In the evening, Josh and I took the scenic route out to Lake Minnetonka, where we met his family for dinner at a lakeside restaurant that they were scoping out for Andy’s rehearsal dinner. We had one of those dining experiences where the service is so slow that you move beyond frustration to something resembling amusement. You know—jokes about the staff out catching the fish and whatnot. Aside from the fact that we had a hungry four-year-old boy with us, the leisurely pace wasn’t a complete disaster since it was a beautiful summer evening. We adults distracted ourselves from our grumbling bellies with cold beverages and wedding talk.

Andy and Alex were getting married in November, and Josh and his brother-in-law, Brian, were going to be ushers. Little did the rest of the family know that Josh and I were also taking our relationship to another level—just nothing legal. It was fun to have our own little secret, and after sitting across from my sweet man all evening, I was ready to go home and wrap up the holiday right. Rest assured, dear readers, that we did.

About a month into the whole trying-to-get-pregnant experience, I realized something important. When you’re waiting for something good to happen, it sometimes helps to distract yourself. So, toward the end of June, I convinced Josh that we should do something impractical and take a vacation. We didn’t have any extra money sitting around, but we had airline miles, so we booked an August trip to the Napa area. I made reservations at a bed and breakfast, and between the promise of wineries and indulgent accommodations, we instantly had the makings of many juicy daydreams.

While Josh didn’t give me a green light, he bought a very nice gift for my birthday. I was the proud owner of my first digital camera. He was careful to buy one with just the right specs—he’s good at sorting through models and reading reviews. It was perfect, and we had an action-packed weekend to document.

On Friday night—my actual birthday—we went to dinner at 112 Eatery, the restaurant where we’d lingered late into the evening just hours before our first kiss. Several friends met us for dinner, and it was a laughter-filled evening of small plates and tall pours. And dessert–oh, the dessert! I couldn’t choose a favorite between the tres leches cake and the butterscotch budino.

Perhaps the free-flowing wine was partially to blame, but by the end of dinner, I was standing in the ladies’ room, cursing myself in the mirror as I fought back tears. It wasn’t just that I was, you know, getting older, though Lord knows, that was part of it. I was so tired of feeling emotionally vulnerable. I’d been through so much in the last two years—when did I get to relax and enjoy love?

I unloaded on Josh when we got home, and he surprised me. He went berserk, and I have to confess—I enjoyed it in a perverse sort of way. He could be so emotionally reserved that I often wondered what the hell was going on up there. Now I knew, and that was so much better than acting like everything was just fine. I have little regard for fine. Real life is a hot, stinking mess sometimes.

He insisted that all of my questions about marriage and babies were ruining the romance, ruining any element of surprise that he might be planning. But I didn’t care about surprises—I just wanted him to look me in the eyes and tell me, in-person, out loud, that he wanted me. I didn’t need an elaborate proposal or a fancy ring. The idea of marriage had lost its lustre for me somewhere back in Illinois. I wanted more than an idea. I wanted the action of marriage. The real-life highs and lows, and all the banal stuff in between. With him.

We kissed and made up, and I came to terms with the fact that he was going to do this his way. No emotional appeals on my part would make a difference. So I shut up and enjoyed the rest of the weekend. On Saturday, we went to the Twins-Red Sox game with my brothers and their significant others. It was all fun and games until the 2nd or 3rd inning when I dunked my shiny new camera, full immersion, into my beer. I’d only consumed about two ounces of beer, so I couldn’t blame intoxication. The camera was trashed, and there was nothing I could do but finish the beer and shake it off.

On Sunday morning—Mother’s Day—I hosted my whole family for a rather elaborate brunch. It was such a sweet day. I mean, aside from the mimosas, french toast, and fresh fruit, it was genuinely sweet. “Like a Normal Rockwell picture,” as my mom used to say. My younger brothers were all highly participatory in the family quality time. That hadn’t always been the case. But on this fine spring morning, the whole lot of us walked down to the park after brunch to let toddling Ethan play.

As I watched my brothers egging on my mom to try the kiddie zip line, I knew exactly what I’d been waiting for, fighting for. Back when I’d first realized that my marriage was going to fail, I think what crushed me the most was the loss of the would-be family that I’d constructed in my head. I mistakenly thought that by saying “I do,” all of that would fall into place. Sometimes, life is exactly not what you expect. Case in point: a granny—my mother—flying by on a zip line, hollering like a schoolgirl.

