Getting the house ready to sell is way more work than I thought it would be.
I guess I was comparing it to all the other times I’ve moved. But all the other times I moved, I wasn’t who I am now.
That’s a bit of a bummer.
I’ve got a melanoma spot back on my liver, and even though I take my meds religiously, my body still isn’t producing cortisol. So even if I sleep in and then go for a swim, or walk with Zara, or make it through a decent day—
by late afternoon, I’m tired.
That’s where I am now.
Sometimes I push through anyway, like last night when I stayed up late packing boxes. And then I’m toast for days.
That’s not how I used to live.
But it’s where I am now.
Last night, I dismantled the Joy-It Wall I had installed going up the stairs to the bedroom. It hit me—hard—how unfair and out of control life can feel, even when I’m doing everything I can.
The wall itself was simple.
Most days, I (and sometimes Briggs) would doodle something that brought us joy on a sticky note, date it, and stick it up.
Reinforced with tape, of course.
Briggs and I kept it going, off and on, for two years. Though to be fair, he was never exactly a willing participant.
His “doodles” (I’m being generous here) were mostly stick figures of him and the dog.
Sometimes his dad.
His grandparents.
Aunts and uncles.
Me.
Lots of video game references.
A few post-its about early releases or no homework days.
Mine were more varied.
People. Smells. Small moments.
Tasks that helped me cope when thoughts worked against me.
But it wasn’t the content that got me when I started peeling them down.
It was the realization of why I’d put the wall up in the first place:
To give my son a story.
I do this often.
I come up with creative or quirky ideas—not just to tame the restlessness in my brain—but because in the movie I play in my mind, I hear adult Briggs talking about them.
About the Joy-It Wall.
Maybe annoyed. Hopefully with some fondness.
Either way, I picture myself thinking: See? Aha. It stuck.
But as I was pulling the notes off the wall, late to start dinner, I realized:
That’s not the stuff that’ll stick.
What sticks is the everyday.
The patterns.
The things I model without realizing it.
He’s definitely going to remember that I often run late.
Briggs just turned 14. He’ll tell you he doesn’t remember much from elementary school, but he remembers this:
He loved it when his grandfather, Pup, picked him up at Fun Club.
Because Pup was always there.
Right at 4 o’clock.
When it was his dad or me, he’d be there much later.
He hated it most on my days.
Because I was always the latest.
We both struggle with memory.
We lose track of phones and wallets.
Misplaced shoes.
Forget where we just put the bag that’s now in our hand.
I’m writing like it’s charming, but in the moment, it’s miserable.
Agonizing.
We mutter things like:
“Why can’t I remember anything?”
“This is so annoying.”
“I’m so stupid.”
It’s some of the worst stuff I’ve modeled for him.
He’ll remember that too.
I’m not sure the Joy-It Wall will be quirky or clever enough to make it into his long-term memory.
But a few days ago, I caught him reading this blog.
I asked, “Were you reading my blog?”
He looked up, sort of happy and confused.
“Yeah… is that okay?”
I smiled and nodded. “Of course it is.”
I’ve been blogging since 2015.
Some of it makes me cringe.
I’m sure some of it makes him cringe, too.
But I realized something in that moment:
There is no world where he doesn’t remember that I told stories.
That I wrote.
That I performed.
That I made things.
And maybe, that’s some of the best stuff I’ve modeled for him.
Examples of other spur-of-the-moment things I make, like purple sparkle Cancer Sharks - and yes, that little first one is a shark cause I say so.