Last January, upon returning home from our short trip to the local mountains, I knew my friends would ask me at school drop off how the trip went. I wasn’t quite sure what I should say.

There’s the general story, “Yeah it went okay.” But there are also the many nuanced stories — those I create from my judgments about my different experiences on the trip. Was it pleasant or unpleasant? Fun or disappointing? These questions could only be answered by the stories I chose to tell —both to myself and others — about our trip.

After packing up (an extensive process when taking Coral on a trip) and driving up the mountain, we realized our plan to play in the snow while we waited for our cabin was not going to work. The January southern California heat wave had melted all the snow, except where resorts made snow. After some time in limbo (agitating everyone), we could finally check-in to our cabin. Tom unloaded the car and then took the boys outside to explore and play.

I began to unpack the cooler food and prepare food for Coral. My tasks were punctuated by consistent interruptions to maintain Coral’s safety or to protect the material parts of the cabin — responding to Coral knocking over the bench for the table (repeatedly), grabbing and pulling on the blinds, climbing up onto the TV and banging it with her hand and running over to lick the hot wall furnace. It felt like each time I returned to the kitchen I was pulled outside of it to respond to Coral’s next curiosity. 

By the time her food was ready, I felt my capacity for patience reaching its end. I brought the bowl of macaroni and cheese to the table and sat down next to her. Many foods (macaroni being one of them) are hard for her to eat with a spoon; she often tilts the spoon at a certain angle that makes the food fall off of it before it reaches her mouth, and she tends to overstuff her mouth. Once she gets full she usually starts to use the macaroni as sensory play — squishing it between her fingers and smearing it onto surfaces — which is not desirable in someone else’s home (or ours). 

Shortly after I brought her the bowl of macaroni, she spilled some and then pushed some toys off of the table. In an instant, my capacity for patience (which had been stretched thin) snapped. My mind exploded with fireworks of thoughts about disability, parenting, the future and the present — a powerful collision between my expectations for this trip and the current reality. I slammed my fists down onto the thin, rickety table. The bowl of macaroni went flying in the air, spilling all over the carpet. And then I started to cry. I called for Tom to help and went to the carpet to pick up the macaroni. As I was picking up the macaroni, my cries turned to sobs. I stopped picking up the pieces and just sat there, sobbing.

Following my calls for help, Tom entered the cabin with the boys.  Tate and Cruz immediately sat down next to me, rubbing my back. “It’s okay Mom,” they repeated. Tate picked up all of the macaroni, as I sat there with occasional tears.

This event on our trip was the basis for one story I might tell myself. It would be the story about how I fell short of my aspiration to be present with and accepting of whatever is happening in the moment — to be patient and flexible. How could I lose my patience in such a robust way? How could I think everything I thought in that moment? 

Or I could see this event as the story of Tate and Cruz (at only 9 and 3 years old) being fully in the moment when I struggled to be. They supported me with their words and calming presence, just as I had done for them so many times before. It was a story of their compassion helping me to find my self-compassion. 

After the flying macaroni incident, Tom suggested I take the boys to the park down the street. While walking down to the park, I could sense my disappointment at their not being snow, at things being different from what I had hoped. Arriving at the park, I quickly saw that the park had unique and fun play equipment — a zip line, a newer version of a merry go round, a teeter totter and a tire swing. The boys ran with excitement over to play. 

“Mom, if there was snow, we may not have found this cool park. This is awesome!” Tate shouted. 

Playing at the park was the story of disappointment over unmet expectations about snow just as much as it was about joy in the curiosity of things being different than expected. It was a story about possibilities.

Once we returned to the cabin we knew we needed to get some food for dinner.  Eating out is something we rarely do because the loud and often crowded restaurant environment can be challenging for Coral.  Because we all were very hungry, we searched for a restaurant where Coral would eat something.  Rice and beans is one of her favorite foods, so we decided on a Mexican restaurant. We arrived and hoped for the best.  

As we sat down and ordered our food, I noticed that things were going okay.  Coral was happily playing with a toy in her adaptive stroller, and the boys were entertained by the kids’ menu.  This could have been the story of having a typical family outing to a restaurant.  But as I sipped from a margarita that arrived in a much larger cup than I expected, I listened as Coral’s vocalizations (high shrills that were her happy sounds) transcended what may have been an ordinary moment into a moment of awe. I sat there with immense gratitude that we were ALL sitting together at a restaurant. Sure, some kids stared at Coral  as she vocalized, but Coral and our family comfortably enjoyed our meal together.  This was the story of seeing the incredible in the common — when trying something different led to a surprisingly beautiful moment as a family.     

The next day we paid to take the kids down a tubing hill, since the snowless hills around the town were not inviting for kids with sleds. Cruz and Coral each did one run with us, preferring to play in the snow at the bottom of the run. Coral didn’t actually play in the snow but preferred to lie face-down licking the snow, made dirty by the numerous snow tubers who walked back and forth on that path.  Tom and I each tried to take a few runs with Tate, who seemed to be the only one interested in the actual tubing.  This was a story of my frustration with Coral not wanting to participate in any typical snow activity the way I thought she should, as much as it was a story of remembering to release my expectations in order to let Coral be Coral (relocated to a cleaner spot to lick snow). 

In the end, I opted to tell my friends, “Yeah, it was good. You know…we did it.”  Because on this parenting path, sometimes it is about trying something different.  It is about gently stretching my capacity when possible and being open to the stories that come.  These stories aren’t actually good or bad — they just are exactly what they are.  

They are stories of heartache and grief, as much as they are stories of resilience and joy. They are stories about patience lost, perspective gained and trying again another day. 

They are the stories that many other parents struggle to imagine as their own reality. They are stories that bring new perspectives to life — that remind us of the impermanence of all things.

They are the stories I tell about the tomorrows that may or may not come. The stories about future days that will probably arrive with stories I could never imagine or predict.

It is remembering that stories are stories, and this moment is all there really is.  And as many times as I forget this truth, I hope I also remember it.

It is my story. It is Coral’s story. It is the interweaving of our stories throughout this one precious life. Flying macaroni. Snowless mountains. And the many stories still left to be told.