For most of the past 19 years or so, I have low-key resented all the boy blankets in the house.
They messed with my decor sensibilities. Themed blankets that made little boys so very happy: Mario Bros., Spider-Man, Batman, Superman….. those blanket don’t very well go with a well-put together house.
Still, little boys love that sort of thing, so I said not. a. single. word.
But when given options for blankets in the main parts of the house, I’d choose other blankets every. last. time. for family activities, for pictures, for anything else that I could possibly think of an excuse for.
Themed little boy blankets were for boys’ beds. That was pretty much it. Or if they dragged them to the main living areas themselves for some reason.
But now, our boys don’t have themed blankets on their beds anymore. They prefer dark, stripes or basic slight plaid patterns.
They prefer big boy bedding these days.
So now, we have a supply of Spiderman and Mario Bros. blankets that don’t see a lot of love.
Except when Jared ends up on the couch to sleep, which is often for reasons not related to our marriage one little bit.
And Jared goes for the Mario Bros. blanket. Or the Spiderman blanket.
And I’m not sure if he does it because it’s on the top of the pile, or if he does it because it reminds him of the little arms that used to reach up for him to pick up.
And more and more lately, he leaves blankets, like this bunched up Mario Bros. Blanket in the photo, on the couch, for Abby or Trixie to lay on, saying “they were so comfy.”
These blankets in no way, shape, or form fit to my decor sensibilities anymore in 2026 than they did in 2012.
But you know what? I more and more say not one word about the out-of-place blankets left around.
In fact, my very own pile of 5-6 blankets that I pile on top of my self in bed every night currently includes a Spiderman comforter.
Because you know why? I’m aware that the little boy years are gone.
Those years are gone, forever, for the Price household.
And I am grateful for what brilliant, kind, hilarious, and gentle young men my children are growing up into.
But now, keeping these blankets– using them while they are still fit to use– reminds me that those frantic, stressful, hilarious, fun, sleepy, beautiful years– those years mattered. Deeply.
And I don’t know about Jared, but for myself– I sleep a little more soundly right now when a Spiderman blanket is keeping me warm.
Trigger Warning: effects of extreme domestic violence discussed
You know, it’s only been in about the last year and a half that I realized that that version of me, in that picture below, had actually saved someone’s life, in realtime, about a year and a half or so prior to this photograph.
Just like November’s are hard, February’s are hard for an entirely different reason.
I had an awful dream last night. I dreamed that someone I love very much wanted to kill me, and had already killed someone else I love. I spent a good deal of that dream attempting to hide, always to be found. I woke up before anything actually happened to me.
And I thought it was an odd dream to have, and then I realized that today is February 2.
The body keeps score. My subconscious knew exactly what time of year this is.
And the reality is, I lead a remarkably privileged life. We have a nice home, we can pay our bills, Jared has a phenomenal job, my children are getting world-class educations. I have great friends and even as an adult I am still spoiled rotten by my family.
And still….. the body keeps score.
Tomorrow February 3, will be the 25th anniversary of one of the most horrific days of my life.
In the journal in the photo below, there is a gap between January 4, 2001 and March 26, 2001.
I’m sure I didn’t think much about why I wasn’t writing at the time.
And it wasn’t until about a year ago that I really started to shuffle through that old journal of mine with a different kind of analysis than I’d ever done before, to see exactly what was going through my mind, looking at my brain as a young 20-something through the eyes of my mid-40’s self.
I bought that journal with the boyfriend of the time’s encouragement. He knew I had kept journals throughout my childhood and into high school, and he took me to Borders and probably paid for it.
There are only 2-3 entries before that January to March gap.
But, those entries held just enough information to tell him, when he probably read it, exactly where he was standing in my headspace despite the fact that we lived together at the time.
I’ve always been a very transparent writer. It’s just who I am; it’s how I process the world.
And so, when I decided I wanted to go out on a date with someone else on February 3, 2001, I knew for a fact it was going to be a messy thing. I knew the man I lived with— the man who had claimed me as his own for six years at that point— the man who had known all along that I’d long been involved with some guy who was now an attorney in another state for over two years at that point— I knew he wouldn’t take it well; I knew that I was beholden to him for half the rent of our two-bedroom apartment in a very nice neighborhood in Toco Hills.
