A few weeks before Christmas, Amanda Mullen was up late at night with the family calendars, trying to plan her school-aged kids' summer activities -- more than six months away.

Dawn Morgan sets alarms an hour in advance of when camp registration begins in the winter.

Every year, as February inches closer, Ben Westhoff feels his blood pressure start to rise.

"I know camp applications are coming up," the father of two said.

Parents of school-aged children across the country are familiar with the anxiety and stress that come with finding summer childcare -- and it's only getting worse.

Parents are dealing with summer camps that are short-staffed, along with rising prices and waitlists as soon as registration opens. It's an indictment of America's broken child care infrastructure, which is vital to keeping people working.

Mullen said her daughter has participated in a Girl Scouts camp every year since kindergarten. This past month, Mullen logged in to sign her up just a few hours after the registration began. Now, she's on a waitlist.

"It's really hard to find a full-day program," she said. She tries to keep track of the different registration times for each of the four or five different camps her children attend over the summer. She has to juggle pickup and drop-off times for the various locations and relies on her parents, who live locally, to help out during the weeks when camps aren't available.

Even though she sets a series of alarms for each registration -- 15 minutes before, then 5 minutes before -- things can slip through the cracks.

"It's pretty cutthroat," she said. For now, her son is signed up for an astronaut camp about 45 minutes away from where they live.

"We just have to figure out a way to get him there," she said.

Westhoff, who has two elementary school-aged children, said the stakes are high for working parents: If kids don't get into camp, you can't work that week.

Plus, many camp offerings only run from 9 a.m. to noon.

"Who only wants their kids in camp for three hours a day?" he asked.

The process of signing up is a byzantine hodgepodge of paperwork and outdated websites. Westhoff has to gather medical records and other information from doctors for the five different sets of forms required by the various camps his children will be attending.

One of the forms has an extensive section for parents to describe their kids' personality traits, fears and activities, as well as their hopes and dreams for the camp experience.

"It feels like a Myers-Briggs test," Westhoff said. "Who is going to fill this all out?"

He doesn't understand why there can't be a universal camp form, like colleges use for applicants.

Part of the problem is that America expects families with full-time working parents to figure out child care with little support or resources. The need for affordable, full-day summer care options has been a persistent problem for years.

Morgan, who works as a paralegal, says she coordinates with another parent so they can share summer carpool duties. The camp they are trying to get their children into gives preference to local residents, so Morgan has to wait a week before she can even attempt to sign up.

"If I can't get in, (my friend) has to cancel, and we have to find something somewhere else," she said. They need the transportation help from one another.

"It's a pure struggle," she said. "Most parents work nowadays, and no one understands that."

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, 81.2% of employed mothers with children ages 6 to 17 worked full-time in 2021, compared with 77.2% of mothers with children under age 6. Among employed fathers, 95.7% of those with older children and 95.3% of those with younger children worked full-time.

Plus, there's the guilt of having to send children to a camp all summer that they may not want to attend simply because of logistics, timing, location and cost.

"This isn't a new problem," Morgan said. "It's been going on for years. No one seems to care to help or fix anything."

People sometimes privately share with me their concerns about medical treatment for transgender children, and those concerns sound familiar to me.

They ask why so many more children are identifying as trans now compared to a few years ago. They wonder if a young child might just be going through a phase and worry about the long-term consequences of medical intervention.

These fears sound familiar because I used to have the exact same thoughts -- until around five years ago.

That's when a dear friend shared that her high school-aged child identified as nonbinary. I had only known this child as the gender assigned to them at birth, and I really didn't understand what "nonbinary" meant. I felt awkward trying to use different pronouns, and worried that I would slip up and offend them.

My friend explained that her child didn't feel male or female, and assured me that it was normal to take some time to adjust to a new name and pronouns. She also said that she didn't have many answers about how to proceed, but wanted to support her child however she could.

I felt her palpable concern as a mother, and I have never doubted her fierce love for her child.

Over the years, I listened and asked questions as my friend and her spouse figured out this journey for their family. They sought help from the Washington University Transgender Center at St. Louis Children's Hospital, which was in national headlines recently when a whistleblower made allegations of misconduct and harm. The complainant says that puberty blockers and hormone therapies were given too freely to children and teens at the center, that there was a lack of disclosure about the medications' risks, and that patients with mental illness were inadequately evaluated.

My friend's experience with the facility was nothing like that -- in fact, quite the opposite. As the investigation into the whistleblower's allegations runs its course, it's important for political leaders to show compassion for those whose lives are at stake.

Over the past few years, I've met a handful of families with transgender children. They express feeling persecuted and attacked by lawmakers using their children as pawns in a culture war. They fear the state criminalizing them, or even taking their kids away, if they follow a doctor's guidance on caring for their child.

Consider this tweet by State Rep. Chris Lonsdale last week: "Sorry your (sic) hysterical about MO Republicans protecting kids. We aren't going to allow the mutilation of children in Missouri!"

It's awful to hear anyone insult and demonize the parents of trans kids, but an elected official implying that these parents need to be stopped from "mutilating" their kids is especially cruel and ugly. These are parents who have watched their children suffer and are desperate to help them. They are scared of losing a child to suicide, which is a higher risk for gender-nonconforming youth and adolescents.

