Weary, exhausted, and otherwise frazzled, I returned from a month long trip to Nebraska on Sunday.

I had been helping care for three grandsons under the age of 2. I undertook the journey north eagerly, glad for the opportunity to be there for them while their father was away working for a month.

The youngest, a newborn, started exhibiting colic symptoms almost immediately. I spent many days and nights rocking, patting, and swinging him in my arms, singing songs in hopes to soothe him.

The 22 month old twins and I fully enjoyed fall. We played in the yard, exploring the leaves – ripping them, tossing them in the air, crunching through them. I carved a pumpkin, and they peered inside the fibrous opening over and over, tentatively reaching in with an index finger to explore the slimy, seedy contents.

I also was the catcher of many tackles, giver of endless hugs, and reader of bedtime stories.

It was precious time, over much quicker than I could imagine.

A sixteen hour drive loomed ahead of me Friday, and I was grateful my husband flew up to help me drive home.

Monday arrived after the whirlwind of emotions that came with leaving my midwestern family behind. My heart was more than a little tender, and I missed my grandsons fiercely.

My nine month old grandson here in my home state greeted me with smiles on Monday morning. I was there when he was born, and have watched him every week since, two days a week, since he was born. I missed a whole month with him.

As my afternoon with him neared a close, he finished his bottle, rolling completely around on me, until his head was nestled under my chin, and his arms encircled me in a hug.

For a full fifteen minutes, he hugged me, laying still and quiet. Once or twice, he lifted his head to smile at me, and then resumed his embrace.

Next, he sat in my lap and I made funny faces at him, and we laughed for a full 15 minutes.

It was absolutely therapeutic.

It seemed purposeful, and I don’t know if he missed me, or if he knew how much I needed that sweet baby hug, and his infectious laughter.

I left yesterday afternoon with the balm of sweet innocent baby pure love healing my tender, hurting heart.

I am a blessed Nana, indeed.

Last night I went to a large farm in Omaha, famous for its fall festivities, food, and pumpkins.

My daughter and I had a couple of hours to get some one-on-one time. With her three children under two, our hours are concentrated on parenting, and being Nana.

It was a cool day that grew colder as the sun set. We ate our pulled pork sandwiches, made s’mores, and began to traipse around through all the barns on the property.

I had a chance to see, smell, or taste a lot of missed fall favorites. Fresh, hot apple cider donuts, hot cocoa, fresh pumpkin pie (made from real pumpkin!), kettle corn, caramel apples. We ran from shop to shop, filling our eyes and nostrils with the sights and scents.

As we headed for the pie barn, we decided to take a hayride out to the pumpkin patch.

A John Deere tractor pulled the wagon out through the acreage to the lit up pumpkin patch. As we bumped down the dusty dirt road, I breathed deep the smells of fresh turned soil. Manure. Distant wood smoke. The wagon pulled us through the dark, and the night sky began to light up with stars, previously hidden by the city lights.

As we came to a stop, a huge floodlight illuminated the pumpkins in the fields. Large and small, green and orange, smooth and covered in warts, I admired the varieties, and I wandered through the field, stopping to take pictures, and savoring the country experience.

After a few minutes, I got back on to the wagon. Suddenly, I had that clarion moment where I realized I was perfectly happy. My daughter and I were having a good night, and I was in the country, which I love and miss deeply. I was experiencing an Autumn night, with all the wonder that goes with it for me.

My daughter snapped a picture of me while I was in the field, and when she showed it to me, I wept happy tears.

She asked me why I was happy, and I told her it was because I realized how perfectly happy I was. In a pumpkin field. In Omaha.

She’s lost in the heavy baby season – days filled with start to finish with babies, diapers, feedings, and trying to get some sleep.

When I had young children, I was a single mom, working and going to school.

I have large swaths of time where I remember very little, if anything.

I was so busy trying to survive I didn’t get to really live.

Now I’m not working full time – I am a full time wife and Nana.

I can purpose to be grateful, to seize the day, to appreciate the little things.

In that moment last night, I was physically aware of how very blessed I am.

I wept from the joy of it.

A few months ago, I started watching my baby grandson a couple of days a week.

As he grew, I wanted him to explore his world. I’d spread out a quilt, and lay him on it, then I would get down on the floor with him, so we could interact.

Though I’m young at heart and appearance, I’m not as young as I used to be. While I got down there easily enough, getting back up was, well, a challenge.

The knee that has never been the same since a fall at work joins the back and joints that are not as flexible and nimble, and have slowed my ascent.