I knew I had to break up with him for the millionth time.
I had zero, zero idea that the breakup would stick this go-round for very different reasons than it ever had before.
As traumatic as my college years were on a variety of fronts, there is only one week to which I am aware of in which my actual life was in danger, and that was the week between Saturday, February 3, 2001 and Saturday, February 10, 2001: the week between a blade and a door locked in the dark.
And the police were involved, and the officer told the boyfriend that no judge would take my word for anything if the other party decided to press charges against the boyfriend.
Which is why, when something arguably more sinister— a psychiatrist called it psychological torture in 2022— when something more sinister happened a week later, it didn’t even occur to me to contact the authorities. I was sure I was going to die that night of February 10, 2001, but the gravity of what exactly occurred didn’t occur to me at all until years and years later.
I just called my parents the next day, while the boyfriend was at work, and told them I needed the rest of the rent money; that I wanted to see other people and the boyfriend was being “unreasonable.”
So yeah, that dream from last night didn’t make a great deal of sense until I stopped to really think, and remembered, “oh yes, it is February.”
The body keeps score. My brain— this brain of mine that ruminates so very much, still processing probably three lifetime’s worth of trauma, keeps score.
And I write. To this day; I am terrified of this individual. Much like another individual I faced in the last year, I faced this person in person first probably 13 or so years ago as a tolerance exercise. I have solid reasons to know in my brain I am likely safe from him for a variety of reasons due to his likely current circumstances. But on some level I am always afraid he’ll show up at my house. I sleep with the lights off out of a type of forced exposure therapy now but for so much of our married lives, Jared and I have slept with the lights on such that our children grew up sleeping with the lights on even. He is not the only reason I am afraid of every man I meet, but he’s one of the bigger reasons.
And today, my puppy Abby is getting her mouth, probably long overdue, seen about. And Jared, upon hearing what anniversary it is, and, taking pity on me for my poor toe that seems to not want to heal yet, came home in the middle of this morning to take the trash to the street for me.
And I dragged my camera out of my bag— this camera I have been avoiding for weeks because I do that when I am hiding, and I found the photo of myself from probably late 2002, taken probably by this really great guy I dated for a while before Jared came along. And I found the journal only for the photo but this is not the time of year for dissecting it, just now.
And today’s agenda is to work on the jute bag I started, and to hold my camera even though I don’t feel much like taking pictures, and to remember that today is 2026, not 2001.
So I had someone reach out to me who should never have tracked me down about something that was none of my business two days ago, and it’s not important as to how it happened, but it did. Not disclosing details because I respect the entity that allowed it to happen.
And it creeped me out even though I responded cordially to begin with– I did that before I really realized what it meant. I responded as I would respond to someone who reached out my inquiry form which is what happened, instead of really stopping to think about how this person even got my name to begin with.
It creeped me out such that night before last, I dreamed I was being forced to marry someone who wanted to be violent with me. And despite whatever ways I tried to disentangle myself, the person in my dream was persistent and ultimately prevailed. I woke up before I was killed in my dream, but not before I was hurt– there was violence with a knife in my dream.
And apparently the person who tracked me down and reached out via my inquiry form on this blog decided, for no really great reason, to follow me on social media, as well. Luckily, I figured it out and was able to block the person. But given the particulars of the situation that admittedly I know I am being vague about, that was top-level creep-factor. Though it is hard to say which was creepier– the social media follow or the inquiry form contact.
I am being vague on purpose not to protect the creep in question, but to protect my relationships with others.
And for about 13-14 hours, I decided to make this blog password-only, because it felt like a violation. I was unsure as to whether I even wanted to keep blogging.
And then I decided that creeps will be creeps, and just like with people from my past, I am not going to let one really weird creep determine whether or not I like to write publicly or not.
And, I happen to like blogging. So, I am going to keep blogging. And I’m not going to worry about the creeps. The creeps don’t get to win.
There are no words, but I’m going to write some anyway.
In 2005, I moved to this little middle-of-nowhere-Iowa town named Grinnell, because Jared, my new husband, worked for them at the time.
