When the Bandaids Won’t Stick

Some Weeks You Just Live in a Bath and Hope for the Best

The past two weeks have been full of life.
Real. Raw. Life.
The kind of raw that stays exposed and gets rubbed over again and again. The kind you can’t keep a bandaid on—because it’s in an impossible spot where it won’t stay.

Life is like that sometimes. Messy, complicated.
Bandaids just don’t stick.

We got that letter from the neighbor.
A letter that felt like a punch to the gut.
(You know the one—from this post 👇).

What You Don’t Hear: A Letter to the Neighbor Who Left a Note

What you also don’t know is that just the day before, we had gone to the temple, prayed, and received a clear, peaceful answer: it was time to move our family to the Kansas City area.

Kansas City holds a special place in our hearts. It’s where Nick and I met 11 years ago, both there for the summer. We always imagined coming back one day, settling down with our future family. That time has finally come.

We were driving to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho for Nick’s work conference, and we sent in the offer in from the road. I was so sure it was our house. The seller loved our letter with the offer. We were told she even told our realtor that she loved us. She even texted me saying she loved us. I was convinced.

So the whole weekend in Idaho became one long, breath-held pause—waiting for a yes.

The trip had its own chaos. On the drive up, we had to stop so many times for bathroom breaks. There was one particularly funny moment when it was just the boys who had to go, and that meant we could pull over on the side of the highway. Watching them both try to see how far they could get their pee to fly had me laughing through the stress. Just another pocket of funny tucked into the mess.

We made it to Coeur d’Alene, where the kids and I swam at the hotel while Daddy went to his work conference. We had the entire pool to ourselves—both days. days. Well, except for the older couple who came for half an hour, were so sweet, and told me to enjoy the loudness and craziness. “You’ll miss it one day,” they said. Before they left, they even laid towels all over the slick, wet floor after Brooks slipped and fell twice. Angels in disguise.

The kids and Nick had been coughing and battling sickness earlier in the week, but I thought I’d make it through okay.
Spoiler: I didn’t.

My asthma flared, my lungs got worse, and I ended up feeling it coming on strong the whole drive back. I stayed home from church that Sunday.

And then we got the news on Monday: the house wasn’t ours.

It was April Fools’ Day.
And you best believe I thought it had to be the cruelest joke of all.
But it wasn’t a joke. It was real.

And me? I’m kind of known as the Queen of April Fools among my friends. But this year? I had nothing.

I was depleted—emotionally, physically, spiritually.

I did what I always do when the weight feels too heavy: I took a bath.
A hot-hot detox bath. Oils diffusing. Baking soda and magnesium salts and oils swirling in the water. Trying to soak the stress and sickness out of my body.

That’s when a friend texted, “Hey! You’re amazing at April Fools’. Any ideas for me?”
And I realized—I wasn’t doing anything.

Cue the spiral.
The “I’m failing as a mom” loop.
You know the one.

So yeah—no clever tricks this year. Just me, soaking in a tub and being April Fooled by thinking that house was ours.

And then—because life wasn’t done—our landlord emailed. Not because of the neighbor’s note. But because they’re selling the house.

“You are good tenant ever I had,” they wrote in their best English.
And also: we had to be out by May 17.

We asked for the end of May. They agreed. But still—
we have to find a house
we have to make an offer
we have to move
now.

Then today, while on the phone with our realtor, trying to decide if this next house might be the house…
My dad called.
He was following the ambulance.
My mom had fallen.
She broke her arm—maybe her leg too.
And that was today.

But—I also want to tell you about the good that’s been tucked in the chaos.

Like laughing with Nick after I said we needed to buy spring rolls instead of bubble wrap. (Aphasia after a stroke + perimenopause = word salad. My words go rogue on the regular.)

Like deep, honest conversations with our kids—reminding them that adulting is hard, but we’re doing our best to choose a life where they can flourish.

Like teaching my Logic Unlocked class at co-op and watching kids light up solving escape rooms—while our realtor texted videos of houses I wouldn’t even have time to look at until class was done.

Like visiting the lake after, the older two playing with all their co-op friends we’re going to miss so much and chasing ducks, watching Brooks laugh with his friend Nora.

Like today—when Brooks didn’t want to go to his beloved forest preschool. I gave him a mission:
Find the tiniest, coolest rock you can and bring it back to show me.

“Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Okay. Now, what’s your mission when you get to forest school?”With a completely serious face he said:
“Leave.”

I laughed so hard I cried.

So yeah—life is a swirl of grief and joy, stress and beauty.
The bandaids won’t stick.
But the laughter?
The love?
The tiny cool rocks?
Those stay.