Sunday night I came home from church and started playing basketball with the boys. Justin had taken the two older boys to Kingsport with him the day before to drop off some furniture and pick up the goal, and I had kept the two smaller boys home (one was sick) and cleaned up the office stuff in the hallway. And the craft/homeschool/extra snacks/toys closet. And the boys’ dresser drawers.

Sunday afternoon was the earliest the goal was ready to use. They played out for a couple of hours and went back to it as soon as they piled out of the van after church. I grabbed a ball and joined in. I went in for a layup, watching the shot to see if I made it (I did, by the way), and landed with my foot mostly off the concrete pad. I went down fast and sat down on the base of the goal. 

I colored the pirate with a chunky blue crayon and rarely looked my friend in the face. I paid careful attention to the coloring sheet as if it mattered to the structure of my life, as if I weren’t sure that I could hold it together without the finished picture. I still ended up wiping away tears. 2016 has been the year that involved crying over a doctor at Toddler Time.

In January, we rolled off the ambulance after two and half hours and entered the children’s hospital through the back doors to the emergency room. It was not the way I planned to spend my weekend but nevertheless, at seven on a Friday night, I thanked the ambulance workers and took Micah down the hall to the bathroom. We rounded the corner and the ER doors burst open as Micah’s metabolic doctor came in. He took a long look at Micah and started asking questions, giving orders, and hunting down the nurse. That’s why we transferred to the children’s hospital.

As we were settling into our room the ER nurse commented how unusual that was: genetics never comes to the ER. I breathed a prayer of thanks for how, once again, Andrew had gone above anything I ever expected him to do.