And in 2006, because Jared had been employed for Grinnell over two years at the time, Grinnell provided six weeks of paid paternity leave for Jared when I gave birth to our oldest son, Porter. At the time, Jared had just started his Master’s of Library Science program at the University of Iowa, and because Grinnell was very generous Jared was able to fully concentrate on only his schoolwork and Porter and me for the full first six weeks of Porter’s life. Porter was in the University of Iowa NICU for five and a half of those weeks, so it was very, very, very nice to not be without our normal income during that tumultuous time.
And, Jared was in school to begin with at the University of Iowa because Grinnell College was paying for his Master’s program.
And, when we received the bill for Porter’s NICU stay, we paid a grand total of $210 of Porter’s $500k medical bill thanks to Grinnell’s very generous medical benefits.
And, our middle son, Liam, this year applied to Grinnell College for Early Decision 2.
And not only did Liam get into Grinnell College…..he received so much in scholarships and other aid that it is going to cost less than 1/3 of what it would cost for housing and meals alone at UGA, even counting that he’d likely receive the HOPE and Zell Miller Scholarships.
As I said, there are no words. I am so very beyond grateful, and very, very, very proud of and for Liam, and so very excited that Liam will have an opportunity to be a part of the very wonderfully diverse and vibrant culture that is Grinnell College.
When I was a little girl, my Mama had to hold me down to let them cut my toenails.
It was bad. Really.
The issue is compounded by the fact that with the scoliosis and spinal fusion, I actually can’t get to my toes super well at all. I can cut my own toenails as an adult, but it is not the easiest thing in the world.
So when my big left toenail became fungal three years ago, I was filled with a sort of existential dread.
And immediately, within the month, I went to a podiatrist, who promptly told me it didn’t look like a typical fungus and that I should come back in a year if it was giving me trouble.
Three years later, it had mostly stopped growing the entirety of those three years and it was clear it was indeed a fungal infection.
So last September, I faced it and went to the podiatrist, sure they would remove it that very day.
Turns out podiatrist offices don’t work that way.
She gave me some ketoconazole and told me to use it and Vicks and she didn’t know how long it would take to clear up; when I mentioned removal she said it was an option.
Then in December when I mentioned the whole episode to my dermatologist at my appointment there, she said that the ketoconazole was going to do nothing, and gave me some weird enamel paint stuff that made my nail hard and told me to file it weekly.
That stuff took away permanently any hope of actually cutting my toenails, and actually, for some reason the toenail started growing into the base of my toenail bed, backwards.
And the backwards growth was what promptly sent me back to the podiatrist last week, begging to have the whole thing just taken off permanently.
Which is no small thing, because of that whole fear of people messing with my toenails.
And in fact, the fear is so bad that one of my greatest all-time primal fears ever has ever been someone prying off my toenails.
So yesterday, as I sat just after having my left big toe injected with local anesthetic to deaden it, I posted this on Facebook:
“So one of my most primal fears is having my toenails, specifically my big toenails, pried off. No joke, in the midst of the only time I had to be restrained due to psychiatric reasons, the delusion of the day was that they were restraining me to pry my big toenails off.
So what am I sitting in the podiatrist’s chair waiting on? To have my left big toenail removed, permanently.
It’s been fungal for at least 3 years but it has given me trouble with ingrown issues since I was a child.
I am ecastatic it will be gone permanently, and not worried about the cosmetics, and I guess technically today is an achievement and exercise in facing one of my worst fears, all by myself since Jared is at work.
And the dr says I made it through the worst part, which was the deadening injections.
And I can go shopping for stuff for the weekend’s weather, too.
I don’t normally keep my phone with me during Dr appts but she said it was fine for distracting myself.”
The doctor said afterward, with my having told her about the fear, and told her nurse about the fear, beforehand, that she’d made sure she deadened it well and made sure to let it sit long enough to for sure be effective because she really didn’t want to have to come back in and poke me with a needle again after having hurt me with the procedure.
But sure enough, the procedure itself took like 5 minutes, maybe 10 max, and it was not bad at all. I took a photo I will spare the world after, in fact– you know, with photography being my coping mechanism for everything and all– of the exposed toe bed before it got wrapped up in the bandage post procedure. I’d taken a photo of it before the procedure started, too, for posterity.
And pretty much the rest of my whole morning and yesterday during the day was set up for success, because I’d done the very thing I was afraid of most as a child, probably. And that’s saying something considering they cut me open on front and back and messed with my innards in a very dramatic fashion for that scoliosis surgery.
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