Over the next few months, I will be reposting some of my previously published newsletter essays here on the blog. This story, oh my gosh, you just can’t make this stuff up.

Summer 2022

As soon as the email came through announcing the event, I knew it was time. Our family, the motley crew of eight that we are, was ready for our first 5K race. 

Or, I was going to force everyone to pretend we were ready, because I really wanted to do this.

Either way, I signed us up. All of us. The baby and two toddlers and a very adventurous boy who has no category for social rules like lines, and big kids who will surely be so hot they are going to die and can’t walk anymore! by the second mile. Plus a bad knee, a borrowed double stroller, and another very questionable double stroller that has been a beloved part of our family since it was handed down to us in 2014. 

It was all going to be great. 

And it was. Mostly.

We showed up to the race with one expectation: get every member of our family across the finish line. My mom came with us so we had an extra adult, and that meant Alex could run the race, while the rest of us could walk it. As soon as we unloaded the strollers we realized that the one we borrowed the night before from a friend had flat tires that we didn’t even bother to look at before throwing it in our trunk because that’s absolutely on brand for the kind of preparation Alex and I bring to things. A stranger had a pump in his car, thank you Lord. The stroller we own had a front tire that was so out of sorts it came down at an angle, where it should have come down straight, and has for the better part of year. This has generally been fine as long as I’m extremely judicious at bumps and curbs and don’t need to change directions too quickly – you know, like one might need to do in a busy 5K race.

But y’all, the baby is 18 months old. We have no plans for any more children. And I am what some might call “cheap”, which I am fine admitting. I was not buying a new double stroller. It was this well-worn, high-mileage, aged, slightly rusty, beloved double stroller or bust. 

The race horn went off, Alex started running, and my mom and I settled in toward the back of the pack with two strollers – grandma with the borrowed and me with the barely-hanging-on one– and two big kids walking beside us. The race started on grass, which my stroller does not prefer for her joints, and then moved to pavement, thankfully. But that relief was short-lived. The race turned down a hill and every runner and walker – and thus every stroller – had to make their way down about 150 yards of rock and dirt path. 

My poor front tire started squeaking immediately.

As we made our way off the rocky terrain, we settled back onto a paved street but I could feel it as I pushed, something was not right. I mean, something had been not right for a long time, but my triceps had never worked so hard to keep a stroller moving before and you know, that’s not really how pushing a stroller should feel, right? 

Just a short way ahead, we saw the halfway point turnaround, and just as I was rounding the corner, the sound of metal hitting the pavement foretold the final verdict of my “this stroller or bust” declaration.

The front of the stroller fell hard to the ground, stopping all of us dead in our tracks and causing a few dozen gasps from the people around us. The boys were buckled in, they were startled, but just fine. 

The wheel was not. It was on its side in the road next to me. A very clear “bust”.

It’s funny how we spend our entire lives making plans, setting goals, imagining results, and yet it is impossible to foresee every factor that’s going to be tough on an already worn-out front wheel. 

So there I was, 1.5 miles up a road with six children and the only way to get back to the starting line was to make the trek the same way we came. 

So what did I do? I tipped that stroller onto its two back wheels and kept going. It required a good bit more strength, but it wasn't impossible.

Because in spite of what we lost there on the side of the road, we still had two good wheels and I had two good arms and for 1.5 miles, we could make it on what we had.

Funny story about this whole ordeal: Alex actually won the 5K fun run (having no idea we almost died at the halfway point), so the organizers wanted to interview the whole family. 

You guys. 

First of all, I have not yet mentioned that the finish line was covered in bubbles because when you start a bubble machine for the first finisher who makes it across the finish line in – give or take – 20 minutes, and it’s still blowing when the broken stroller makes it across – give or take – an hour later, there was a solid six foot bubble wall we were supposed to cruise on through. Except these bubbles did not dissolve when you ran through them, which maybe I should have realized beforehand, but rather suffocated the poor children strapped in the strollers so our finish was incredibly dramatic. We had to dig the baby out as quickly as we could and he was scared to death, poor guy. 

So there we were with a few angry and sticky babies, and Cannon who had no interest in standing still because he had told me just a moment before that he needed to go potty, and the sweet woman with the microphone and camera had no idea what she was asking when she said, “Can I grab you all for an interview?” 

