In late February the incurable autoimmune disease once again reared its ugly head; this time attacking Lacy’s balance and coordination. She was weak, could barely hold a fork, and couldn’t go three feet without the assistance of a walker.

With Caleb pulling double duty at the art gallery, I knew I would need to help my sister look after Clark. And I did, moving back in with them and sharing a room with the then one-year-old. It was during this time that I noticed my first-ever gray hairs—there they were, sprinkled among the cinnamon-brown ones. Was there a direct correlation between this onset of graying and my sharing a bedroom with a crying baby?

Yes.

Yes, there was.

Thankfully, before I went full Ted Danson, Lacy’s symptoms waned, and her strength and coordination came back. And a couple of weeks later, I had my knee repaired.

My main rehab for the past few months had been swimming in the warm waters of the Bais des Anges—Angel’s Bay—which is what the fishermen had named the Mediterranean waters off the coast of Nice. (And, of course, rollerblading, which I took up after Lacy sent me an article about how much better it was for your knees than running.) But I also had to do a number of grueling exercises and stretches with a resistance band.

I pressed my foot against the purple band and counted out ten leg extensions. After working my knee for another fifteen minutes, I spent the remainder of the hour stretching. At thirty-seven, I had the aches and pains of a baby boomer, and the orthopedist who fixed my knee said that if I wanted to be able to get out of bed in my forties, I should start doing yoga.

I was holding one hell of a Warrior II when I heard Clark stir on the baby monitor.

I fed him some mac and cheese, apple slices, and some green beans, then I crawled around with him on my back—I was his donkey—which wasn’t the best decision for my knee but well worth it for the amount of giggling and clapping I received for my performance. After a little arts-and-crafts time—basically, Clark throwing crayons while I skillfully finished up two pages in my adult coloring book—the two of us settled in on the couch for some TV time.

Clark was probably too young to understand the complexities of Veep, and I couldn’t stomach any more Paw Patrol, so I selected a Blu-ray from my sister’s enormous collection. I’d watched a hundred kids’ movies over the past year, my favorite being How to Train Your Dragon, with Frozen—yes, Frozen—a close second. I picked one I hadn’t seen before, The Incredibles, and popped it in.