While there are legitimate questions about how best to treat transgender kids, everyone of any political persuasion should be able agree on one thing: It's unacceptable to dehumanize trans children or their families. This should not be a controversial idea. Preserving the human dignity of the families affected should be the nonnegotiable baseline as we grapple with these issues politically.

As for Missouri Republicans "protecting kids," one could argue that they have failed to do so for years by turning a blind eye to allegations of sexual abuse at unlicensed religious reform schools, state-contracted youth residential facilities and summer camps. Victims say their pleas to investigate these institutions were long ignored. Missouri also brings kids into foster care at one of the highest rates in the country. The director of the state's child welfare agency said at a Missouri House committee meeting that the state has "effectively legally orphanized" around 1,500 children by severing parental rights before anyone was available to take them in.

Why haven't we seen the same sense of urgency to protect these children?

Rather than solving these real problems, some lawmakers have chosen to paint our friends and neighbors as monsters for seeking medical help for their kids.

It's an easier way to score political points. But it's not about protecting children.

Six years ago, Jason survived an attempt to kill himself.

He shared his experience on Facebook in an effort to help anyone else who might be silently suffering.

"I won't bother you with what happened Jan. 7, 2017, that led me to wash down 13 (or maybe it was 14) pills with a Budweiser tallboy," wrote Jason (last name withheld). "I had reached a destination I was headed toward for more than three decades. Since my freshman year in high school, I often believed death served as the only antidote for the pain I felt."

Soon after his attempt, he checked himself into a behavioral health hospital where he stayed for 10 days. There, he got a diagnosis, medication and therapy to begin to manage his condition. Even though he had supportive friends, co-workers and family who cared about him, Jason said he felt too embarrassed, sad and lost to ask for help.

Jason, now 52, reflected on what might have helped him when he was in crisis.

"It's hard for me to know for certain if there could have been any magical words that would have convinced me to seek help or to feel heard and loved, but looking back, I believe if someone I trusted had said, 'Jason, I know something is wrong. Your behavior isn't normal. How can I help?' I might have felt accepted and cared for and more inclined to open up," he said.

Advocates who work in suicide prevention say being aware of potential warning signs of suicide can be lifesaving, along with being present for those who might be having suicidal thoughts.

Research shows that rates of suicidal behavior have increased disproportionately among young people of color over the last few decades. Rates are highest among Black Americans 25 to 34 years of age, predominantly affecting young men. Black girls have the highest rates of suicide attempts, and young Black children between 5 and 12 have almost twice the suicide rate of their white counterparts.

The majority of people who die from suicide exhibit some signs beforehand. Whitney Boyer Shumway, president of the board of directors for the Missouri chapter of the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, is also a suicide attempt survivor. She says to watch for cues like out-of-character behavior or significant changes in a person's mood. They may even say phrases like: "It's so pointless," "I wish I could go to bed and not wake up anymore" or "I hate my life."

One way to start a conversation is by noting specific changes in the person's behavior or mood, saying you are concerned and that you want to help. It's critical to be nonjudgmental and to ask directly if the person has had thoughts of hurting themselves, Shumway said.

If the answer is yes, ask if they have a plan.

"The goal is to keep them safe for now and connect them with resources to keep them safe (going forward)," she said. "Ultimately, you're only going to be able to provide that immediate assistance, like first aid. Your goal is to get them help."

Keeping a person safe in the short term may involve removing any lethal means to which they have access. If they have access to a gun, for example, consider asking: "Would you be OK with me holding on to that firearm to keep you safe for now?" You can also ask if the gun can be locked in a safe, with the key provided to you temporarily, or if a gun lock can be placed on the firearm itself.

It's also helpful to ask if the person has a friend or family member who can stay the night with them, or a place they can stay with others if they live alone.

As important as what you say is knowing what not to say:

-- Avoid trying to "fix it" if someone is sharing feelings of suicidal ideation.

-- Avoid debating the value of life or minimizing the person's feelings or problems.

-- Avoid passing judgment on a person's feelings.

"Individuals (who are suicidal) are experiencing intense tunnel vision," Shumway said. "Their logical mind is not processing or thinking of another way out of the pain they are enduring."

Tom (last name withheld), 45, has struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder and suicidal thoughts since he was a teenager. He's tried exercise, meditation, medicine and therapy to keep those thoughts at bay. In his darkest moments, he describes feeling like a balloon that might float away. At those times, it's helpful when close friends ask how they can help and tell him that they care.

"It shows you that there's a person in your life who is trying to ground you to the here and now instead of letting you float away," he said.

Conversations that shift him away from the temptation to die are also helpful.

Being empathetic, supportive and present -- without freaking out -- makes a difference, he said.

Jason shared similar sentiments and encouraged others to talk to their children, especially teens and young adults, about their emotions.

"The more open you are about feelings and emotions -- both yours and theirs -- the more comfortable they will be," he wrote.

If you or someone you know is in crisis, please call 988 to be connected to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or 911 if a person is in immediate danger.