It’s fine, everything went fine. Alex was gracious and we survived a lost front wheel and a near death by bubbles experience and that alone was reason to smile. Near the end of the interview, Cannon started pulling my hand and our little guy – who one would think would be the quiet one during an on camera interview as he doesn’t say much – as clear as day announced, “I go pee in the tree, mommy!” Well of course he did, that is exactly what I told him he could do right before we stopped for our red carpet moment. 

To pivots and lean backs and using what we have and, of course, honest journalism.

Over the next few months, I will be reposting some of my previously published newsletter essays here on the blog. This story, a brief glance into our dentistry sage, is still a favorite.

Summer 2022

In mid-May, around Cannon’s 8th birthday, we went to the dentist for one of our twice yearly check-ups. Visiting the dentist has always been, to put it mildly, a bit anxiety inducing for Cannon. He does not like people he does not know near his mouth with metal in their hands (let’s be honest, do any of us?), but his ability to cope with that fear with his autism is nearly non-existent. He simply flees the situation. Up until maybe a year ago, we could kindasorta coax him into being very gently held down to the chair if he had a fun toy in his hand and the dentist took approximately nine seconds to determine the state of his cavities. But he turned eight this year and was like “yeah, hard no on the sharp metal, y’all. I’m out.” 

Sleep dentistry it is. For those unfamiliar with it, sleep dentistry involves general anesthesia, and a small team of people to make happen, so we scheduled the appointment for what was the soonest available, two months later. No big deal, what’s another eight weeks to get the plaque off?

Well, that plan was all well and good until a few days later, I noticed a bright red spot on his gum, above his two top teeth. Over the next three days, it went from red to bubble to white to frightening. Back to the dentist we went. 

Cannon opened his mouth long enough for the dentist to say from a solid three feet away, which was as close as he would let her get and still open his mouth, “Ohhh.” Never a good utterance from a doctor. She turned to the dental assistant and told him, “We’re going to need an asap on the sleep appointment. I’m worried there could be more infection in his mouth.” 

Moments like this really make a girl feel like she’s crushing motherhood, you know? 

They moved the sleep appointment to two weeks out. His infection got worse. He refused the antibiotic. I called and begged them to move his appointment up again, they found a spot, but I didn’t call back in time to claim it and they gave it away which led to me calling the receptionist and yelling at her and I am actually wincing at the screen as I write that. Not my finest moment. I called back and apologized.

This story ends well as they did find Cannon a sleep appointment just a few days later when someone cancelled, pulled a lot of teeth, filled a lot of cavities, helped us strategize ways we can get him to use toothpaste and not just water, and we went on our way.

Four weeks later, I returned to the dentist at 7:30 in the morning with four more children for their check-ups. On the whole, going to the dentist with one child with autism is significantly harder than going to the dentist with four children who do not share his anxiety and sensory alarms, so I was generally very chill about this visit. But there are still four children, two of them are three-year-olds, in an office building that was relatively quiet before we stepped in. 

Mom! A buh-fly on the wall! A buh-fly! A buh-fly! Ava yelled no less than 17 times. She has only one volume and it checks in around 90 decibels.    

Mom! Look! It’s a big couch! Beckett squeals as he throws his body at full speed onto the blue cushions.

Harper! I was going to sit there! Jordi demands.

Too bad, got here first! Harper responds. A minor tussle of hip power begins over that one spot on the couch even though there are four couches in this lobby and we are the only ones here at 7:30 in the morning. 

“Hey, one of you pick another seat, please,” I tell them sternly. “And yes, I see the butterfly, Ava, it’s very pretty!” Then I smile at the receptionist. “Checking the Blackburn kids in,” I offer. “If you didn’t already have a wakeup call, here it is!” 

She chuckles back at me. “Good morning, Katie, I’m Hailey.” 

Oh. My cheeks feel warmer instantly. Yes, yes I remember yelling at you on the phone about a month ago, I’m thinking. I respond by addressing the elephant in the room right away. “Hailey, hi! I’m so sorry again for that angry phone call last month. You didn’t deserve that.”

“It’s truly ok. You were just being a good mama,” she says as she hands me a clipboard with paperwork for the four loud children behind us. 

“Well, thank you for being so gracious.” Seriously Hailey, thank you for being so gracious.

