then wake up feeling strong again, and ready to tackle whatever needs to be tackled.

Sometimes I can go for months without having a single anxiety attack. Other times, the cycle is continuous, with a new attack starting before I’ve even recovered from the previous one.

Imagine being in the ocean and getting hit by a wave. You get knocked down, and you may accidentally inhale some water. Before you’ve managed to right yourself, while you’re still coughing up that lungful of water, another wave hits – an even bigger one that you didn’t see coming. Too many waves coming at you too quickly, and you feel as if you’re drowning.

It’s the same with the anxiety attacks. I can get hit with one after another after another, in quick succession. There’s the same sense of suffocation, of being in over your head.

The solution, of course, is to make sure you know how to swim and to check the tides before you go into the water. But that only works with the ocean, and even then, the most seasoned swimmers sometimes get caught off-guard.

With the anxiety attacks, it’s not so simple. There may not be a ripple in sight, and before you know it, you’re trying to dodge a tsunami. I cannot always predict how and when they are going to happen, so I’ve figured out that a better course of action is to find ways of dealing with the aftermath.

In the end, though, I am a survivor. There’s no way I’m letting a bit of anxiety beat me down.

Do you suffer from anxiety/panic attacks? Do you live with someone who does? What coping mechanisms do you have?

(Photo credit: the bridge. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: anxiety, Mental Health, Overcoming Difficulty Tagged With: , , , ,
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Race Report: Longboat Toronto Island Run

September 27, 2012 By

They said the weather would be cool. They, of course, being the weather forecasters. They said it would be slightly overcast with mild temperatures and a light breeze. Perfect weather, in other words, for a 10K run around Toronto’s Centre Island.

It certainly felt cool enough during the ferry ride over. When I took off my jacket to give to my six-year-old son James, whose sweater I had forgotten in the car, my arms were goosepimpling in the crisp cold air.

James was beside himself with excitement. He had been looking forward to this day for weeks. It was his first-ever ride on a ferry, and he was about to run his second race. I lined up beside him: he had asked me to run with him, and a 1K kids’ race would double as a handy warm-up for me.  A short distance with a bunch of six-year-olds – how hard could it be?

It turns out, very. Try running with a tribe of children who have just spent time cooped up on a ferry – you’ll see what I mean. They took off like bats out of hell, and I – half-marathoner who has been collecting PB’s like crazy this season – had trouble keeping up with my six-year-old son. The run was not officially timed, and the kids scampered off from the start line before I had time to set my watch, so I don’t know how fast James’ kilometre was. It was quick though – definitely quicker than the seven minutes he clocked up at his last race, which was impressive enough.

Then it was time for the start of my own race. I didn’t really have a time goal in mind – I rarely make PB’s on courses that I am not familiar with – but I wanted to just run and enjoy it. I knew the course would be flat so I figured that I would just let loose when I felt good enough and slow down when I felt tired.

It turned out to be a very hard run. This can be partly attributed to the weather – the cool day predicted by the weatherman turned out to be surprisingly warm, and I started out too fast. I was also recovering from a pulled hamstring, so I was not in the best physical condition.

Oh, and I also broke a basic rule of running: don’t try anything new on race day. I was using a brand new water bottle belt, and that turned out to be a bad idea. By the halfway point, my back was aching from the unaccustomed weight distribution. I was immensely relieved when I crossed the finish line in a time of 1:05:01. Not my best 10K performance, but not my worst either.

The course itself was nice, and I was quite impressed with how the race organizers managed to get a very decent 10K route out of a little island.

I will be back next year to improve on my time. James has said that he wants to do it again as well, and who knows – maybe my older son will even want to take part.

There are few things that beat a day with the family on an island on a sunny day, with a nice run thrown in.

Filed Under: Children, Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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There Are No Words

September 18, 2012 By

There are no words to describe the anxiety of enduring a pregnancy right after a second-trimester loss. What if it happens again? What if I lose this baby too? Will I ever experience the joy of motherhood?

Every little twitch and twinge was a cause for concern. The baby isn’t moving enough. The baby is moving too much. What does that look on the ultrasound tech’s face mean? Is it concern or detached professionalism?

There are no words to describe the gut-wrenching agony of labour, and the bone-chilling fear of seeing your soon-to-be-born child’s heart rate take a momentary nosedive. You’re so close, baby. You’ve made it so far, baby. You can do it. Find your way into this world.

