Reader, I haven't written to you in THREE WEEKS.

It's not because we're fighting, I promise you. Honestly, you could have run me over with your car last week, and I wouldn't remember.

First of all, I find it zero percent coincidental that we are three weeks and one day into May, and I haven't been in your inbox in three weeks.

May is a whole situation, ya'll.

My husband and I got married on May 20th like big dummies who didn't have school-aged children who play baseball. Bless and protect every single parent who came to our wedding, because I one million percent know they were grumbling under their breath.

WHAT SENSIBLE HUMAN GETS MARRIED IN THE MIDDLE OF MAY WHEN EVERY CHILD HAS 97 SCHOOL EVENTS AND PICNICS AND FIELD DAYS AND AWARDS CEREMONIES AND GRADUATIONS TO PREP FOR AND BASEBALL GAMES TO ATTEND.

I grumble under my breath when our anniversary shows up in May EVERY YEAR. Who did this? Who is in charge?

In this Year of Our Lord 2022, the hubs and I spent a romantic day tending to a sick kid at home, working, hanging blinds at Grandma's apartment, squeezing in a meal at 3 PM (lunch?), and spending an exorbitant amount of money at Costco.

The following day was obviously spent at a double header at the ball fields and a school Family Fun Day. Which was, in fact, quite fun.

If you're unfamiliar with the May Situation, I'll fill in the details for you.

Just as I have filled out every literal piece of paper that God created.

Yearbook orders and permission slips and fundraiser donations and field trips and summer camps and baseball camps and All-Star applications and birthday cards and eleventy billion other forms that require my signature but are buried at the bottom of my inbox.

I've washed baseball pants and planted seeds and flowers and vegetable starts because DON'T WAIT BUT WAIT BECAUSE IT'S SNOWING HAILING IN THE SPRING. I've driven to orthodontist appointments and doctor's appointments and back and forth to school one million times.

As a family, we've done approximately infinity loads of laundry. THERE ARE FOUR OF US I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHO IS WEARING ALL THESE CLOTHES.

I've been to yoga zero times. But I have been to the ball field about 18 of the 21 days we've spent in this blessed month.

This May has been special because of all the sick children in my house. Yes, I only have two. Yes, it feels like 44.

The drugstore is my new home. I have the middle school phone number memorized. The attendance folks at my youngest son's school are now my besties and we're probably going to plan a trip together soon. May be godparents to each other's children.

The "Is it Covid" dance is pretty fun and interesting. Adds a layer of ambiguity to a time that totally needs more uncertainty and guilt.

On top of all that May typically has to offer, we are also in more Unprecedented Times.

Do you remember when no people used the word "unprecedented"? Like maybe only in a car commercial - where the prices and the sales and the cars and the people and the popcorn in the lobby are always unprecedented.

Precedent has just gone underground. It's gone rogue. It's been actively ignored and dismantled in this Already Overstimulated Month of May.

I got to listen to some Well-Meaning Nice Parents passive aggressively trash on LGBTQ+ kids at my son's baseball game. Picking up my other son from a friend's house and learned the news that my uterus is under attack.

While at a doctor's appointment for a possibly broken nose (I TOLD YOU MAY IS HARD), my doc and I talked about the recall efforts of 3 local school board members. The school board meetings now require security and folks running for state senator are using the public speaking time as a chance to campaign.

White supremacy is alive and well in Buffalo, New York. And in Congress.

BABIES DO NOT HAVE FORMULA. New parents are struggling to feed their children.

Most days I just want to crawl back into bed and rest for 984 hours.

But there are so many good things to see. So much important work to do. Anne Helen Peterson calls it "cyclical vigilance" and I feel that in my soul.

May will end. As it always does. And I will remember very little of how we got there.

But the flowers will bloom and the seeds will sprout and the days will get a little warmer and the forms will all have been filled out and the kids will go to camp and the attacks on our uteruses will continue.

We contain multitudes, dear friends.

Happiest of Mays to you. The month that feels endless and never-ending, but also don't blink.

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