I walk regularly. I do yoga and tai chi. I’m not overweight…I’m just older!

The more important thing for me is getting down there on baby level. Now he crawls, so I crawl around with him.

Today I was with my 22 month old twin sons. As I have since I’ve been here the last couple of weeks, I get down on their level. We play. Wrestle. Laugh!!

Nana just doesn’t jump right back up like she used to.

I always get back up, though.

There are times life has brought me low- either by my poor choices, or just the path I was on.

I’ve struggled with major depressive disorder for almost thirty years.

There are down days – but I know I’ve got to keep moving. Get back up!!

November is the most loaded month of the year for me.

I’m exercising more regularly now, and have started my half marathon training again. Diabetes knocked me down – but I’m getting back up.

I’ll be as prepared as I can be for next month. Praying. Going to church. Loving my family. Being healthy.

I know I may still get down…but I’m not afraid to ask for a hand if I need it, to get back up again, and move forward, one step at a time.

So, friends, I’m up. But there is a perspective and depth to my life I can only get when I’m down.

I just refuse to stay there.

I’ve been taking daily walks as I visit my daughter and her three children in the Midwest.

I don’t know where anything is here, and she lives on a very steep hilly street, so I make my way down her street to the cemetery for my walks.

I remember when I was in elementary school we took a field trip to an old cemetery.

We were given large pieces of paper, and we looked for the most interesting tombstone.

Once we found one, we’d take black chalk and make a rubbing of the engraving on the tombstone.

My active imagination tried to envision what it would be like to live 100 years ago…or more.

In high school, the cemetery was the stuff of urban legend. If you drove around the statue three times in a row, it would come to life and point at you.

I skipped that activity.

I am not spooked by cemeteries, but I don’t choose to go there at night.

During the day, the cemetery here is a peaceful place with wide cement drives throughout.

It’s moderately hilly, and I’ve chosen different paths each time I’ve gone there.

Most of the people I know talk of how they want to be cremated instead of buried. I understand that sentiment.

They don’t want the fuss and expense.

As I walk, I look at the names set in or above the ground. Once in a while, a monument will catch my eye.

The people who chose cemeteries must want to be remembered. Or maybe it’s their loved ones wanting a tangible place to go and visit them in memory.

I have little experience with cemeteries.

The first gravesite ceremony I went to was for the father of my son, killed suddenly in car accident when he was 20.

It was a grey, cold November day when he was laid to rest. The wind cut bitterly against my skin, peppering me with abrasive snow whipped up from the high desert mountain slope that would be his final resting place.

I didn’t return to that small family cemetery for a couple of years. When I did, it was warm and sunny, and the grass covered his grave. I lay on his gravesite, somehow trying to get closer. To remember.

I returned to that small cemetery after his mother died of breast cancer. I couldn’t go to the gravesite service because of a heavy snowfall, and I had to fly home the next day.

Instead, I came back during the warm days again, and once more felt a longing to see her.

March of this year was the next time I was at a cemetery. My beloved mother in law had passed away, and I was there moments after her death, through the funeral, and to the gravesite service. Again it was cold out, but it was the day before spring. I was moved by the fact we laid her to rest just as the earth began to awaken again with new life.

I think of those I have lost as I walk through the cemetery here. I wonder what I will do when my time comes.

I like the thought of having a final place of rest. Of being remembered. Of flowers brought, prayers sent. A peaceful, lovely place with trees.

We all face that decision one day.

Walking through the cemetery, I say names out loud of those buried there. How long has it been since someone said their name?

The wind carries their names off, and I walk home.

This morning as I drank my coffee at my daughters house, I looked out the kitchen window at the robins just outside.

Several robins were foraging for food, and I realized I hadn’t seen a robin since spring.

I live in the South, and a robin sighting heralds the coming of spring. Before it gets too hot, they head north again.

I’m in the Midwest now, and the robins are getting ready to head south.

It’s full circle.

I miss having all four seasons where I live. Most of all, I miss autumn.

We just had a cold snap here, and I know that will brighten the leaves that are starting to turn. I’m looking forward to seeing the leaves glow bright before they release from their host to gently float to the ground.

At home, live oak leaves fall, brittle and green, year-round. Acorns cover my driveway, but most of them are still green, knocked down by the herd of squirrels that patrols my yard.

At my daughters house, the squirrels feeding alongside the robins are big red squirrels. They dwarf the eastern grey squirrels that patrol my yard. I even spotted a black squirrel in the back yard here.

At home the weather goes from temperate to hot, to hurricane season, to hot, to pleasant.