There are no words to describe the welling-up of emotion as you lie spent on the delivery table, hearing your baby cry for the first time as the doctor congratulates you on your brand new son. He’s here. He’s alive. I am a mother.

There are no words to describe how it feels to hold your newborn baby in your arms for the first time. He’s beautiful. He’s fragile. I have been entrusted with the most precious gift anyone could ever have.

There are no words to describe the joy and pride of watching your baby become a toddler, and then a child, and then a taller child. Adventure. Laughter. Bittersweet. Love. Exploding-heart happiness.

Maybe there are some words. But not nearly enough.

Happy ninth birthday to George. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being you. I will love you forever, all the way past the stars and the moon and the universe.

(Photo credit. Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: Baby, Birth, Birthday, parenting, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Loss Tagged With: , , , ,
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Calling All Teens: Please Share Your Story

September 6, 2012 By

If you’re a parent of teens, how many times have you heard your kids say that you don’t understand them? If you’re a teen, how many times have you said those words yourself?

It may sound like a teenage cliché, but perhaps there is some truth to it. Teens and adults – particularly adults of my age, who are 20 or 30 years older than them – inhabit different worlds. I am concerned about things like job security, paying the bills and whether my kids are being bullied at school. When I was a teen I cared about fitting in and the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend when everyone else did.

I have heard adults refer to the concerns of teens as “petty” in the grand scheme of things. I understand what they’re getting at – after all, from my perspective, not having a boyfriend pales in comparison to the idea of not having enough money to feed your kids. But to a teen, those concerns are very real and very valid. Why should they worry about the same stuff we do when we’re 40 or 50 years old? They are kids, discovering life, and navigating those years with the backdrop of the hormonal changes of adolescence can be very daunting.

Do I understand teens?

It would be so easy for me to say that I remember what it was like to be a teen, so yes, I understand. But the truth is, I understand what it was like to be a teen 30 years ago, in the 1980’s. The world and its challenges have changed so much since then. Are teens today concerned about the same things I was back then? Do they go through the same stuff and have the same difficulties?

Maybe. But I don’t really know.

So teens, here’s what I want to do. For a period of one week, I want to give my blog over to you. I invite you to submit guest posts about whatever you want to share. Do you have some aspirations for the future? Some fears about the future? Going through a rough patch in your life? Is there something you wish your parents and other adults knew about you?

Some guidelines:

  • There are no length restrictions on posts. It can be as short or as long as you like. I don’t believe in curtailing people’s self-expression.
  • I cannot accept posts that promote hatred based on race, gender, sexual preference, country of origin, or anything like that.
  • I will accept posts containing profanity as long as you’re swearing to make a point, instead of swearing just for the sake of it. Sometimes the only way to really get a point across is by emphatic use of the F word. I may replace some letters of profanities with special characters.
  • Anonymous submissions are welcome. I would like to know your real name, just to satisfy myself that you’re really a teen and not an adult looking to cause trouble. But if you want the post published under a pseudonym, I will totally respect that.
  • Photographs are encouraged. If you submit a picture, please be sure that it’s one you’re allowed to use. I don’t want to inadvertently breach copyright.
  • If you have a personal blog that you would like to link to, feel free to include that in your post.
  • Include a blurb about yourself. Your name (if you’re willing to share it), your age, your location, your interests – anything you want the world to know about you.

Posts can be submitted either as an attachment or in the body of an email, and sent to kirsten@runningforautism.com. They will be scheduled for the last week of October, and I will let you know when your post is going to run.

I look forward to hearing from you!

(Photo credit: Sheila Tostes. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: blogging, Challenges, Guest Posts, Teens, Understanding Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Can You Keep A Secret?

August 31, 2012 By

Recently, I had the opportunity to read a delightful chick-lit book called The Booby Trap, by Anne Browning Walker. The protagonist is a woman who works in a bar similar to Hooters. Everyone just assumes that she is a bimbo, because she is blond and pretty, and earns a living in a place where men ogle her. What they don’t know is that she is a PhD candidate, and that her job provides her with material for her dissertation on women’s studies.

The woman meets a rich man during one of her shifts, and he has the same assumptions about her that everyone else does. She agrees to go out with him, but carefully guards her secret. She’s not ready for him to know that she is smart and ambitious – not at the beginning, anyway.