Next, I went off the pill. No, we weren’t trying to get pregnant (yet), but I wanted to see if anything would happen. Anything being something resembling a cycle. I backed off of my running and tried to gain a few pounds (I know, I know—what an annoying problem). After my therapist gave me an article about diet and fertility, I started swigging 2% milk and eating lots of ice cream. Maybe Josh and I weren’t quite ready, but I figured I could at least get in shape for it. So I did, with equal zeal to training for any marathon.

On the surface, life was really good. In addition to all of the newness—house, puppy, job—I was teaching a university seminar, volunteering, practicing yoga, and taking the dogs to training classes with Josh. I was looking for meaningful ways to channel my energy because deep down, I felt so stuck. I was no longer a carefree twentysomething, but I was far from where I’d hoped to be in my thirties.

I should have relished the quiet goodness of our new life together, but what can I say? I’m my own brand of crazy, and I find it oh-so-difficult to shut up and relax. If I couldn’t have what I wanted, I figured I might as well live it up. Every time another friend announced her pregnancy, I wanted to go somewhere exotic or do something impractical. Or at least buy some hot jeans to show off my pre-mommyhood butt. Because why the hell not? So I suggested to Josh that we take a vacation, just the two of us, and the most interesting thing happened.

The man who’d been quite wary of settling down in the suburbs became the voice of reason. He thought we should spend our money on responsible things like shrubbery or a patio. Shubbery? Really? It was downright refreshing, and Lord knows I wasn’t afraid to grow up. So I just kept plugging away, trying to relish the little things—walking the dogs in the snow, cuddling up with Josh on a cold winter’s night, singing hymns in church. And the ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream.

Co-parenting the puppy with Josh was both fun and challenging. I played the role of puppy chaser. The fence posts were wider than the puppy, and thus, our yard was susceptible to jail breaks. Most nights she found a way out, so I’d throw on some shoes and sprint down the icy street—sans coat or hat—until I could finally corner Juna and scoop her up. Josh played the role of fence mender, and he spent a good deal of time freezing his ass off in the yard, reinforcing the fence with chicken wire.

Our new home and the addition of Juna made the holiday season extra special. In mid-December, we threw a housewarming party for just about everyone we knew: moms and dads, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, picnic leaguers, book clubbers, college friends, coworkers, lots of kiddos, and even an extra puppy. Our little rambler was packed to the brim, and I’m sure that the laughs, the shrieks, and the puppy yips and yaps could be heard down the block.

Josh and I may as well have been married, what with a Christmas card, a big tree (which Juna joyfully knocked down after first eating a string of lights), and the challenge of celebrating with both of our families. The weekend before Christmas, we did “Sibling Christmas” with my brothers and their significant others at Mancini’s Char House, an old-school supper club in St. Paul. Christmas Eve was spent with Josh’s family for fondue, a gift exchange, and gluttonous cookie consumption. On Christmas Day, we joined my family at Andy and Hilary’s, where we ate ham and rice pudding, showered Ethan with toys, and played my mom’s holiday-themed word games.

The festivities continued through the end of the year. A few days before New Year’s Eve, a bunch of friends gathered at Brad and Missy’s big suburban house for the first-ever “winter picnic league.” Brad and Missy were a fun-loving couple with a cute baby boy named Louis and a recently constructed gingerbread trailer park in their kitchen. They often came up with creative party ideas, and this was no exception. It was bitter cold outside, and both sledding and grilling burgers were on the docket.

While the guys were out on the patio burning stuff, the women gathered in the living room to gab and keep track of the two babies. In addition to Louis, the junior picnic league roster included Spencer and Melissa’s daughter, Piper. Earlier in the evening, Chris and Corri had announced that they were expecting their first baby, so the chitchat naturally gravitated toward all things baby.

I hung back a little and listened to birth stories and nursing advice. I was so happy for the moms and the mom-to-be, but I felt more than a little wistful. None of them knew that I’d had fertility issues. Heck, most of them didn’t even know that I was divorced, and I certainly hadn’t mentioned that my biological clock was ready to, oh, explode.

On the way home that night, I drove slowly, clutching the steering wheel and trying to be strong as big tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried in silence for a few minutes before trying to speak, and when I did, I couldn’t form an intelligent sentence. I could only muster a whimpered “I want to have a baby.” And between sniffles, “So bad.” And Josh took my hand in the kindest way and said, “You will, baby. You will.”

