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Today I had many staples yanked out of my foot at my first post-surgical visit to the foot doctor. It hurt like creeping hell so I felt I needed to apologize to the others in the cast room there awaiting their turn with Don, the burly gentleman in charge of such procedures, for my loud exclamations of expletives that flitted into the air amidst the claims that I was making, also loudly, to Don, that I was sure he was the best guy for the job and really good at his job and that I was so glad it was he, the surely most experienced person there, to be the one to haul the staples I gladly gave up, out of my foot. My husband stood by me through the whole thing and in the end, all present kindly forgave me, but I left feeling shaken.

I am home now in the security of my couch, and blankets, television shows, and ice cream, and all feels better.

This sense of being safe, away from burly guys with unfamiliar tools that hurt, and who off-handedly introduce themselves because they know that shortly you’ll be screaming their name, is the security of home.

This security of home is what I dream of for my kids. The place where the big bad world, no matter how how well-intentioned it is can come screaming down on you and beat you to a pulp without a passing glance. This sense of having somewhere to go when it all feels bad is what I hope to create for my children. Parents that cannot produce that place due to divorce, or disease, or addictions, or bad luck, or whatever the world has thrown at them, do a disservice to the next generation who will not know how to create peace in their children’s lives either. I cannot blame those who fail to create security for their kids, but I can pass on the news that it is detrimental to all when it happens.

The good news: no co-pay at today’s visit. Hot fudge sundae for lunch. Lollipop for dessert.