Today I rode a new roller coaster. Silver Dollar City's, Outlaw Run has the steepest drop of any wooden roller coaster in the world, has the second fastest speed, and is the only wooden coaster to go upside down.

I rode alone because it seemed unwise to leave the littles on their own while Greg rode by my side, even if the ride just lasts a minute, and the lockers were purposely not made big enough to…anyway.

I was just supposed to ride once.

The second time I sat in the very front, raised my arms, and just melted into the ride. Because sometimes, there is just too much to take in at once, and the best thing to do is just throw up your arms and go with it.

It's been too much lately.

Got back from my sixth business trip. Six out of fifteen weeks on the road this year.

Took my girl on her very first field trip.

We scattered Dad's ashes.

We ordered a marker for the cemetery.

My daughter turned five – such a milestone number.

The Boston Marathon was bombed.

A beautiful author whose blog I follow lost her son and wrote with such beauty, about such incredible pain, that I almost could not breathe.

My daughter told me her imaginary friend, Coldcuts (a story for another day), was moving to the beach and couldn't see us anymore.

A perfect day at Silver Dollar City.

My son is three and very strong willed (that will be a complete and telling sentiment for some, and for those who it is not, I couldn't possibly explain).

We registered my girl for kindergarten. My baby girl.

We sold my dad's car.

Too much — too much good and too much bad. Life in the extreme is hard – even when some of the extremes are incredible, and even when some of them are not your own. I cry at commercials, songs, random comments, and thoughts that flit through my head. I cry when I write, and I cry because I can't write. I cry because life is so beautiful, and I cry because nothing could be more painful than life on this broken planet.

I went to that park today, and I rode that roller coaster alone because life is what you make of it. I could have said, “No, I will wait until I have someone to ride with me.” I could have said, “No, it would be too scary to ride in the front.” But I knew what I wanted, and I knew what I needed. I needed some tangible, right in front me, controlled chaos. I needed to conquer that. So when I got off the first time, I smiled, and I ran right back around and got in the front seat. I rode it and remembered my dad clandestinely lifting me up high enough to pass the height requirement so that I could ride the Screaming Eagle at Six Flags in St. Louis. I was so tiny that my rear end never touched the seat the entire ride. He loved that ride, and so I loved it. And then, we rode it again. Ah, it was just too much.








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