Although I would classify this story as very enjoyable light reading, it does raise an interesting question. How much do we really know our partners? Especially right after we’ve met them? Sometimes we go into relationships without really knowing a person, and I’m not talking about their deep dark history or the skeletons in their closet. Everyone has baggage that they don’t want to reveal right away.

No, I’m talking about the basic stuff. The information that most people can reasonably expect to know about someone before they start dating them. Here’s an example: I once dated a guy for five months without knowing that he was married. That’s a pretty fundamental thing to not know about your boyfriend. In fairness to me, the guy hid it really well. He kept a separate apartment in the city, he didn’t wear a ring, and nothing in his behaviour indicated that he had a wife stashed away.

Right after I found out about the wife, I broke up with him. It was nasty – the kind of breakup that involves yelling and insults slung all over the place. About ten days later, I was sitting on a park bench licking my wounds and vowing never to trust another man, when a stranger sat down beside me and told me I had beautiful eyes.

It was love at first sight. We went on our first date that night and we’ve been together since. We moved in together very soon after meeting, and neither of us kept anything secret from the other. We pretty much laid all our cards on the table right away.

There was one thing that was a little odd, though, and I’ve never been able to figure out the rationale behind it. When I met this stranger in the park, we exchanged basic biographical information. I told him that my name was Kirsten, I was originally from South Africa, and I was 31 years old. He told me that his name was Gerard, he was a first-generation Canadian of Irish descent, and he was 38 years old.

He lied about his age. At the time we met, he was actually about to turn 42.

It was not a big deal – I honestly didn’t care how old he was, and now I look back on it with a degree of bemusement – but it was just so unexpected.

I mean, a dude? Lying about his age?

WHY???

I thought only women lied about their ages, and to be honest, I’m not really too sure about the reasoning behind that either.

When Gerard told me his true age, he did give an explanation about the little piece of misinformation. I cannot remember the explanation now, but it seemed very philosophical at the time. I was so enthralled with him that I would have believed anything. He could have convinced me that he was actually an alien from Mars.

And who knows? Maybe he is.

Have you ever found out any secrets about your partner? Has he or she ever found out any about you?

(Photo credit: Steven Depolo. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: relationships, Secrets, The Booby Trap Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Toronto Women’s 5K: Speed Demon Wannabe

August 30, 2012 By

Most runners have some specific distances that they seem to excel at. There’s no formula for it, really, it’s just a matter of personal style and preference. Some runners are sprinters and do very well in the 5K runs, where pacing strategies aren’t really used. Others do better in longer distances, like 10K and 10 mile races. Then there are those who are slightly insane and do half and full marathons.

We will not discuss the freaks of nature who do ultramarathons.

I myself have always gone for the mid-to longish distance races, varying between 10K and 21.1K (half-marathon). The only reason I have not attempted a full marathon is because I cannot commit the time to the training. But someday…

The point is that 10K is generally the shortest distance I run. The poor 5K distance has been shamefully neglected.

Last weekend I put that right. I decided, early on this season, to put at least one 5K race into my schedule. Although it seems like a humble distance for a half-marathoner, I realized that it could be a really good test of my ability to just run like hell for half an hour or so.

I went into the race with some specific goals. First, I had to beat thirty minutes. Second, I would only take one walking break and that would be going through the aid station. Finally, I would finish in the top 50%. This last one was going to difficult, because I really had no idea how the other 390 runners in this race were going to do. I have been a little frustrated of late, though. When I first made my big comeback to running just over three years ago, I was finishing races in the bottom third. Since then, my performance has steadily improved, but that top 50% has been eluding me. As great as my 15K race ten days or so ago was, I still missed the average finishing time by just a couple of minutes.

I knew that I would have to work hard to achieve my goals, primarily because I had been out with my husband the previous night and consumed almost a full bottle of wine. Yes, I confess that I lined up at the start with a hangover the size of a mountain. I felt dehydrated and a little ill, but if anything, this motivated me to run as fast as I could, so I could get this over with.

I took my place in the starting corral at the last minute, so I was further back than I really wanted to be. And so when the race started, I got caught in the crowd, and I wasn’t able to go out as fast as I wanted to.