Within a few minutes, the dental assistants call all four kids back, and we proceed to take over Dr. Molly’s office for the next 45 minutes. The kids put on sunglasses and watch Peppa Pig on the strategically placed ceiling televisions and I get lots of reminders to supervise this one’s brushing a bit more and this one’s got a small gum infection here so be sure you’re flossing every day and you might consider an orthodontist consult for this one and we’ll have to make an appointment to come back and have the cavity filled on this one. I hopped back and forth between four chairs and four computers and signed my name four times to authorize whatever it was they were telling me. We all made it out with only a moderate need for me to assure the dentist my kids do brush their teeth (most of the time). Could have been much worse.

The kids made their exit the same way they made their entrance, that is, loudly and with several warnings to not touch the tools on the tray next to them, the x-ray machine we walked by, the water fountain near the receptionist, or each other. I make all the follow up appointments necessary, schedule the next cleaning in six months, and as Hailey stands up from her desk to hand me the appointment reminder, I notice her adorable baby bump for the first time.“Oh Hailey! You’re having a baby!” I gush.

“Yes, our first.”

“That is so exciting!” I tell her genuinely, thinking back to my first pregnancy and the deep anticipation of meeting my daughter that I carried every single day – there’s nothing like your first. Also feeling even more terrible I yelled at a pregnant woman. 

“This crew probably makes it look scary,” I joke, “but you’re going to have so much fun being a mom.” I turn to four of my six kids trying to open the miniature toys in their goodie bags, then, as Beckett yells my name three times to help his tiny fingers get the wrapper off, I add “Never a dull moment.” 

“Thank you, Katie. We are so excited.”

You should be, Hailey. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Friends, if you’re still following our dentistry saga, this is where it ends, for now. Last week an envelope came in the mail from Dr. Molly’s office. It didn’t look like a bill – I would know, I’ve seen a lot of those – and it had a big sticker on the outside. I opened it to find a card signed by the entire office staff and a note that said, “You’ve been chosen as our family of the month! Enjoy a movie on us!” 

WHAT.

In four weeks we had four visits to Dr. Molly’s office. Cannon refused to open his mouth, on three separate occasions, and attempted to pull the electric brusher right out of its holder on two. I yelled at the receptionist over the phone. I brought four loud children back just a few weeks later. We took over the dental chairs. The paperwork done on my kids alone has been a part-time job for someone in that office. Every single child in my family needs to brush their teeth better and somehow, after all of that, these kind professionals deemed us the family of the month and it humbles me to no end that where I see a circus of chaos and a mom with a long list of shortcomings, they see love. 

What grace.

I often tell Alex, “You can work Christmas, you can work Thanksgiving, you can work any other holiday on the calendar but you absolutely, positively, must always take the 4th of July off work.” It is, to me, one of the most special days of the year. Because it’s summer, and y’all know how I feel about PNW summers. Because there are parades and kids grabbing all the candy they can. And lakes with the sound of laughter bouncing off the water. And the smell of bbq from nearly every street in town. Because our people gather and everyone brings a dish to share and the dinner meal just always works out perfectly even though we don’t plan it out all that much. Because we play so hard we can barely make it home with our eyes open after the fireworks.

Days like the 4th of July are rare, and to me, they are sacred.

Because grace abounds when you gather with gratitude.

Very few days go by where I do not question if these kids have enough—of me, their dad, attention, opportunities, activities, resources.

But on the days I find them playing together, laughing and teaching their little siblings a game, taking turns and genuinely enjoying one another, on those days, I don’t question it at all.

The phone rings around 3:00 in the afternoon. I am busy reviewing my lecture notes for my class that evening, so I reflexively silence the call – a bad habit of mine when it comes to phone numbers I don’t recognize. But as I watch the phone continue to buzz on the counter, something nudges me to answer this one. I pick up on what is probably the last ring before voicemail. 

“Katie,” I hear a voice nearly whimpering from the other end of the line. “They won’t let me keep her.” 

It’s Hannah*, the young woman I had met two months earlier through an organization that helps homeless and transient young adults in our city.

“Hannah? Are you ok? Where are you?” I prod for more information.

“The social worker’s office,” she says.

Hannah’s baby had been born four days prior, which I knew, because I had taken her to the hospital. For months, we had anticipated that keeping and raising a baby would be exceptionally challenging for Hannah for a multitude of reasons – reasons that belong to her story, not ours. But we never expected her to call us when those reasons all came forward. 

With a spinning head, and knowing I would not get much clear information from Hannah, I ask to talk to the social worker. I hear Hannah pass the phone over, and then a distant she wants to talk to you.