Nothing to indicate seasons changing, cycles of life, dormancy to new life again.

Just relentless heat, with a few breaks of nice weather.

So why do I live there? My parents, brothers, and three of my children call it home. My husbands job keeps us there for the foreseeable future.

In the mean time, I’m grateful I can travel. I fly to the Midwest to see Autumn, to bundle up on cold nights, sleep soundly without A/C blasting.

In winter I’ve gone to Europe and slept in feather beds in the alps. I go home to the Wasatch Front, reveling in the powdery snow and bright blue skies.

In November I’ll return home, and the weather should be pleasant. I’ll walk the coast and appreciate the most beautiful beach on the planet.

I’m counting my blessings, and my family is on top, so I’ll remember how far we’ve come, and tolerate the heat when it comes.

I’m driving to see my child and grandsons, and I stopped for the night in the town where my husband grew up – in Kentucky.

Kentucky will always mean home for me now.

In March when his mother passed away in Indiana, we were there moments after she stepped into eternity.

Mom was born and raised in Kentucky. She grew up on a farm here.

After a couple of other moves, Mom and Dad landed in this small town. They built a house and owned a farm, and raised their children here in Kentucky.

My husband lived here in that home they built from the age of 18 months until he graduated from high school…and it continued to symbolize home until it was suddenly auctioned off eight years ago, abruptly closing that chapter of life.

Mom was Kentucky, through and through. She loved living in the country, in this small town.

For years, we came to the farm every Christmas, and every Fourth of July. We sat on the porch and watched her beloved cardinals. We ate wonderful meals she made, with jams and jellies homemade from fruits of her garden. We cheered with her for the UK basketball team – she was a fanatic, and had her own television in the kitchen, so she could watch every game.

She loved her kids, and adored her grandkids – all of them. This was comfort for my kids and I, who married in to her wonderful love. She would grasp my hands and sincerely thank me for loving her son, for she knew the destruction he had endured. Every single time she saw me, she thanked me. I would respond to her “thank you for raising such a wonderful son!”

When we came to Indiana after she died, it felt like Indiana feels to us…surreal. Like we are interlopers. Not quite right.

Mom had people who loved her in Indiana, but they moved her there from Kentucky when her memory was starting to fray around the edges. It was obvious living down a long driveway, miles from help or neighbors, just wasn’t safe for her anymore.

They got a nice house in a nice neighborhood in Indiana, close to her daughters.

That home wasn’t associated with Mom for us. The longer she lived there, the more she incrementally disappeared. We visited her a year before she died – she was still herself during the day, but at night she sundowned, retreating to the Kentucky of her girlhood.

She was buried in Indiana. Our grief has been stunted, and delayed. We miss her every day, but at her funeral, we left more troubled than settled.

This afternoon, I drove to the old Kentucky home of my husband’s childhood. I stood next to the massive magnolia at the end of the driveway, staring up at the house where Mom lived. The house she decorated with angels and Christmas trees year round. The home that welcomed us all, year after year.

I stood, shaking, and looked at the trees Dad had planted, having gathered them from the riverbank decades ago. They towered over me as they circled the drive.

I wanted to go to the back yard, to see the porch Mom spent so much time on…but another family lives there now. I sat at the end of the long driveway, taking it all in.

I cried all the way back to the hotel – I feel Mom here. We have so many years of happy memories with her here.

Everywhere I went today reminded me of a happy memory with her. Today was a bittersweet gift, a release that has been looking to escape.

I know she’s in heaven, and that comforts me.

Kentucky always will mean Mom to me.

Thank you for that, Mom.

Today we are jetting south.

After a month and a half of drought, I was thrilled to see clouds above me as we took off.

As we ascended and curved, the mountainous billows of clouds soon surrounded our small plane.

At least it seems like a very small plane from up here, above it all.

Down below, so much is going on. It’s been a rough week. Unseasonably hot, humid days. Health challenges.

Above it all up here, though, there is just a deep blue sky, from a deep, endless clear pure blue, fading to a pale white-blue as it met land. The giant cloud formation was like a mountain outside my window – massive, tumbling down the sky, and ever near to me.

We climbed higher still, and the summer hot haze differentiated the sky from the horizon. If I squinted, I could imagine a vast ocean below me, the haze smooth and blue grey.

Up here, it’s severe clear. There are no troubles. No stress – for me at least, as I love the miracle of flying.

My goal for the next ten days is to relax. I’m unplugging from the Internet and all social media. I’m going to read books, laying under the shaded ledges I can find. I’m going to walk, explore, enjoy.

