I stare at my boys.    Usually when they are sleeping, or if I can get a longer glimpse of them during a quiet moment in my head, and I think about what kind of lives they will have.   I want them to be kids as long as possible.    To have fun and ask to “play” with their friends.    I was eleven years old when I looked twice at my dolls and questioned if I was too old to play with them anymore.    I remember crying over the idea that maybe I was.   I wonder if Ty would already be asking to "hang out" with his friends, instead of "play." I want to protect them from the insecurities of high school.    I want them to stand up to the bullies, and they sure as hell better not bully others.    I loved high school and I loved my friends.    I was always happy.    With all I read today about depression and anxiety, it’s sad to think that all I want for them is to get through it unscathed and ready for the next phase in life.   I want to stop them from acting w

I used to play Candyland a lot. My son Ty was diagnosed with a brain tumor when he was 2 and having spent more than 250 nights in a hospital with a toddler (who loved candy, especially blue lollipops), you can imagine it was among his favorite games to pass the time. His favorite color was blue, my other son's favorite color(s) at the time were red and green (yes, both), so I always had to be the "yellow guy."  I since decided that my favorite color is yellow. It's not a popular choice among kids, and I get questioned about it often. What's your favorite color? Yellow. Yellow? Really? Why? Because it's a happy color... The irony lies within the fact that for me, as a bereaved mom, every ounce of happiness I feel is forever bittersweet, juxtaposed by my loss. Yellow  is a happy color. The color of sunshine. In a time when I most needed hope and happiness, yellow could not have been a more perfect color to designate as my favorite. The Coldpl

I’ll be the first to admit that after all of this time, I’ve learned awareness is limited when it comes to impact – but still so very important.   This is my ninth September since my eyes have been opened.   Nine Septembers since the first day I walked into the playroom at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and saw a poster that was emblazoned with gold ribbons and sticky notes.   I was introverted (still am), overwhelmed, and walking around in shock over the fact that I was really there because my perfect almost-3-year-old son had cancer.   I didn’t want to be there and my energy made it obvious that I wasn’t welcoming others to talk to me. No one approached me, so I didn’t ask about it, but I quietly read through the adorable handwritten notes on the gold ribbon poster with curiosity.   That night I googled it, and I learned that gold ribbons represent childhood cancer awareness.   I started to feel a passion emerge from within that told me it was important a