“Hi, Katie?” the woman asks. “Hannah’s told me about you. My name is Rachel, I’m with Child Protective Services.” 

Over the next few minutes, Rachel explains as much as she can about what has transpired since I left the hospital on Thursday afternoon. The bottom line: no suitable caregiver is available to care for the baby girl, whom Hannah had named Ava. 

Ava, what a gorgeous name, I think to myself. 

Ava needs a place to go right away, and Hannah wants us to take her. 

I pull the phone away from my ear and try to communicate to my husband – with the social worker waiting on the other end of the call – about what is happening. CPS won’t let her keep the baby… She’s asking us to take her… as soon as possible… now… I have no idea for how long… what do you think? Alex looks at me with big eyes, shocked and overwhelmed, but also filled with tenderness. He nods.

“We will take her,” I tell Rachel.

Seven minutes after the phone rang, with no foster license and very little information, we start making arrangements to bring a four-day-old baby girl home to our family that night. 

The CPS office handling Ava’s case is just over 90 miles from us. We make the plan to meet a different social worker halfway between our hometown and their office. 

“How about the McDonald’s parking lot right off I-90?” she suggests. Perhaps I should question handing a newborn off in a fast food parking lot right next to the freeway, but I don’t argue.

As we wait for a quick background check to go through, in a blur of feelings and trepidation, I call my friend, Kelly, and beg her to come with me to pick up the baby while Alex stays home with our other three children.

Of course I don’t need to beg. She says yes before I could nervously finish the question.

We get in the car a little after 7:30pm and make the fifty-minute drive to our meeting point. I tell her everything I knew about the situation, and she – a foster parent herself – gives me a blitz lesson in the state foster care system and everything she thinks we can expect in the coming days and weeks – home inspections, health and welfare checks, doctor appointments, court reviews. Then, as we approach the freeway exit, Kelly puts her hand on my shoulder and starts praying out loud, for everything.

I am told to look for a white SUV, and with little competition for space at 8:30pm on a Monday night, I spot it right away. Kelly and I both get out of the car at the same time the social worker does. The woman had just fed Ava a bottle in the backseat of her car, and steps out of the door with the tiniest little girl wearing a pink onesie in her arms. She hands her to me for a moment, and then a clipboard. 

You must be Katie/can I see your driver’s license/please sign these/Ava just spit up and I don’t have a change of clothes for her. 

The words seem to come out in one sentence. She is busy, in a hurry, business as usual in the life of a social worker. Without being asked, Kelly grabs Ava so I can sign all the paperwork, and immediately brings her over to our car to get warm and safely snuggled back in her carseat. Everything Ava owns, from the crocheted blanket to the skin at the top of her little bald head, is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke.

She sleeps the whole ride home.

By the time I pull into our driveway around 10:00pm, Alex and my oldest daughter, Harper have the whole house clean. My friend, Annie, had dropped off newborn baby girl clothes. Kelly had grabbed formula, bottles, and a pack of diapers. Everything else can wait until the morning. 

And Ava sleeps more – peacefully unaware of the chaos of parental visits and court dates and home inspections swirling around the first days of her life story. I look down at the cadence of her chest moving up and down through the heaviness of newborn sleep more times than I can count. Her breath reminds me to take a deep one, too. 

She is so beautiful. 

And to think I almost didn’t answer the phone. 

//

Our McDonald’s baby turns four years old today. 

Four years old. I can hardly believe it. We are entering a season of her life when we will talk to her about adoption, about her biological mom and dad, about surprises and blessings and divine interruptions to our plans. There is so much I want to tell her, and there’s a lot I don’t. Kids don’t enter foster care because of beautiful beginnings; they enter because of broken ones.

But like most things, I trust the Lord that we will sort that all out with his help over time. 

Today though, we will mostly talk about miracles, over McDonald’s french fries.

*Names have been changed to protect privacy.

After I took my three youngest to the apple orchard and farm — $53.00 in Honeycrisp apples later — I called my mom and told her, “It’s just so different now. When my first three were this age, we couldn’t go anywhere. Cannon was such a risk, such an unknown. Autism felt impossible. I was so limited when I had three under three the first time around. I almost feel like God is redeeming that entire season of motherhood with these three.”

I don’t think many other mothers will really understand that, and that’s ok.

But I guess I just wanted to say that I’m grateful.