In our first few weeks as homeowners, we were absolute machines. Josh started to build a beautiful cedar fence for Tucker, and I went to town on the interior. Unpacking boxes, hunting for the perfect sofa, and sewing funky throw pillows became my new obsessions. Multiple trips to Home Depot, Target, and IKEA confirmed our suspicions that our 1950s rambler might have strong money-pit potential. We gave up eating out entirely. We were much more interested in spending our dough on curtain rods, power tools, and buckets of expensive low-VOC paint with clever names like “Wet Concrete.”

We were the picture of blissful domesticity until the untimely death of our washing machine. But, what was another six or seven hundred bucks that we didn’t have, right? “Forget the bar, baby—let’s go to Sears!” And the funny thing was, it felt good. The appliance dude botched my credit application and issued my card under my former married name—egads—but nothing could stand in the way of my happiness. I thought that our new front-loading, high-efficiency wonder was pure utilitarian sexiness, and it was then that I realized that I was officially old.

Never fear, dear readers—we were still having fun. The house had a full second kitchen, and my home-brewing darling was busy setting up his “Brouwerij Basement,” which translates to something along the lines of basement in which one boils giant kettles of liquid boyhood (with Belgian flair, naturally). Josh had sole jurisdiction over the basement kitchen, and I quickly decided that I’d take no responsibility for anything that went on down there.

Did I ever envision that life in my thirties would include having a kegerator in my family room? No. No, I did not. Nor did I expect to be divorced and shacked up with a good buddy from college, but that’s what makes life so interesting. In a book or a movie, a nicely timed twist of plot can be a real thrill, but in real life, it’s nothing short of breathtaking. As I stuffed a load of commingled boxer shorts and flowered undies into the new washer, I smiled. “Truly,” I thought, “God must get a real kick out of watching people rise up from rock bottom to plain old peace.”

*****

Blog Housekeeping

I am thrilled to be the July 14th featured blogger on SITS! The Secret is in the Sauce is a fabulous community of women bloggers who support each other by leaving comments.

My blogoir (blog meets memoir) format is a little unique. The events of this post took place in August and September of 2007.

If you’re visiting for the first time, please consider starting my blogoir at the beginning, “How I Left My Husband on My Lunch Break,” or checking out my Fast Track page to get up to speed on the story. You can also find me on Facebook, where you can see photos that relate to my story, and on twitter. Thanks for visiting!

While I was cautiously optimistic that the end was in sight, I didn’t feel like I could take a full breath until I was sitting in my living room with a glass of wine, a good book, and my honey at my side. On some level, I was worried that it was all too good to be true—the house, the man, the stability. It was all so civilized—a far cry from the day I sped away from my ex-husband with little more than my dog and my purse.

I could see what I wanted on the horizon: a family, which would start with me, Josh, and Tucker, and would hopefully grow to include children in the not-so-distant future. But it was bigger than that, too. I hoped that our little clan would be closely tied to our own roots, and I was excited that Josh and I had started to get to know each others’ families better.

Josh and I were both the oldest of four. Between the two of us, we had six younger siblings, ranging in age from 21 to 29. Josh had two sisters—Jessie and Rachel—and a brother named Andy who was still in college. Jessie had a three-year-old son named Aidan, and Rachel had recently married Brian, a great guy who she’d met while living out west. What made the whole situation downright idyllic was the fact that our parents were all still married to each other. Jeez. And, every one of these people lived within a 45-minute drive of our new house. I could already envision the BBQs and birthday parties.

Josh had met my family during our first year in college, when I’d often invited friends home for Sunday dinner. He’d also spent a fair amount of time at my parents’ house during my recently-divorced-and-living-in-the-basement phase. Still, I was happy that he was able to come along on my family’s summer vacation right before we moved in together. We rented a big lake home in northern Minnesota—a house that would go down in family lore as “Weird Don’s” because the owner was a cranky old dude named Don.

If it was hard for my family to see me so quickly attached to another man after my divorce, they didn’t let on. All three of my brothers and my sister-in-law had stood up in my wedding, so I wondered if they’d felt a certain investment in my marriage, but it felt like they were solidly on my team. I think the general consensus was that my marriage had been a mistake. Josh was welcomed with open arms, and at Weird Don’s, he was even foolish enough to stay out around the campfire with my brothers after I went to bed. This is a sure recipe for a four-Advil hangover.