And as always, I will be counting my blessings.

I’m starting now, above it all.

It’s been an interesting year.

I quit my office job last June after struggling with my type 1 diabetes diagnosis, as well as a bout with the flu. I couldn’t get my health stabilized, so my husband and I decided I would stop full time, bedside nursing.

I spent 21 years working in hospitals, and capped it off with a whimper.

Since I entered the stay at home wife phase, I have spent a lot of time being Nana.

Best. Thing. Ever!

I have flown north four times to be with my twin grandsons, and will be there again next month to help my daughter with her new son.

I have been able to be the birth assistant to my daughter in love as grandson number five made his appearance in January. Since then, I spend Monday mornings and Tuesday afternoons with him.

It’s positively rejuvenating!!

I’ve been minimizing my house, one room at a time. I’ve taken out bags of clothing, finally removing all the clothes I never wear, so I could donate them to someone who could.

The house is also getting cleaned, from baseboard to ceiling. When I worked 40hr weeks and commuted 8-10 hours weekly, my exhausted self just did what had to be done.

Since I’ve been home, we’ve torn up the carpet, and put down vinyl plank flooring.

We continue to purge the hideous decor of regimes past, replacing it with comfortable, cozy warmth.

I’m still exhausted – all the time. It’s been difficult to deal with. I’m going to begin training for my next half marathon soon, and I’ve got to get some energy to get moving.

In the mean time, we are going on a cruise, visiting Miami for a couple of days, and I’ll be spending a month hopefully getting some autumn therapy with three of my grandsons.

Will I work as a travel nurse again? Definitely not this calendar year.

With the holidays coming up, my focus is on family.

We will see what the new year brings.

It’s Step Family Day.

There is a “day” for everything, but I am living the step family life, and I know that millions of others are, too, so I acknowledge this day as important.

When my husband and I got married, our five children ranged in ages from 10 to 21.

Deciding to get married when your kids are heading into the tween and teen years is daunting.

We’ve learned a lot over the last 12 years.

First and foremost, being a stepmom is the most thankless job on the planet. You get all the blood, sweat, and tears – but no glory or credit. If you are heading into a step family, moms, you need to understand this. The beginning is hard, and it takes years – YEARS – to get better.

Second, before you get married and blend your families, get counseling, and read up. “The Smart Stepfamily” by Ron Deal is a great book which outlines the path of the stepfamily. Even armed with that before I got married, it’s still a tough row to hoe.

Third, realize you have to remain a united front with your spouse – the marriage comes before the kids. It’s the order of things that keeps the foundation firm.

Forth, you will learn patience. It takes a lot of time for the family to blend – as Ron Deal says, it’s a crock pot, not a blender. You will eventually all find your places – or maybe you will have outliers who refuse to blend. You have to understand everyone moves into their place at their own speed. It cannot be forced.

Fifth, get support. I don’t know what I’d do without my blended family small group, and my girlfriends who are walking this same journey. The mentors who have been together 35 years and live to tell the tale of love and survival…and persistence.

When you are dating and everyone has their rose colored glasses on, it seems like it can’t be that hard. You get married, and it’s happy ever after!

Wrong.

It’s very hard. The challenges step families face continue, to some degree, forever.

So on this step family day, pray for your step family, if you are in one.

If your child or sibling is in a step family, realize that the kids are part of the family now. Don’t ostracize the children that have married into the relationship. Acknowledge them just as you do your biologically related kids. We have an adopted son – we don’t treat him any different. It’s hurtful to our kids when they are treated as an afterthought, or ignored.

If you are an ex, don’t try an alienate the children from their step parent. Your insecurities are not for the children to bear. A loving step parent is a gift – someone who will take good care of the children when they are not with you. Parental alienation includes alienation from the spouse and/or their kids – not only is it morally wrong, it’s a chargeable offense in court.

Our blended family is growing, and now includes another son and daughter in law, a wonderful son in law, a daughter in love, and six grandsons. For the most part, everyone has grown to love each other.

For the rest, we pray.

I put my arms around the stepfamilies today.

It takes a lot of love to put back together what had been destroyed.

We choose love and faith, and that’s what holds us together.

I really hate hurricanes.

I am infinitely grateful for the technology that lets us get “some” idea of where the monster storms are going, but it’s still not perfect science.

I moved here in 2000, and two days later, we evacuated for a hurricane.

I had no idea what living in a hurricane zone entailed. My dad was staying at his military base for the storm, to fly planes out of harms way. The rest of the family headed north.