We’re sitting at a small table in a coffee shop near my home. Two writers turned sisters. As we do when one of us gets the chance to hop on a plane and get some time together, we are talking about life and writing, sharing ideas and thinking about possibilities. With our computers open, half working and half chatting, an email comes across my inbox mid-conversation. It’s a reader of my work, a mom to a daughter. They are at the starting line of the long process of being diagnosed with what most professionals in their lives believe is autism. 

And this mother is struggling, asking for advice, resources, prayers, anything.

I know that feeling.

Unless you are the mother of a child with a disability, it’s hard to understand the kind of pain that comes with such a profound change in dreams for your child. It can be jarring, frustrating, and sad. It can make you angry, blame yourself, feel judged by others, question a million things. It can even make you jealous of other three-year-old children in your life, the ones who look at their parents when their name is called. 

As I read the email, I look up at Ashlee, sitting across the table from me, and I tell her, “This is the third message like this in a week.”

“Katie,” she says in response, “have you ever thought about taking all of your essays about autism, putting it in one collection of work, and self-publishing it?”

//

I have always loved history. Maybe it was the Oregon Trail computer game my siblings and I fought for turns to play, or my dad often having a History Channel documentary on television in the background on weekends, but stories of the past have always drawn me in. I have a particular fascination with the history of the American Mafia – which is strange for a conflict-averse person, considering the amount of, you know, illicit contraband and grotesque murder – but that’s neither here nor there. But one subject I had no knowledge of until very recently was art history. Sure, I could pick out the Mona Lisa, the statue of David, or Girl with a Pearl Earring, but beyond that, I don’t know what I don’t know. 

I recently finished this book, and while it took me a little to get into it, I found that I loved learning more about the artists profiled here, the historical context of their work, the complexities of their lives, and ultimately, the pieces they contributed to the world. 

In one chapter on Vincent Van Gogh, I heard a story that is familiar to many, myself included: Van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime. The artist’s success came years, decades really, after his death. Despite being one of the most popular painters in the world today and having his work sell for millions, he saw virtually no commercial success in his lifetime. He sold only that one painting, The Red Vineyard, in 1890, for 400 francs – about $2,000 in today’s currency. Van Gogh’s story is often retold as a reminder that our legacy may extend far beyond our years on earth – a motivator to do the work we love no matter what kind of reception it receives from our audience. After all, we never do know how it could impact people down the road. (A noble thought, certainly. Still, tough for any artist to swallow a 99.9% rejection rate and keep going. I feel for Van Gogh.)

But what I never knew before reading more of the story, was that Van Gogh’s painting was purchased by Anna Boch, a fellow artist, a friend of his, someone who believed in him. The only reason anyone knows his work today is because of his friend. 

Van Gogh, despite a short life that never did see the fruit of his efforts, had what I believe everyone needs: a first buyer. 

//

The first buyer, it’s the person who sees something in you that maybe you don’t see yet. She’s there to invest her actual time, resources, maybe even finances in you. She knows you, but she’s also not interested in flattering you. A good first buyer isn’t there to set anyone up to fail or encourage them toward something that isn’t in their skill set. But, she is there to lend you a bit of belief when you don’t have it. 

And belief is what every artist, every writer, every mother father nurse doctor lawyer engineer teacher scientist human, needs. 

I wonder, what would the world not have, what we would all be missing, if no one ever said to their friends, “You should do that, it’s a great idea!” And, “I’ll help you.” What is no one was willing to be the first buyer?

//

With Ashlee’s idea and enthusiasm behind me, I started talking to more people about the seed she planted.

“I think I’m going to self-publish a collection of essays about Cannon,” I tell my husband. “Nothing too fancy. It would just be a book that someone could pick up and read the best of what I’ve written over the last eight years, plus some new essays and stories, all in one place. They wouldn’t have to search all over the internet. They could give it to others…” I continue nervously, still talking myself into the idea as I pitch it to my husband. “What do you think, babe?”

“Katie, I love that idea! It could serve so many people,” he responds. Two buyers.

“What would you all think about me self-publishing…” I throw out to my mastermind group, telling them about all the DMs and emails and what Ashlee suggested, explaining how I thought I could do it, what it would look like, and what my goals for it would be on Voxer.

“KATIE. YOU HAVE TO DO THIS.” Sonya says, in all caps for emphasis.

“Yes, Katie! It’s a great idea!” Sarah adds. Three and four buyers. 