I didn’t have a chance to vacation with Josh’s family that summer, but I did attend the employee appreciation picnic for the family business. I hadn’t been around his family much yet, so it was a good opportunity to talk to his parents and siblings over BBQ and cold brews. Josh’s dad, Larry, had started his own company several years before, and Rachel and Jessie both worked for him. Josh’s mom, Rose, did a lot to help make the company a great place to work—including providing home-baked goodies every week.

One of the many wonderful things about getting to know Rose was that she asked a lot of questions. She had a good deal of practice, as several of her children—including my boyfriend—were on the quiet side. At the picnic, Rose and Alex, Andy’s girlfriend from college, asked me about my divorce. What a relief! I’d been pretty sure that Josh had mentioned it to his mom, but I’d been wondering whether the rest of the family knew that I’d been married before. I don’t know why, but it really mattered to me. Something about authenticity.

It seemed like Josh and I would fit in nicely with each others’ families, but I knew it would take time to feel entirely comfortable. I couldn’t help but wonder, “At what point are you really part of your significant other’s family?” Did it take a ring? Or was cohabitation sufficient? Having already gained and lost in-laws, I really hoped that this would turn out differently. Still, there was always a risk. But since I was willing to put my heart on the line again for Josh, I figured that I could sure as hell go ahead and love his family.

Ethan was being examined one last time before being released, and his doctors thought he would make a full recovery. He would need ongoing follow-up appointments, and he still had some minor issues with his eyes, but he would be okay. And the best part was that Andy and Hilary had been cleared in the case, so Ethan would be able to go home with them.

Ethan would obviously not be going back to daycare. In fact, the home daycare was shut down because of the investigation. So, Andy and Hilary had to scramble to find childcare, and the grandparents really stepped to the plate. Hilary’s mom, also known as Nancy or Grandma Nana, would come from Louisville to care for Ethan for a few weeks. Then, each of my parents would take a month off of work to be full-time grandparents. My mom had the summer off anyway, so she’d be with him until August. In total, that bought Andy and Hilary four months before they’d need to come up with a new childcare arrangement.

My brother and sister-in-law had been through so much in the last year: bed rest, pre-term labor, the NICU, and now, this. I felt terrible for them. And my poor parents. They’d been through the wringer, too. Not only had they experienced the scare of Ethan’s injury, but they’d also worried an awful lot about me during the end of my marriage and my divorce. Loving people is damn hard work. Sometimes, there’s very little we can do to protect the people we love. And yet, most of us are quite willing—eager, even—to go on loving.

It was April 2007, and while my family was still recovering from Ethan’s injury, my life was in an upward spiral in many respects. I started my new job the day after Ethan got out of the hospital, and the next weekend, Tucker and I moved in with Megan. Josh and I hadn’t talked much about living together again since his lease would go through August, but he’d recently brought it up in front of my girlfriends. A few days later, I’d received this e-mail:

…speaking of how important you are to me, I also wanted to make sure you weren’t too freaked out by what I said about your/my/our living situation when we were over at Daniela’s. We haven’t really talked a ton about it, but I really could see us living together quite happily in the not-too-distant future and just wanted it to be on the table. Bringing it up like that in front of the girls was maybe not the best way to put it out there again, but my brain was not functioning correctly due to all the beer. Yeah, yeah—that’s the ticket. Since we haven’t discussed it at length, I’m not sure what your feelings are on the whole issue. From my perspective, I’ve always thought it was a pretty huge thing (i.e., kind of a test run for being married—I mean, what’s the difference after that?), but at this stage in my life it seems less huge and just more of a natural next step. That probably has a LOT to do with how comfortable and happy I am with you, so hopefully you take that as a compliment.

What?! He always thought it was a pretty huge thing, but now it seemed less huge? I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I tried to take his word that it was meant as a compliment. Whatever he was trying to say, I did like the idea of a “test run.” I hadn’t lived with John until we’d already set our wedding date, and Lord knows that didn’t play out very well.

Now, I’m not saying that cohabitating before marriage or engagement is right for everyone. Hell, some people still call it living (say it in your best Dana-Carvey-as-the-Church-Lady voice) in sin. But as a recently divorced woman, it made a ridiculous amount of sense to me. In the past year, I’d learned a lot about love, about marriage, and about myself, and I knew that if I ever got married again, it would be different. If I ever got married again, it would be because I already felt married, he already felt married, and—what do you know?—it worked.