We evacuated two more times that year.

In the nineteen years I’ve lived here, I’ve ridden out countless tropical storms, as well as category 1 and 2 hurricanes. (If you are instructed to evacuate, always listen to the local officials!). Power has been lost, much damage has been done, and a lot of sleepless nights were spent tossing and turning as the storms or the tornadoes they spun off kept me anxiously awake.

Before moving here, I knew nothing. Now I plot the course of the storms as they spin off of the coast of Africa. I watch the central pressure and forward movement. I know when the new advisories are posted, and I’m watching them for any change.

In September of 2004, I was called in to work the day before Hurricane Ivan hit. Being a registered nurse, you don’t have a choice – you work, or you’re fired. I placed my kids in the safety of my parents condo, and went to work…for the next 72 hours.

To say it was harrowing is an understatement. In a fragile old hospital, a window exploded inward just as the hurricane made landfall around 0135. We jumped up from our makeshift beds on the floor to make sure all was well. We cleaned, rearranged, moved patients around. The power went out.

The next 60 hours were spent without power, running on generators. We had no A/C and no windows to open, but we did have the ice machine up and running. Amazingly, we only had one baby born during that time on labor and delivery, and fortunately it was during the day – I had heard stories of past storms, and childbirth by flashlight.

Scrubs were modified – T-shirt’s and rolled up scrub pants. We took turns taking tepid showers.

Once the storm had passed, a group of four of us snuck out on our off shift to assess the damage. Power lines were draped haphazardly along the road. Roofs were gone from big box stores. Debris was everywhere!

As we pulled into my driveway, I was grateful to see my small brick house was intact. Some shingles had flown away, and there was a pile of vegetation debris six feet high in the back yard, but I had a home to come back to. The other three found similar situations. We sighed in gratitude.

Back at work, we missed our families, and waited to be released. The hospital was running low on food, and we ate cold sandwiches around the clock.

Finally, in the early morning of day three, the power came back on. We cranked the air conditioning down, and slept soundly for the first time since we clocked in over two days ago.

I had eight more hours to go before I could go home and see my three young children. The stress and exhaustion had taken its toll. One of our nurses had a loved one pass away overnight in our hospital, and I relieved her as charge nurse so she could go home and deal with the devastation.

We had one patient who had come in, demanding to be induced. I patiently explained to her that the schedule had been changed due to this catastrophic storm – that her own doctor had been in the hospital 72 hours straight riding out the storm. She would not budge. Her very tired but patient doctor let her stay.

Later that morning, as I answered her call light and was giving a litany of abusive language and expressions, I walked out of her room, and began to cry.

I’m not one to easily cry, but I was at the end of myself, and after not seeing my kids, riding out a storm, missing out on sleep, and the stress off the past three days, I had enough.

I called another nurse in from home, and she gladly took over.

I went to my parents, hugged my kids, and fell into a deep, much needed sleep.

Turns out the storm did more harm than I knew. My power was out for ten days – I had a fridge full of food that was lost, and this hit hard as a single parent.

The neighborhood rallied, though. My neighbor came over and cut up the trees that had fallen in the front yard. Everyone shared food before it was destroyed by lack of refrigeration.

There were also moments of beauty. The first night after the storm passed, we went outside and looked up at the sky, unimpeded by light pollution. It was a clear velvety canvas studded with the brightest stars I’d ever seen. Everything was perfectly still. It was as if nature herself needed a rest.

When I went home, I was mesmerized by dozens of dragonflies flying frantically around the debris pile in the back yard. After a few moments, I realized it was actually hummingbirds, knocked off course and confused in the wake of the cyclone.

I spent the days I wasn’t working cleaning up the debris, and clearing out the fridge. At curfew, I’d head back to my parents condo, where all three adult kids were camped out with their kids.

When I came home ten days after landfall, a power company truck from Ohio was on my street, hooking up our power. I wept as I stopped and gratefully thanked them. In the days to come, every time I saw the parade of power trucks from all over the country, I would weep again.

Over time, cleanup happened, blue tarps were replaced by new roofs, and destroyed buildings were torn down.

I am convinced I have mild PTSD from riding out Ivan. I didn’t have a choice – I am obliged to do so as long as I work as a registered nurse in this state.

I’m grateful my family and our homes were spared. In the years since Ivan, my heart lurches when I hear of a major hurricane aiming at land. I’m sick about the hurricane that is blasting through the Bahamas right now.

Hurricanes are definitely not to be underestimated.