The mastermind group starts referring to the whole project as “our marketing plan”, “our timeline”, “our book launch”, and I never knew that one change of a pronoun could make me cry. 

Then I tell my writing team at Coffee + Crumbs, my friends in the “Austin Crew”, fellow writers in the Exhale group, and eventually, a few months later, my newsletter readers. Each conversation was another step into me believing this project really was the next right thing for me. I thought of a title, then texted it to Ashlee and said “What do you think of Gluing the Cracks?” I asked.

“I think it’s perfect, friend.”

//

Six months after I set out to put together this collection of stories, I ran into the most painful life circumstances I’ve ever encountered, and I did not know if my family would be intact on the other side of them. Or where the other side of them even was. The details of that story are ours, but one of the first casualties of that season was Gluing the Cracks. While the writing was mostly finished, it still needed heavy editing and revision, design work, and a long list of logistical items that I had no margin or emotional energy to do. I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it. 

And then another email came across my inbox. 

This one was not from a fellow special needs mother though, it was from a fellow creative, Kaitlin. She had heard me talking about this little project on a video call with the Exhale writing group, and she mentioned that she was so touched by it all. Her nephew had some disabilities, but more than that, she believed that getting these stories into the hands of both people who were living similar lives, or the community of people supporting those who were, was important. 

“Katie,” she wrote, “would a financial investment in your project help you finish it?”

I received this email exactly 48 hours after my life took the turn I never imagined. 

There is no way Kaitlin would have known that. Only a very small handful of people at the time did. Kaitlin’s message, her belief, was given straight from the Lord to her before she passed it on to me. A few weeks and messages back and forth later, Kaitlin and her family supported me and this book with the resources I desperately needed to get to the finish line. Financially, yes, but even more so, with belief. Another miraculous buyer. 

//

Just over a year after that coffee shop date, Gluing the Cracks is ready to be launched into the world, with a God-orchestrated team of buyers behind it. I knew from the beginning that I wanted this project to be held close, mostly because I am so tender with Cannon’s life, but also because I am extremely sensitive to commodifying his story in any way for any kind of gain. What you’ll read in this book are raw and honest and frustrating and hopeful accounts of raising a child with autism. 

It’s for you, mama, the one walking into the pediatrician with a 18-month old on your hip, thinking there’s just something about him you can’t put your finger on, but it’s different.

It’s for you, dad, when you’re some combination of angry and sad that it’s your child who can’t play on the city baseball team like you always dreamed he would.

It’s for you, friend, the one watching as your sister, your best friend, the woman in your Bible study, the mom down the street, the woman you saw at the store struggles through finding her footing in the new territory of disability. Because one of the hardest parts about raising a child in a world she’s not going to fit in is that you, and your child, are constantly misunderstood as you do. Maybe, Lord willing, these stories might give you a little bit of understanding you didn’t have before. 

It’s for you, pastor, to get a peek into one reason why that family hasn’t been back at church in months.

It’s for you, teacher, to see how desperately families like mine need you. 

//

Gluing the Cracks exists because of my first buyer, Ashlee. And the ones who lined up to invest in it after her: my husband and my mastermind group and my fellow writers and Kaitlin. When I say it took a village, I mean it.

I hope GTC blesses every person who reads it in some way, that it gives you the encouragement you need in the season you are in.

And I hope you, dear friend, always have a first buyer in your life.

Hi friends, meet Kida. 

I know I know. What are we thinking? We already have six children, which is a lot of chaos and a lot of responsibility. Did we really need to add to that? I think that depends on how you look at it. 

Back in 2020, as the pandemic quarantine set in, we almost got on the puppy bandwagon with the other 23 million American Households who did. Alex and I are big dog people, and I mean that in the size, not necessarily in the enthusiasm level, although we do love them. No shade at all for all the French bulldog lovers, but I just don’t love dogs who can fit in a stroller. We also wanted a breed who would be really good with kids and hopefully, especially, good with Cannon. This dog also would, in a perfect world, love the water. We were both leaning towards labs or golden retrievers. So we emailed a few breeders and got on a few waiting lists for the next litter and wouldn’t you know, a positive pregnancy test (my own) came before the next litter of either dog breed was even born so we got off those lists and started making other ones for things like diapers and wipes and all the other baby gear I had already given away that we needed to re-acquire. 