After a bit of weaving and dodging I was able to break away a little. The first two kilometres passed in a bit of a blur, and when I got to the turnaround point, I realized that I was actually enjoying myself.

Nothing cures a hangover like an elevated heart rate and a ton of sweat. It was great.

I was easily maintaining my target pace, so I slowed down to walk through the aid station.

Actually, that’s a lie. The aid station was manned by delicious-looking firefighters. And when you’re trying to impress firefighters, you don’t walk during a race. Not, at least, where they can see you. Your inner show-off emerges, and you pick up the pace. And that is why I was moving at a sprint when I grabbed a cup of water from the most delectable of the young gents. I ran on, not caring that I was sloshing my water all over the place. When I rounded the bend, then I slowed to a walk.

I drank my water, allowed my heart rate to subside for twenty seconds or so, and then I was off, with just two kilometres to go.

I started to get tired, but I was still keeping up with my goal pace. I slowed down marginally, just for the sake of keeping enough gas in the tank for a strong finish.

When I entered the final kilometre, my legs wanted to fall off. But I kept moving. At my current pace, I would nail that last kilometre in five and a half minutes. I kept reminding myself of what my friend and coach Phaedra told me as she ran me to my half-marathon finish along this exact path three months ago: “You can do anything for five minutes.”

When I saw the finish line ahead of me, my legs kicked into overdrive. I crossed the line with the clock reading 30:02 and a chip time of 29:18.

So. Finish the race in under half an hour? Check. Although it would have been nice to actually see the clock reading under 30:00. Next time I will pay more attention to my start line position.

Only walk through the aid station? Check. Kind of.

Finish in the top 50%? Check! I came in 86th out of 391 runners, and out of 44 in my age group, I was 15th. I was well ahead of the average finishing time of 35:10.

On Saturday afternoon, feeling content and triumphant, I took a nap on my back deck. Because dammit, I deserved it!

(Photo credit: Ryder Photography)

Filed Under: Race, running Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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Dear George

August 28, 2012 By

For the last week, I have been participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” challenge. Life got in the way of blogging over the last few days, so I am a day behind.

Yesterday’s prompt: When I was your age… – Write a letter to your child/ren starting off the with the phrase “When I was your age…” share a story of your own with them.

Dearest George,

When I was your age, I was very much like you. I had the same shyness, the same difficulty with speech, the same awkwardness around people I didn’t know. Learning was difficult for me until someone realized that I was smart but couldn’t learn in the same way as other people.

The world was a different place then, when I was an eight-year-old girl. In the late 1970’s, there was no Internet, so my parents couldn’t Google my symptoms. While diagnoses like autism existed, they were not very common, and not easy to come by unless the doctors knew exactly what they were looking for.

Throughout my childhood, I was sent for tests and assessments, but the most my parents were ever told was that I had “learning disabilities”. No-one was really sure what that even meant.

Like you, I loved books. I remember the summer I learned how to read. It was as if a door to a whole new world had opened to me. My newfound love of reading was both a relief and a source of worry to my parents. On the one hand, I could read, and this is something that everyone wants for their children. But on the other hand, the more I delved into the world of books, the more I withdrew from the world I lived in.

In spite of my rough beginnings, I turned out OK. I graduated high school, got myself a university degree and some post-graduate qualifications. I have a reasonable career, and most important of all, I have my family. You, your dad, and your brother.

You see, even though teachers and doctors didn’t really know what to do with kids like me, I was lucky enough to be part of a loving, supportive family.

My dad was always there for me to talk to, anytime I needed. He was my kindred spirit in many ways, sharing my love of reading, and later, my enthusiasm for running. He was like my rock of support, something that would never waver in the harshest of storms.

My brother and I fought like cat and dog, but in the end, we would have moved the earth for each other. God help anyone who hurt my brother’s little sister.

And my mom, your granny – she was a pillar of strength and support for me. She never doubted that I was capable of succeeding in life, and she helped steer me in the right direction. She worked tirelessly with me, making sure I was doing my homework, reading with me, being my advocate at school.

I often had conflicts with all of the members of my family. There were times when I wanted to run far, far away.

But there was never a time when I doubted that my family loved me and were there for me. When things got stormy, I always knew that the storm would pass and everything would be OK.

This is what my hope is for you. Parents and kids argue. Brothers fight. All of that is part of life. But I hope you know that no matter what, you are loved more than you could possibly know.