She and her husband, Fran, had an amazing how-we-met story. When Erin moved to Boulder to attend journalism school, she’d reconnected with some friends from her hometown in North Dakota. Fran was the dreamy older brother, and Erin seemed to know immediately that he was the guy for her. She loved everything about him, from his curly blond hair and blue eyes, to his love of books and music. She was so smitten that she could rattle off a list of famous men named Francis. Frank Sinatra…Francis Ford Coppola, etcetera. The bride and her Francis had grown up just down the road from each other in a town of 2,500. Since Fran was several years older, they hadn’t gone to school together, but little Erin had taken piano lessons from Fran’s mom, the woman who would become her mother-in-law.

So why hadn’t I gone to the wedding of this perfectly adorable couple? I don’t have a great excuse. After my own wedding, John and I had immediately moved from Chicago to Central Illinois, and things had gotten rough right away. On our honeymoon, actually. So a few weeks before Erin’s wedding, my mind had been a mess. I’d already started to ask the question that precedes many a divorce: “Just how hard is marriage supposed to be?” In the face of such stress, I had retreated into stunned helplessness, and just two weeks before Erin’s wedding, I’d called her to say that I wouldn’t be coming. She didn’t admit it at the time, but she was mad. And rightfully so, because I hadn’t let on that I was having marriage problems. Plus, she had just traveled to Minnesota and spent gobs of money on being a bridesmaid in my ill-fated wedding.

After some time had passed, Erin and I had talked openly about her wedding. I’d apologized, and it seemed like we’d be able to move past it. So when Daniela, Andrea, and I arrived in Colorado, I was so relieved to find that things felt normal between us. Collectively, it had been a hell of a year. The four of us had dealt with the deaths of a parent, two grandparents, and a pet; a breakup; a divorce; career changes; moves; financial struggles; home buying; and the challenges of balancing grad school, work, and play. The last thing we needed was any drama with each other.

What we did need was copious amounts of Easter candy, which Erin had arranged in cute little baskets for each of us. We did need to go for a run together around a pretty little mountain pond, sit in the outdoor hot tub, and go out for a long leisurely dinner. We did need to have a two-hour dance party on Friday night to a long list of guilty-pleasure songs. Erin downloaded songs on demand—stupid tracks with good beats that we’d never buy in the light of day. Songs that reminded us of middle school dances or college keggers. Of-the-moment hip-hop that made us feel more hip than we were.

The trip was exactly what I needed as I transitioned from one job to the next and prepared to move out on my own for the first time since leaving my ex-husband. The four of us brought out the best in each other, and I loved the laughter, the storytelling, and the lounging around in sweatpants. My heart was soaring high, and it’s a good thing we got our dancing in on Friday, because I was worthless after what happened on Saturday. My dad called to break the news that there was something really wrong with my 6-month-old nephew.

Ethan had been taken by ambulance to the children’s hospital. It hadn’t been just a stomach bug and dehydration after all. I had trouble processing all the information my dad was sharing, but I knew I’d heard “brain,” “bleeding,” and eye damage,” and it was like a bad dream that just kept getting worse. Ethan’s diagnosis was unimaginable: Shaken Baby Syndrome. Oh, God. No, no, NO. I threw myself down on the futon as I tried to wrap my head around the idea that someone had willingly hurt a child. A child that I loved dearly. Our little hope in a diaper.

There was an investigation under way, and Andy and Hilary were under an incredible amount of stress. Not only was their baby sick, but someone had hurt him, and anyone who had recently cared for him was a suspect, including, for the time being, them. Dear readers, can you imagine the horror? They readily agreed to lie-detector tests and cooperated fully with the police, and I knew on a gut level that neither they nor any of Ethan’s other relatives would ever harm him. He had been a preemie, and if anything, his family was fiercely protective of him. No, this was at the hands of someone else, and Ethan’s daycare provider—the woman who’d been trusted to care for him—couldn’t stick to a story.

Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be home in Minnesota, near my family, near Josh. Hell, I would’ve paid a few thousand bucks just to be able to hug my dog. Thank God I was in the next best place to home. While I no longer felt like dancing, I was with my second family, and I was in good hands.

*****

Blog Housekeeping

Thanks to all my readers who left comments with good advice this week! I’ve created a Fast Track page, so please spread the word about Divorced Before 30. I think it will be a lot easier for people to catch up now.

Many of you already “like” the Divorced Before 30 Facebook page, but in case you haven’t check it out, you should! I’ve posted photos of many of the main characters in this story.