But I digress. We put the dog idea on hold and decided when everyone in the house was potty trained, we could look into it again. A puppy is a lot of work, and she means a lot of getting up at night, and a lot of sacrificial shoes. I mean, there are literally shoes everywhere in this house, can you imagine how happy a puppy would be and also how much trouble she’d be in?

Late last summer, while we were out swimming in the lake at my parents’ house, we saw a puppy next door. Not just any puppy, a golden retriever puppy. We oooed and awwed over her perfect little face and giggled as we watched her owners, the son and daughter-in-law of my parents’ neighbors, teach her how to swim. Kida was the sweetest from the beginning, and my kids have spent a few dozen warm evenings in the last year throwing the tennis ball off the dock for her to swim to.

A few weeks ago, this kind couple whom we have come to know and love announced that they are moving to Florida. As they were outside talking to my mom one evening, she asked, almost in passing, just making conversation, “How do you think Kida will like Florida?” 

“Well, for a variety of reasons, we are thinking of re-homing her.” 

My mom immediately passed that news on to me and I told her to walk back outside and tell them the Blackburn Family is ever so gently raising their hand to take her (more like standing up and yelling the teacher’s name risking detention to get the appropriate attention). 

Last week, they called and said Kida would need a new home and they thought we were perfect for her. 

So friends, that is the story of how we got the dog I have always dreamed of who came to us at one-year-old, fully potty trained, crate trained, spayed, obedient, and so stinking adorable I can’t stand it. And like a dream, she is the least “sheddy” golden I’ve ever met in my life. God knew we needed the perfect situation and look what He gave us.

So yes, we may have added some work and some chaos but my goodness, we also added the most fun and laughter and joy ever. 

This may just turn into a dog blog now.

This is a story about my deep love for the Peloton bike. 

And also about how truly ridiculous I am capable of being. 

A little bit of backstory: like a few hundred thousand other people, the Peloton was a pandemic purchase for me. But it wasn’t just that. I was 38 weeks pregnant with my sixth baby, Bray, and I had gained a good bit more weight with his pregnancy than any of my others. Like almost double, if you’re wondering. So, sitting on the couch one day, with an achy back and throbbing lady parts, in a moment of I can’t wait to not feel this way anymore I texted my husband at work and told him I think we needed a Peloton. We could use our tax return. I supported my argument by reminding him that we once paid for a YMCA membership that cost around $100 a month for the whole family, and we went roughly one to two times a month. If each 30-minutes on the elliptical cost us $50 then really, the Peloton would be a steal compared to that. He texted back with a thumbs up and before my temporary momentum left me, I ordered the bike. I knew if I thought too much about it, I’d get tired again and DoorDash a Carmel Macchiato to my porch instead. 

Like I said, hundreds of thousands of other people were also ordering their bikes, so we were going to have to wait six to eight weeks for it to arrive, but like I also said, I was 38 weeks pregnant so that felt just about perfect to me. I would have a baby and a few weeks later my get back in shape savior would arrive at our doorstep.

It didn’t totally work out that way. The bike did arrive, and I did of course use it the first day, and it was the hardest twenty minutes of my life. Taking spin classes a decade ago does not prepare you to just hop on a bike again. Plus I didn’t know that a gel bike seat cover would have been a great help and I paid for those twenty minutes down below for days. It was another week or so before I got back on.

I was hit or miss on the bike the first few months. I would try for twice a week, but then I would accidentally go ten days or so without riding. I started mentally calculating the price of each workout with the monthly membership fee I was paying and while it wasn’t the YMCA membership we weren’t using expensive, it was enough to make me feel silly for not riding more. By the Fall of 2021, I was seven months postpartum and needed to stop making excuses for that extra pregnancy weight that was still hanging around, so I started making riding a priority. 

In December, life got really hard, and the bike became the place I went to work some of that pain out. 

That’s another story I would love to tell you sometime, but what I am telling you here is that Peloton keeps track of everything you do: every ride, every output, every personal record. And I started to get addicted to the metrics. They were like my own personal performance reviews: you’re amazing at this Katie, look how much you are improving! You bring so much to this team, Katie, we’re lucky to have you show up on this bike. 

Of course that’s not what they were saying. The truth is the bike was cheaper than therapy and I need a S&%$-ton of therapy, so I rode a lot. 50 rides. 100 rides. 150 rides. I ate up every milestone, giddy like a little girl getting a trophy in front of her parents.