Please know that we are here for you, and always will be. I hope that can be at least half the mother to you that my mother was to me.

I love you always,

Mommy

(Photo from Kirsten Doyle’s archive of childhood pictures)

 

Filed Under: autism, Childhood, family, Learning Disability, parenting, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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There is No-one Alive Who is Youer than You

August 27, 2012 By

Although I am a bit behind on my prompts, I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I describe our lives as an autism family.

Today’s prompt (OK, yesterday’s prompt): Quote, End Quote. Post – Let someone else’s wise words inspire you. Find a quote that moves you in some way then free-write about it. Don’t stop writing for 15-20 mins. Now post!

Dr. Seuss was a wise man. He had so many profound things to say that one could be forgiven for thinking he was a philosopher disguised as a children’s storybook writer. I am raising my children to live by the words of Dr. Seuss, because he really did have sound advice for every occasion.

A couple of years ago, I came to the uncomfortable realization that I had fallen into the habit of inadvertently defining my son by virtue of his autism. It was always the first thing I told anyone.

When asked about my family, I would volunteer the information that I was married with two boys. “My older son has autism,” I would say, as if my audience just had to know that about George.

The truth is that I have been so determined to be open about my son’s autism in order to knock on the head any notion that there should be a stigma attached to it. But I started wondering if perhaps I was doing my son a disservice by labeling him from the outset, and thereby creating an instant perception that was based on his diagnosis, and not on who he is as a person.

So I decided to change my approach. While I will never, ever make any effort to hide the fact of George’s autism, I no longer make a point of stating it up front. Because George is not just a boy with autism. He is a boy, a beautiful person with individuality and many great qualities, and he has the right for people to get to know him as such.

The subject of autism always comes up, and it never takes very long. I am always happy to talk about autism and the challenges of special needs parenting, but now it is something that arises naturally in the course of conversation. I no longer treat it as the central element to my son’s existence.

I want George to grow up knowing that he is loved and valued because of the person he is. There is no-one in the world like him, and every day I thank my lucky stars that I’m the one who gets to be his mother.

(Photo credit: Brendan-c. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Acceptance, autism, Dr. Seuss, Individuality Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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Once Upon A Time

August 25, 2012 By

This week I am participating in the WEGO Health “Advocating for Another” carnival, in which I write posts in response to prompts. I am having a lot of fun with this!

Today’s prompt: Once upon a time – It’s storytelling day! Write a story about yourself, your loved one, and others as though you’re a children’s book author. Be sure to include a beginning, middle, and end. Extra points for illustrations!

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn’t really like dolls, except for the rag doll her granny made her and the child-size walking doll she once got for Christmas. She didn’t really play with dolls, though. She preferred to play “Cops and Robbers” with her brother and his friends, even though her brother always made her be the bad guy who was shot dead.

The little girl thought her brother was bossy and annoying.

Many people thought the little girl would never be a mommy. She didn’t know how to take care of dolls, and she couldn’t sew or cook. Everyone thought that you had to be able to sew and cook in order to be a mommy. The little girl didn’t really care. She wanted to be an astronaut.

The little girl became a teenager and stopped being little. She still couldn’t sew or cook, and she was painfully shy around people she didn’t know. Apart from a couple of short-lived attempts at relationships, she didn’t have boyfriends. People still didn’t think she would ever become a mother. The girl still didn’t care about that, but she was starting to wonder if she would be alone for her whole life.

When she went away to university, the girl – now a young woman – met a man who flattered her and made her feel special. But then he hurt her and made her feel worthless. Now the young woman didn’t want to be a mother. She didn’t want to be a wife. She wanted to be alone, and for a long time, she was.

The woman grew older and moved to another country. One day, when she was sitting in a park, a man sat down beside her and told her she had beautiful eyes. When she looked at him, she felt as if she was looking at her future.

The man and woman moved into a house together. They had a baby, and two years later, they had another one. The woman had become a mother! She loved her children more than anything, and her children loved her.

The woman no longer thought her brother was bossy and annoying. He walked her down the aisle when she got married.

When a doctor told the woman that her older son had autism, she cried. But after a few years, she knew that even though there would be hard times, her child would be OK, because he had a family who loved him.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)

Filed Under: family, life, Marriage, parenting, Siblings, WEGO Health Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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