Thanks to “criticalcrass” at quirky pickings and Debra from Housewife Eclectic for passing on blog awards to me this week!

Before starting my new job, I was going to spend the long Easter weekend in Colorado with three of my college girlfriends. The plan was to wrap up my telecommuting position on Thursday, fly to Denver on Friday, return to Minnesota on Monday, and start my new job in Minneapolis on Tuesday. In hindsight, it was lunacy, and I wish it had occurred to me to take a week off. Lesson learned.

I was really looking forward to the quick vacation, but I was absolutely not expecting relaxation. Laughter, yes. Dancing, sure. Wine, absolutely. Andrea, Daniela, and I would be staying with our college teammate, Erin, a high-energy PR professional who lives with her husband, Fran, in the mountains outside of Denver. This woman has serious spunk, and the two of us had already experienced a life’s worth of adventures—and misadventures—together.

We’d gone sailing in North Dakota, seen wild ponies on Chincoteague Island, and gotten in touch with our inner hippies at the Winnepeg Folk Festival. We’d gone clubbing in New York, counseled each other through bouts of anxiety, and given each other ridiculous late-night makeovers. I even let Erin pluck my eyebrows for the first time. I’m not talented in the cosmetic arts, but she has all the best products and gear. She also does a fantastic impression of a gum-smacking hairdresser who calls everyone “toots.” So, I hope it’s clear why I was looking forward to a weekend at Erin’s mountain retreat.

In the midst of all my running around on my last day of work, I found out that my nephew, Ethan, had been admitted to the hospital for dehydration. He’d been throwing up for a couple of days, and he just couldn’t keep fluids down. So, on the way to my writing class, I stopped at the hospital—the same place where the cute little bugger had been born and spent the first month of his life.

My sister-in-law looked exhausted. When a six-month-old baby is in the hospital, his parents are pretty much patients, too. Little Ethan was lethargic and just wanted to be held. While I was there, Hilary took the opportunity to take a shower, so I got to spend a few minutes sitting quietly with Ethan. “You’re gonna be okay, little buddy,” I said, kissing him on the top of his downy head. “Auntie loves you.” He tolerated my care but was obviously relieved when his freshly showered mama took over. I hugged them both and promised to visit them at home soon after I returned from my trip.

After class that night, I crashed at Josh’s place so I’d have quick access to the airport the next morning. I was already missing my man. After five months together, a weekend without him felt long. In a couple of weeks, I would live just ten minutes away, and I could stop lugging around bags stuffed with clothes, running shoes, and dog food. The next chapter of my life was about to begin, and after some fresh mountain air and girl talk, I knew I’d be ready.

*****

Blog Housekeeping

FYI, Erin is the lovely blonde bridesmaid on the far right side of the “Dead End” photo.

I’m looking for some advice! My readership has leveled off, and I need some creative ways to bring new people on board. However, with this being the 50th post in my story, I’m afraid it may seem daunting for people to catch up. Or impossible to catch up without reading the whole thing. I’ve thought about creating a catch-up page. Other ideas? (Both in terms of how to help people catch up and how to reach new readers.)


About five months after my divorce was final, I returned once again to the chapel where I got married. This time, it was for my nephew Ethan’s baptism. I adored the baby, and I wouldn’t have missed his special day for the world. But it wasn’t any easy day for me.

I gave myself hell during the service and the reception: Your little brother, the former keg-stand champion, has found stability, marriage, and parenthood, whereas you are divorced and living with Mom and Dad. Oh, and look at your nephew’s godparents. They’re young, engaged, and in love—right on track for happily ever after. Will anyone ever see you as the stable godparent type? Etcetera.

I was so flooded with feelings of worthlessness that the irony of the situation was lost on me entirely. I had just witnessed a sacrament of cleansing and new birth, one where the forgiveness of sins is central, yet my mind was awash in guilt and negativity. When life’s plans go terribly awry, it’s so easy to focus on what you don’t have or what you’ve failed to do.

In retrospect, it’s clear to me what I could have seen that day: That we are all inherently worthy. Other people, society at large, and our own brains try their damnedest to tell us we aren’t good enough. It’s our job to fight back, to fight for each other, and to give the little ones in our lives the tools they’ll need to fight the good fight. At the end of the baptism, the pastor lifted Ethan in the air for all to see: Ethan Donald, child of God. A tiny human being. A squeaky-clean slate. Hope in a diaper.