Around mid-May of this year, I looked ahead and realized that if I could finish approximately 32 rides in two weeks, I could get my 200th ride on my 37th birthday. This probably only makes sense if you’ve ever taken a Peloton class, because you know that the instructors take a little time each class to give a shout out to people who are taking the class live that have milestones, like getting to 50 rides or having a birthday. 

Welllll. What do you know, I could potentially have TWO milestones in one day and if that wasn’t going to earn a public shoutout, what would?

I turned into somewhat of a crazy person for the last two weeks in May. 32 rides in 14 days. I got up early and stayed up late and sometimes did three or four rides after the kids went to bed. They weren’t all super long or super hard, but I wanted a shoutout and I was going to get it, so I did what I needed to do to add those rides up. 

The day before my birthday, a Saturday, I took my 199th ride, which tee’d me up perfectly for the 5:00am 30-minute 2010’s Hip Hop class on Sunday morning. That night, Alex took me to my favorite restaurant where I diligently ordered a salad because “I’ve got a big ride in the morning. I’m getting a shoutout.” [insert smug face]. I didn’t have any pizza, lest I feel sluggish in the morning.

Around midnight, something Alex ate turned his stomach over and he rushed to the toilet. He ended up being fine after that, but I have this thing in my old age where I cannot fall back asleep easily once I am woken up. I tossed and turned until around 3:00am, or that was the last time I remember seeing the clock, because I was doing that thing you do when you know you have to wake up early and instead you stress about missing your wake up call so just never really get any rest. At 4:40am, the alarm went off and I felt dead. Absolutely no way I could do a bike ride in 20 minutes. 

BUT YOU ARE GOING TO GET A SHOUTOUT, KATIE! I told myself. You’ve literally been killing yourself to get to this moment. Don’t miss it. Kendall Toole’s class is waiting. I dragged myself to the bike.

Friends, I’m sure Kendall is a lovely person, but she doesn’t care about a stranger’s 200th ride on her 37th birthday. I rode every single one of those 30 minutes waiting for her to tell me I’m doing a good job, and the shoutout never came. 

To add insult to injury, I had told a handful of friends my plan, even invited them to join me on the bike, but I keep company with people who have far more sense than I do and a 4:40am wake up was not in their game plan. But, they did text to ask enthusiastically, “Did you get your shoutout, friend?!” and four or five times I had to say “Sure didn’t.” I was moderately bummed all day.

I’d like you to know that my temporary loss of sense has returned. I don’t do more than one ride a day anymore in order to gain one sentence of approval from someone who can only see my profile name. And, I’m working real hard on not caring so much about the metrics but the other day I went on a ride and THE OUTPUT WASN’T WORKING. I did a whole ride and at the end it said “0”. ZERO. I mildly panicked that people might see that and think I quit the ride or something and then I remember absolutely no one on earth cares. No one. 

I don’t think I need to tell you the lesson here, but I will: Don’t ride for the shoutout. It may never come (plus there is the whole bit in Matthew 6 about not letting your right hand know what your left hand is doing and I don’t know if that could be any more clear - the shoutouts aren’t supposed to come). Chasing the applause of others is going to let you down eventually. And then you just look really silly and end up incredibly tired all day and regret not eating the pizza to celebrate your 37th birthday.

Ava woke up with the messy morning hair and it just made me smile.

The toddlers laughed and made a big mess at breakfast because their toys wanted to eat their food, too.

Cannon made art, because art makes him happy.

We played with bubbles in the backyard and ate snacks in the garage, and I never want to forget that Beckett calls them sprinkles instead of Pringles.

The kids went roller blading and bike riding and made a gymnasium out of our basement.

The neighbor kids came over and one of them told me “No offense, but you have the messiest garage I’ve ever seen.”

Harper made cupcakes from scratch, without following a recipe. I told her I didn’t think they wouldn’t turn out without a recipe, but everyone loved them. I look forward to her proving me wrong even more in her life.

Braylen fell off the back porch stops and every single one of his big siblings came and kissed his bruised forehead.

Beckett saw me get the vacuum out and demanded that he do it by himself, and I had the thought, “Ah, this is when stubborn independence begins to pay off.”

The kids waited for Alex to get home from work on the front porch, like they always do in the summer. He brought Wendy’s home because I didn’t want to cook or go to the grocery story, like I always feel in the summer.

A few monkeys got caught jumping on the bed, and then we washed the day away to rest up for a new one.

This life is rich, isn’t it?